[Can’t Opt Out]

Emilia hovered behind Olivier, shifting awkwardly from side to side. She’d been standing behind him for a while now, waiting for him to say something—anything. She could still feel the anger rolling off him, his hands flexing and clenching as he tried to reel himself in—although she wasn’t exactly sure why. She deserved to be yelled at. Being yelled at would be better than his pity or disappointment. Anger she could take. Perhaps he knew that—knew that being kind to her would be the most punishing thing he could do.

She couldn’t bring herself to interrupt his thoughts, his attempts at controlling himself, however. She would take whatever he wanted to give her, not force him to give her what she wanted. So, she was left to just stand there in nothing but a blanket, because of course she hadn’t been wearing anything under that dress. She didn’t need to. It had a built-in bra, okay? And she didn’t like panties! Now, though, standing in just a blanket, she felt exposed. Olivier had seen her completely naked before—had seen her naked earlier that day, in fact—but this felt worse. Naked without the intimacy just felt…

Olivier turned towards her and she started. He looked her over, white-blue eye shining in the dark. “Where is your dress?”

“Ah… the medic took it off to check my injuries.” Technically, she probably could have done it with her clothes on. Visual confirmation just made things easier, and Seflora could have needed the reassurance she was healing everything properly—who knew how much she had practised since the war.

She shifted her weight, trying and failing to keep eye contract with Olivier once again. She looked away, into the dark woods surrounding the house. Her aether had mostly recovered, and her Censor reached out into the dark. There were a few houses, dotting the forest. There was also a huge section missing, all barren nothingness, and it took Emilia a moment to realize she did know where they were.

[Of course you know where we are.]

[I gave you a map.]

Yes, her Censor had given her a map, but she had barely looked at it, thanks. She’d never been particularly good with reading maps, or remembering where things were located on them. Big things, sure. She was more of a landmark person, though. The missing section of the forest was a landmark, from one of the more bloody moments of the war. Also, from one of the few moments, before the final assault, where the Core had done more than offer technological information as their contribution to the war.

That information had been extremely valuable—sparking, for instance, was only copied from their enemies thanks to knowledge from the Core—but it hadn’t been until the Battle of Luxor that anyone from the Core had actually risked their life to fight. No one knew who it was who had fought, their identity concealed by armour and anonymized communication. They had been a monster in their own right, possibly only on tier with the creator of {Blood Rain} in the ease with which they took down the monsters they fought.

They had also killed nearly everyone in the area, friend and foe. Granted, by the time they arrived, very few of their allies were still alive, and nearly all of those remaining were seriously injured. Too injured to get out of range when the fighter from the Core let their skills loose, flooding the world with pure aether until nothing remained.

In most areas, the ecosystems destroyed in the war were slowly returning. Volunteers replanted forests. Animals were bred in captivity and then relocated. Plants popped out of the ashes of ancient forests.

Nothing grew at the site of the Battle of Luxor. Even plants that were brought in and planted into fresh soil died, and any animals taken in retreated into the surrounding forest—the one they stood in now.

Whatever that person had done, it had permanently affected the place, and even standing there now, Emilia could feel the echoes of that damage in her core. She had never come this close, the fight having taken place while she was stationed far to the south. She had never realized how much that skill had affected the aether itself, left a mark across it that was still so powerful even decades on.

She wondered if anyone who had felt it when it back then had felt it now—if anyone knew whether that mark was fading, or if it was the same as always. She rather hoped it was the same, her stomach turning quietly under the oppression of it now. How bad would it have been nearly two decades ago if it was healing? If this was the fading version?

“I see,” Olivier said, before sparking away.

Emilia blinked at the spot he had been standing, wondering where in the world he had gone. He appeared a moment later, holding a pile of clothing—his own, from the looks of it. He stepped forward, and fell to his knees, and she wanted to cry. The soft tap of his hands, urging her to lift each of her legs so he could help her into his too big sweatpants. The way he slid them up to her hips, his movements pausing as he spotted the new scar across her thigh, just barely overlapping with the other one—the one he had pressed so tenderly at earlier that day.

He stood, pulling the pants tight before tugging the blanket away from her and forcing her into a sweater that was much too big for her. His hand, running over the back of her neck to pull her hair free, sending a shudder through her.

“Stop it,” she muttered, tensing when his hands froze where they were adjusting the hem of the sweater. It didn’t need adjusting. It was probably just him fussing. Olivier was almost always fussy, but it was worse when he was anxious or upset.

“Stop what?”

She huffed, her hands catching on his. “Being so nice to me.”

He turned her hands in his, fingers dragging along her palms. Was he also watching their hands, or was he watching her more directly? His eyes trained on her face for signs of whatever emotions she was feeling. She was afraid to look—afraid to check and see whatever was floating in his own expression.

“I will always be nice to you, Emilia,” he said softly, so sincerely that Emilia had to laugh and look up at him. The expression he wore was sad, but amused, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“I can remember tons of time you weren’t nice to me,” she replied, frowning severely up at him.

His lips twitched, memories of all the times he had been mean to her in bed flooding into her Censor. She blushed. She hadn’t actually been thinking about those times. There were plenty of times in their normal life when he’d been mean to her, too.

He tugged, and suddenly she was engulfed in his arms, her head tucked perfectly under his chin, making her feel small and safe and definitely like she was about to burst into tears.

“I am glad you are alright,” Olivier said into her hair.

She didn’t really feel alright. She felt like she had fucked up, just like she had fucked up in that final assault, and when Alliance Ridge had burned, and she knew—she knew—there had been nothing she could have done better during those times. Shit happens during war, but this wasn’t war. This was trauma and her fucking up and almost getting herself and Payton killed—almost breaking Olivier and her family’s hearts. Not to mention her friends, those of the here and now and the days long gone.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into Olivier’s chest, her hands digging into the fabric of his silly pyjamas. “I’m sorry.” She was crying, she realized. When was the last time she had even done that? Probably at his bedside, after he had burned and been caught in a coma after the war had ended. Crying because so many people had died—died because of her. Crying because she couldn’t lose him too. Crying because she just couldn’t anymore.

“Emilia.” That was all he said, and then she was crying harder, and sobs echoing out into the empty forest. His hand dragged through her hair, tugging it free of her ponytail, and she laughed, pulling back to glare at her ex-lawyer through watery eyes.

“Are you gonna steal that elastic, too?” she asked, frowning up at him. It wasn’t a good frown, her lips twitching with amusement and barely controlled tears as he gazed softly down at her.

“I will not, nor have I ever, stolen one of your hair elastics,” he lied, hand rising to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Emilia—”

“I know,” she cut in, her tone more snapping than she meant it to be. “I fucked up. I know. I just…”

“I know,” he repeated back to her. “I was on the ground that day, too. I know—” He broke off, glancing into the darkness behind her for a long moment, his breaths steady and grounding against her, before he continued. “I can guess, why you have… changed yourself so much.”

“Always the lawyer,” she muttered, affection swelling through her at the wording. “Changed” was such a diplomatic way of saying “fucked yourself up.”

Olivier shot her a look, white-blue eye glowing in the dim light. Someone else probably would have said it was creepy. To her, it was just Olivier, and nothing about him could be creepy or wrong—just safe and comforting. “You do not have to talk about it. You do not have to get over it, but—”

“But don’t fuck with my knots so much that I have to call you to save my ass again?”

Emilia gasped when her back hit a tree. Olivier hovered over her, fury filling his eyes. It was hot, if also extremely terrifying. Even when he’d appeared to fight the echo earlier, he hadn’t looked half as pissed as he did now.

“Always call me to help you,” he said, and if not for how serious the situation was, Emilia would have melted at that voice. Fuck, why did she have to have such a thing for mean men!?

“You could have died,” she pointed out. “I’m not going to purposefully risk your life because I’m doing something stupid.”

Olivier looked like he wanted to say something about that, his lips pressing tight as he held whatever it was inside. “You cannot control when echoes appear,” he said instead, quickly adding, “Even if it isn’t an echo, call me, when you are in trouble. What?”

Emilia bit her lip. “It just… it seems like too much of a coincidence. For those echoes to have appeared when we were inside that building, I mean. You saw what that place was, right?”

The man nodded, nose wrinkling in disgust. “I had heard there was a purist club nearby, although I did not know where. That’s why you were there?” he asked, looking concerned that she would break into a building just to mess with some purists.

She shook her head, quickly explaining why they’d broken in, and sending him a copy of her memories from the night when he asked—the full, unredacted version. He’d already seen so much of her, it seemed silly to hide the night from him, even if some of it was probably… not the most useful to him. A moment later, her Censor sent over a few notes on the night to him, little lines that effectively read: “Hey, these moments here and here are filled with my owner being a traumatized child. So, like, look at them with care and don’t traumatize yourself in return!”

Olivier shot her a glance when he looked over the second note, although he said nothing about it—about how she still let memories from the war run her life, nor about whether he was ever chased by his own memories. Some people had adapted better after the war, left it behind them, or aggressively sorted through their trauma with the same discipline they had faced battle with. Olivier seemed the type who could have done that, buried himself in therapy for years and come out as a normal fucking person.

People had once thought she was that type of person, too.

“It is… odd timing,” he agreed after a long moment of looking through her memories. He wouldn’t have had time to view them all, probably only focusing on the few minutes before and after she had contacted him. His expression darkened, likely as he witnessed how truly out of control her control was. “Emilia—”

“I know,” she said again. “I’ll… fix it.” Maybe not fix it all the way, but even she had to admit she couldn’t continue living quite this knotted up. Not if she was going to get to the bottom of this whole knotter business—not that she was going to tell Olivier that. He’d just try to talk her out of it—or worse, force her to let him come along. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to explain her sudden acquaintanceship with the famous lawyer to her friends, and while she had a feeling her days living in anonymity were quickly coming to an end… Well, she wasn’t going to bring that end about prematurely, not if she could help it. So, no famous friends. No links to her past.

He blinked down at her, before releasing a long, worn out sigh. “It was just a coincidence,” he said.

She still wasn’t convinced. Yes, coincidences happened… a lot, especially when you were a paranoid puzzle solver to begin with. This just seemed like too much.

“You don’t think so?” he asked, fingers scratching against her scalp and making her want to turn into him like a cat into the sun.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said honestly. It felt like it couldn’t be a coincidence, but she had nothing other than vibes and her gut telling her so. Echoes just happened. There was no cause they could find. They just happened.

This hadn’t felt like something that had just happened.

“I—” Olivier broke off, his eyes glazing over for a moment before he was sighing.

Emilia smiled painfully up at him, before pushing him away from her. “Sorry. I made a mess for you.”

He shook his head. “The echoes made a mess. I just happened to be the one who showed up.” He smirked slightly as he added, “On the plus side, I doubt anyone will know you broke in. SecOps arrived right after I left—one of my men told them I was taking someone who was injured to a healer. They were… less than impressed with all the purist artwork. They are already questioning the people who live there. Even if they find evidence you were there… I do not think they will think much of it.”

That he would protect her from SecOps and the owners, if it came to that, went unsaid. She might think of him as her ex-lawyer, but technically, he was still her lawyer—she just hadn’t needed his services in a few decades, was all. She was actually pretty sure that, if she dared get herself another lawyer for even the most minor of offences, he’d be rather upset with her.

“You should get back, though.”

“Yes,” he said. He’d already been away so long. SecOps wouldn’t question him directly about his disappearance—he was a de la Rue, after all—but eventually they’d grow suspicious. You did not want SecOps suspicious of you. “I’ve left Tariq at the house. He will return you to Astrapan when your… friend is healed.”

So, Tariq was to be the de la Rue bodyguard who was injured, then. He was going to just love that.

“Payton,” she said, shrugging. “He just used too much aether.”

Olivier hummed, the sound tight and—

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Emilia said, smiling up at Olivier when he glared down at her. “Not gonna like my current boyfriend either, hm?”

Olivier didn’t deign to answer her, instead reaching back to her, giving her hands a final squeeze before he turned to leave. “I expect that the next time I see you, you will be in better shape.”

Emilia tried to throw him a cheerful smile before he sparked away. “Goodbye, ‘vier,” she said, smiling into the darkness, before her smile turned to a gasp.

Bastard had stolen her hair elastic, again.