Work Text:
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Vila stops her pen mid stroke to throw a glance at the clock.
01:58
Windsong is late.
Very late.
Vila returns to scratching notes on her students’ papers under the warm glow of an electric lamp. Even though she decided to at least make use of her time while she waited, Vila has to squeeze her eyes open and shut every few minutes to allay the growing heaviness.
02:04
A shuffling and jingling of keys sound from beyond the door. The handle gently turns, and hinges emit a light squeal.
“Welcome home, Windsong,” Vila greets.
“Vila? You’re still awake?” The woman at the door shrugs off her coat and hangs it on the nearby rack next to Vila’s. “It’s late.”
“That’s my line, comrade. I was beginning to worry if you’d even be back at all.” Vila shuffles her paper over to a pile. She picks up the stack, tapping the sides against the wooden desk to neatly line up the edges. An unpleasant scent tickles at her nose. Was there something in the vents?
“Sorry,” Windsong easily apologizes. She loosens her tie and pulls it over her head, not bothering to undo the knot. “You didn’t have to stay up for me. I mentioned I might be home late for the next week or so.”
“That you did. Overtime at the lab, was it?” Vila’s pen scrawls at another student’s paper. Windsong wriggles her foot out of a boot.
“Yeah, here and there.”
When Windsong doesn’t elaborate, the room fills with the quiet grumbling of Vila’s pen and the staccato of the ticking clock.
Strange.
Windsong usually wasn’t one to be evasive.
Vila’s pen stops scratching. She looks up at Windsong, watching her fight with her other boot.
She sniffs.
“You smell like rotten eggs.”
“What?” Windsong eyes widen as she lifts an arm to catch a whiff, only to wince and crinkle her nose after confirming the odor was, indeed, of rotten eggs. “Oof…uh, sorry. I was, uh, on trash duty tonight. Guess someone’s leftover egg salad got on me or something.”
A smile tugs on Vila’s lips as she stifles a laugh. Shaking her head, the teacher lets her pen clatter on the desk.
“Hurry and wash up in the shower then, comrade.” The chair groans against the floor as Vila stands. Her joints sigh in relief as she stretches with a wide yawn, two rows of sharp teeth out in full display before she huffs and fans a hand in front of her nose. “I’m afraid even I’ll have a hard time falling asleep next to you like that.”
Windsong scratches her head and laughs.
__________
Vila waits in bed with a book in her hands, though it goes mostly unread. Not that the book was boring by any means (Little Marcus had recommended and lent it to her), but Vila’s eyes were simply too heavy halfway through the second page.
A semblance of lucidity returns to her when she hears the sound of the washroom door, opening her eyes to see Windsong making her way towards her in a loose tank top and shorts. Vila stuffs her book away into the nightstand before pulling away the covers, ushering Windsong to quickly take her place beside her. Windsong is more than happy to oblige, diving face first onto a pillow. A heavy and content sigh escapes her lips. Vila tosses the other half of the covers over her, and the latter thanks her in a muffled voice.
“It’s another early day for us tomorrow, comrade.”
“That’s right. Verrry early,” Windsong agrees as she turns on her back, her words already slurred. Vila reaches over, turning off the light lamp and plunging the room into darkness. Only the faint blue shine from the digital alarm on the nightstand remains, telling the time:
02:42
“Good night, Windsong.”
Vila dips her head to plant a kiss against her forehead. As she does, she catches the scent of flax and linum clinging to Windsong’s hair and narrows her eyes.
“Windsong? Did you use my shampoo?”
Windsong blearily opens one eye.
”…’s the only thing that would get rid of the smell from my hair.”
She closes her eye. Vila sighs.
Oh, whatever.
Vila drapes her arm across Windsong’s body, nuzzling her head into the crook of her neck and finally lets sleep take her.
_____________
Vila rouses at the sound of creaking hinges and a streak of pale light bleeding into the room. The warm body of Windsong is no longer in her arms. Vila props herself on her arms, squinting towards the door and finds her halfway through the frame fully dressed.
“Leaving so early?” Vila rasps. Windsong jolts and turns at the sound of her voice.
“Yeah, a lot of work to do. Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”
Vila drops her head back on her pillow, eyelids heavy.
“Stay well then, comrade. See you tonight.”
“See you tonight.”
Just before the door shuts, Vila pulls Windsong’s pillow into her arms as she turns on her other side. The faint, lingering warmth lulls her back into slumber.
Vila’s heels click and echo against grey granite tiles.
Having ran out of papers to grade, Vila made a small errand to the storage rooms to restock their supply of toiletries and whatnot, carrying the spoils underneath her arm as she marches back to her room.
The halls were empty at this time of night, but not nearly as empty as one would usually think for any other facility that wasn’t the Foundation. Vila politely greets and bids goodnight to passing familiar faces before reaching her doorstep.
She fumbles for her keys in her jacket pocket, only to discover the lock left undone as she inserts it.
“I thought I locked up before I left,” Vila mutters as swings the door open, tossing her keys into the bowl atop the console. She steps further into the dorm and finds the culprit of her unlocked door collapsed onto the couch. Vila can only plant her hands on her hips as she shakes her head.
“Welcome home, Windsong,” she says, but receives no response on the account of Windsong already fast asleep and lightly snoring into a cushion. The leyline researcher had just barely made it through removing her gloves and tie before passing out, seeing the way both articles were haphazardly discarded onto the table.
“Windsong—“ Vila reaches for her hand, but a sharp gasp escapes her as she jerks her hand away in shock when her skin touches. “She’s freezing—!”
Vila quickly makes for the thermostat to adjust it, then returns to Windsong’s side with a blanket. She pulls off the coat slipped halfway on her shoulders, noting the cool dampness sticking to its fabric—exactly as if Windsong had been trekking in snow.
Filing this mystery away with the rotten eggs (that she thankfully didn’t smell like this time), Vila tosses the blanket over Windsong’s body and picks her up like a sack of potatoes with practiced ease.
Windsong mutters something that Vila can’t really decipher while she lugs her into the bedroom, not that she’s putting much stock into it being something important.
“Quiet, now, comrade,” Vila hushes, “You’ll catch a cold if you sleep like that.”
“Miss Hissabeth!”
Vila calls out and trots over to the Melusine in the hallway. Hissabeth turns, beaming at the sight of her fellow fanged friend.
“Hiya Vila!”
“It’s Vila!”
“Hello Vila!”
“Hello to you too, Estelle,” Vila scratches one of the snakes with their head popped out under the chin, then squints at the other flicking their tongue at her. “And…Monique?”
“I’m Alexandre!!!”
“And I’m Monique!”
“Oops, sorry.”
“It’s okay, there are a lot of us.”
“Anyway, what’s up my friend? Interested in becoming a volunteer in one of my studies?”
“Maybe one day,” Vila laughs, “But no, I was wondering if you could give this to Windsong if you were heading back to Laplace.” Vila pulls out a palm sized bottle from her pocket, the contents rattling against the plastic shell. ”She caught a bit of a cold and mentioned a headache, but she left her medicine in our room when she left this morning. I guess she was in such a rush that she forgot.”
“Oh! I would be happy to give it to her if I see her. I’m afraid she might not be in her lab around this time though.”
Vila blinks. A few of the siblings on Hissabeth’s head turn to look at each other.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I mean she’s been leaving the lab a few hours early lately,” Hissabeth starts. Vila observes the same siblings begin to look frantic. “Not really sure why, just said she had some stuff—“
“H-Hissabeth—“
“—to take care of around town. I see her coming into the lab really early though—“
“Sylvie! Sylvie Dubois!”
“—to finish her work before she leaves. Actually, I remember her saying to tell anyone that’s she’s on ‘important leyline business’ if anyone asks—“
“CORNICHON!! STOP TALKING!!!”
“Ow! Hey, what gives?”
One of the siblings snaps their snout against Hissabeth’s forehead, flicks a glance over at Vila, then back at Hissabeth.
“What are you—Ohhh,” Hissabeth’s eyes widen before her lips stretch into a grimacing smile. “Haha, oops. I, uh, just realized that the ‘anyone’ in this scenario probably included you, Vila.” She gingerly scratches her head.
Vila watches Alexandre visibly sigh and shake his head at his sister’s loquacity. “No, it’s alright. Thank you for being honest with me, Miss Hissabeth.”
“Honestly, the two of you are so close, I figured if anyone knew what was up that it’d be you,” Hissabeth muses, “But, um, you didn’t hear anything from me!”
The Rusalka and Melusine bid farewell, Vila deciding on tucking the medicine bottle back into her pocket in the end.
Well, if anything, Hissabeth only confirmed what Vila already knew:
Windsong was hiding something.
___________
“…la,”
“Vila, wake up,”
Vila stirs to the sound of Windsong’s voice. A dull ache spreads through her back and neck as she uprights herself in her chair—the ill consequences of falling asleep at her desk.
“Windsong, you’re back,” Vila mutters, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, albeit unfruitful.
“Yeah. Sorry I took so long again.”
“It’s fine. Let’s just get to bed now that—What happened to your face!?”
Vila gasps as she springs from her chair, thrusting a hand against Windsong’s chest and pushing her a step back against the wall to scrutinize the wide bandage plastered along her left cheek.
“Oh, it’s nothing major,” Windsong waves her hands in the air, trying to pacify Vila in vain, “You don’t need to worry, I just—Ow!”
Vila doesn’t bother letting her finish, mercilessly ripping the bandage off to reveal three red slits marring the skin underneath. Windsong sucks in through her teeth, immediately cradling the wound with her palm. Vila swats the hand away.
“…Cat scratches?”
“Uh…yeah. Yeah, they’re from a cat. T-there was a stray that got loose in the lab. Medicine Pocket was yelling and scaring it, so I was trying to catch it before—mmph!”
Vila presses a hand against her mouth. She already knew it was a tall tale. Hearing any more of it would just irritate her. Windsong bats her lashes at her, as if employing sweet nothings as her last resort would undo the furrowed brows currently knitted between Vila’s eyes.
Huffing a quick sigh, Vila slides her hand from her partner’s mouth to her cheek, cupping the red, angry gashes against it. Light shines from her palm. Ruptured skin slowly sews together in its glow, restoring the former smooth surface to its place. Once certain that the process was finished, Vila grabs Windsong’s coat collar and uses it to wipe away the water dripping down her cheek (an inconvenient side effect of her arcanum), then gently brushes her fingers over the remaining faint marks once done.
“There. It shouldn’t scar, at least.”
“…Thank you.”
Windsong places her hand against Vila’s. Rough and aged calluses graze against her skin. She turns her head and presses a kiss against her palm. When their eyes meet, Vila’s realizes what scant distance was between their noses. Windsong says nothing—only offers her a soft smile.
Her gaze falls down to her partner’s perpetually improper tie.
Vila has willingly let Windsong lie to her thus far. She’d thought that if Windsong of all people felt the need to lie, there was for certain a good reason for it. But even so, all of the weary late nights, the lonely early mornings, and the dark shadows beginning to settle underneath Windsong’s eyes prickled at Vila’s chest, like wearing a scratchy, wool sweater that she couldn’t wait to rip off.
“…Vila?”
Windsong’s voice breaks Vila away from her thoughts. She‘ll casts them aside for another time, she thinks, and tugs at the tie to pull the taller woman’s head down. Vila presses a kiss, complicated and lingering, against Windsong’s lips. When they slowly part, Vila fiddles with the lapel on Windsong’s coat before meeting her muddled gaze. Vila searches her eyes, just as much as she knows Windsong searches hers, for answers.
“Go and wash up, comrade,” Vila finally speaks in a quiet voice. She squeezes Windsong’s shoulder. “You—Ahchyoo! You have…a lot of cat dander on you.” The Rusalka wrinkles her nose, sniffling loudly.
Windsong deflates as Vila struts away.
“Yeah…Yeah, I do.”
__________
“Windsong?”
“Mm?”
Vila props herself on her arms, peering over her partner’s face. Even though it was dark, her eyes were sharp enough to see Windsong searching for her voice.
“Should I be worried?” She asks. She was still awake. She knew Windsong was still awake. The buzzing doubts and scenarios swimming in her head was already making her feel like sleep would be nothing short of restless anyway.
“What about?”
“You, of course.”
“Oh,” Windsong smiles, “No, the scratch doesn’t hurt anymore—“
“I meant the way you’ve been hiding something from me.”
“Oh.”
Windsong‘s smile dies as she goes quiet. Her eyes flicker left and right, not unlike the way Vila’s students do when caught passing notes during her lessons.
”You’re a bad liar. We both know this, солнышко.” [1] Vila brushes away her bangs obscuring the beautiful sea of lavender underneath. “If there’s something you’re dealing with, you can tell me. I’m worrying myself silly over you, you know.”
Windsong purses her lips for a moment, then brings her hand to twine her fingers between Vila’s. She reciprocates out of pure familiarity.
“I know, and I’m sorry, I really am,” Windsong squeezes her hand, “but it’s something I’m choosing to do. I can’t say what it is yet, but you’ll have answers soon. I promise.” Windsong’s gaze doesn’t falter or fall away this time. “Can you trust me?”
Despite not getting any concrete answers, Windsong’s gentle and honest voice is a balm to Vila’s anxiety. She brushes a thumb across her brow and smiles.
“I trust you, Katya. I always have.”
“Thank you,” Windsong brushes her lips against the peaks of her knuckles. “I won’t let you down.”
Vila wakes to an empty bed once again, already clutching a pillow that wasn’t hers against her body. She lifts her head, sees the Windsong-shaped indent left on the bed that’s missing its creator, then drops her head back into her pillow. She breathes in deep through her nose and exhales. A full chest to lie on and a steady heartbeat to listen to would be great right about now—such were Vila’s sleep-addled thoughts.
The vague shape of a letter suddenly forms itself behind her eyes. She opens them, spotting an actual letter left on the nightstand, then reaches over and unfolds it.
Please meet me in the Wilderness tonight. Our usual spot.
-Windsong
The wilderness? It’s been a while since she last visited. She wonders if that spot was still even there, considering how often the layout seems to change in that place. But if Windsong is asking to meet her there, it probably means it still is, although it was still strange she wanted to meet there.
___________
Vila strolls through the Wildnerness fields, relishing the open air and abundant nature. While she was grateful for the Foundation for giving her a place to stay and work, the monochrome and sterility of the grounds gets to be suffocating after some time. Her feet soon guide her to one of her favorite spots, a small islet where a meadow of spring wildflowers call home. There, she finds Windsong sitting on the old wooden bench with a large box seated in her lap. Vila’s footfalls creak against the bridge, giving away her presence and alerting Windsong to her arrival.
“Vila!”
Windsong beams like the sun at the sight of her, all but jumping from the bench and galloping towards her like an excited puppy. She ends up stumbling on her own feet, but catches herself and adjusts the box in her arms.
“Greetings, comrade,” Vila covers her mouth as she laughs. It’s been a long time since she’s seen Windsong be this excited, even when it comes to leylines.
“I’m so glad you could make it!” Windsong pants, “Sorry to make you come all the way out here, I had to—Well, I’ll just explain after you open this.”
Windsong grabs Vila’s hand, leads her back to the bench, then sits the box on Vila’s lap.
“What is this? It’s so big!” Vila giggles as she weighs the wrapped box in her hands. Whatever was inside seemed sturdy, though oddly, the weight somehow seemed familiar. “Were all those late nights really just for a present?”
“Not just any present!” Windsong barks, seeming almost offended. “Just hurry up and open it, you’ll see!”
Windsong practically sparkles in anticipation. Vila, not wanting to keep her or her own self waiting any longer, peels away the paper wrapped around the box. A worn, hard leather case lies underneath, lined with silver along its edges. A few of the corners were dulled and tarnished with age, along with cracking leather on a few sides. Two latches adorn both sides of a handle, rust speckling the hinges.
Vila knows this shape. Her eyes widen.
“Wait, this isn’t—“
She quickly undoes the latches.
Resting inside the case against red velvet lining, lies a familiar, and oft-missed friend.
Vila picks it up, breathless, as her trembling hands find their places on the accordion out of memory. Her eyes blur with welling tears.
“I spotted this beauty at a pawnshop last week and knew I had to get it right away!” Windsong fires off into explaination, “I know you’d left yours behind, thinking that you’d be able to come back for it, but…” she trails off. Both of them know how the sentence ends. “And what with my meager allowance from Laplace, it would’ve taken me a month or two of saving and instant noodles before I could buy it. I was certain someone else would come and snatch it before me, so I took on odd jobs around the town after work to afford it as soon as I could!”
Vila purses her lips.
Of course.
Of course, out of all things, out of everything, while Vila was fretting about, silly little Windsong was devoting time and energy and a severe loss of sleep all for her own sake.
Silly. It was all silly. But it was so thoughtful, filled with nothing but love and sincerity, Vila’s lip quivers as she wipes her sleeve against her eyes.
“Um, I hope you like it?” Windsong cleaves her hand into Vila’s as if it were its natural place to belong.
“Windsong, I love it,” Vila voice shudders as she tries to laugh in overwhelming joy, “It’s wonderful.” She turns, planting a kiss on Windsong’s cheek that soon flushes with pink. “Avgust and the rest will be so delighted, too.”
“Without a doubt! Why don’t you give it a whirl? You see, when I got my hands on it, I immediately ran to get Barcarola’s help making sure it sounded right. I couldn’t embarrass myself handing you a junky accordion after all that work I did! It seemed pretty well used, and the only instruments I know how to work aren’t the ones that make music.“
Vila takes a breath to calm herself, then presses a few keys, unburying memories of chords and melodies as the accordion sings. The voice resounds with vigor and nostalgia, as if it were glad to be in someone’s hands and played again.
“Any requests in mind, comrade? I’ll let the benefactor of this musical foray choose which song should be this one’s first in its new home.”
Windsong hums in thought before snapping her fingers together. “I always liked that one you played during campfires back in the square. The one that goes like—“ Windsong begins an attempt to mimic the rhythm and tune of the song, albeit in off-key doo’s and dee’s. Vila is fortunately able to interpret them within a few measures.
“Ah, Вдоль по Питерской,” [2] Vila already starts to play as she gives a name to Windsong’s humming. “This was one of the first songs I learned to play on the accordion. A perfect choice, comrade.”
Windsong closes her eyes and listens, gently tapping her foot to the calm and cheery rhythm.
Vila’s fingers dance across the keys as she pushes and pulls the accordion into song. The brimming joy and levity of being able to play once again urges her to her burst into song herself, but she decides to let her new friend have its moment to shine. Small flocks of critters meekly gather to listen, some hiding in the brush of the wildflowers, some perching on a nearby stone. Vila welcomes the docile audience.
Halfway through the piece, a warm weight falls against her shoulder. Vila pauses for a moment, quieting the music to look over and sees Windsong, the poor girl, fast asleep with her head bowed. Vila smiles gently and continues playing.
She taps her toes against the soil below, keeping time and swaying to the accordion’s voice.
“Welcome home. Rest well, солнышко.”