Storm — A Dempsey (Patreon)

“Do you think P will forgive you?” you ask as you and A leave the magical being’s apartment complex.

The demi-god/dess arches a brow beside you. The two of you are alone now, bracing yourself for the cold air as the automatic doors slide open from the building and introduce you to the early morning chill.

“Forgive me for what?” they ask.

The corner of your lips turn upwards. “For calling their home the ‘embodiment of a Pinterest board’, if I recall correctly,” you reply, and for a rare moment tonight, you manage to pull a smile out of them.

A stuffs their hands into the pockets of their trench coat. The cold nips at their ears, it tingles in their bones and makes itself known, yet…they seem to find your presence surprisingly comforting. The calm in a storm, almost.

Their eyes roll. “P will get over it,” A murmurs, their hazel eyes falling to the ground for a brief moment. “I’ll even throw in an apology.”

“I’m sure P will think the night has ended well if you do that.”

You were hoping for another smile, maybe even the hint of a chuckle this time. But the mention of tonight and reference to its negativities is enough to send A’s mind spiralling. They have difficulty erasing Zillah Arryn’s words from their head, they’ve debated since leaving the Grand Royalton which of her statements rattled them the hardest.

The implication that A both entered and will live on in this world for eternity alone. That their friends, the ones nearest and dearest to them, will leave when they’ve finally had enough of their conflicted personality. Or maybe it wasn’t the words that hit A the most at all, instead it could’ve been the droplets of blood Zillah decided to draw and spill from them. Drop by drop. A deeper scar to add to the collection A already has.

“Are you okay?” you ask, glancing over at them.

The question startles A, not visibly, but enough for them to snap their gaze in your direction. They don’t nod. They don’t immediately shoot down the question and walk away, so the latter must be a bonus.

It’s a question that the five of you have been asking one another for weeks now, almost a month. However, every time you know the answer is a no. How can someone be okay with investigating murders? But, so far, no one has caved in to say it’s all too much. No one has said they want all of this to stop, that they want out. Sure, there’s been a cry to go back to the normal lives you all once had, but the five of you know that you’re too far gone—this is a new normal, for now at least.

And A Dempsey. The sarcastic, headstrong, loyal, protective A Dempsey—they can’t be the one to cave in first. Out of all of you they can’t cave in at all. They’ll overthink the past few weeks, lose hours of sleep over it, journal it all in the English and Greek language with the hopes to find the all important clue to get you all out of this mess. But they can’t admit that it’s getting to them.

That this investigation makes their mind race at one hundred miles per hour. That Zillah Arryn’s weak, but clever manipulation did a number on them. That you, of all people, are becoming the kind of sanctuary that they’ve been craving.

“Do you think I’d tell you if I wasn’t okay?” A throws back.

You shake your head. “No, it’s exactly why I asked.” You don’t reiterate the question. A doesn’t want to share a thing, you wouldn’t expect anything different—but you can still hope for it.

A sniffs. Their gaze shifts upwards and glances towards the raindrops that are beginning the patter against the concrete. Thankfully, the two of you are standing under shelter so you won’t get wet. Thankfully A has a good relationship with the rain.

Another dose of tranquility.

“You have other things to worry about,” they mutter. “Many other things. So much so that your attention being on me isn’t one of them.”

It’s not the answer you wanted because it isn’t a straight one. But it’s better than getting brushed aside as you probably would’ve done two weeks ago when having a conversation with A. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t frustrating.

Your jaw clenches as you focus on the rain. It’s not anger bubbling within you, more annoyance than anything else; and it seems that the weather has picked up on it. The rain begins to fall much heavier.

“I’m trying to help you,” you say over the loud raindrops.

A snorts. “I don’t need your help, and I didn’t ask for it.”

“Well, of course you didn’t ask.” You take a step closer towards them. “Realistically, when are you,” you continue, your eyes scanning them from head to toe, “ever going to ask for help?”

The sarcasm is evident in A’s eyes. The way they shimmer in a way that indicates they’re ready to be by themselves and revel in their own company. The same look and shimmer that has the ability to push people away.

“Maybe you shouldn’t complain and just take it as a blessing,” they counter.

You’re the one rolling your eyes now. “I’m doing all of this because I have to. Because my name, our names, are attached to a double homicide. I’m not out here spending my time with you because I have to.”

A is one of the best people at finding the hidden messages behind words. They can decipher such in literature, so hearing your words means something to them.

I’m not out here spending my time with you because I have to…

“Don’t tell me you’re out here with me in the cold and rain on your own accord?” A asks, a hint of venom dripping from their tongue. Venom that isn’t directed at you, but directed at their feelings for you that can’t possibly be swallowed and forgotten about. “Feel free to leave.”

Your lips purse together. “Is that what you want? Truly?”

No, is what A wants to say. Here, right now, they could prove Zillah Arryn wrong. A could prove to the evil, manipulative half-Fae that they can do it—they can keep people close. They can do so without hurting them, they can do so without hurting themselves. That A can do it without letting their past trauma get it the way.

No guards up. No highly built walls to protect themselves.

Just you, and them, and the rain…

The calm in a storm, A thinks. Or even someone to walk through storms with, if you’ll have them.

“No,” they answer candidly, their voice the softest you’ve heard it, “but I can’t promise I’m the most brilliant person to be around at the moment.”

It doesn’t quite bring a smile out of you, but this is progress. And progress with A Dempsey deserves a million pats on the back.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be the judge of that, though.”