Fallen London: A New Normal

[shaicarus]

an older fic! from my tumblr. I didn't especially like this one? I mean I didn't hate it, but it didn't turn out the way it looked in my head. probably because it's from Ashley's perspective, and at the time of writing I hadn't written Ashley in literal years. Ashley is a friend's OC. they used to be Shai's datemate, but that didn't pan out, and Ashley's reaction to that was to stalk Shai for a while in a ceaseless attempt to win them back.

I mostly moved this over here because Shai's first words to Ashley are some the Shai-est words I've ever written.
(content warnings: stalking)

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You…have been gone for some time. It takes a few days for you to realize exactly how long, and when you do you suppose Shai’s reaction makes more sense. You’re not sure you would take it fabulously well if they disappeared for over two years without any warning before popping back up out of the aether. But they don’t know the circumstances. They don’t know the full story. If they did, they would be kinder. You tell yourself that, but much has changed. You have changed.

 

Shai has changed.

 

It takes time for you to begin to realize quite how much. You can’t get close, after all. Being close upsets them, and your desire to avoid that outweighs your desire to explain the full story. For now. But you do keep track of them. To stay near, even if out of eyesight.

 

The townhouse is easy enough to find, and you know that while it is always filled, they are rarely there. It seems a good place to start figuring out their schedule.

 

But when you knock, you are not expecting a middle-aged woman, harried and trailed by a gaggle of curious children, to answer the door with an impatient, “Yes? Out with it.”

 

You clear your throat and recover quickly. “I’m looking for Shaicarus Ilthanuel?” you say, just the slightest uptick at the end. If you seem unsure, then there are fewer walls to wiggle past.

 

The woman’s eyes narrow slightly and she gives you a shrewd once over. One of the more daring children clutches at her skirt and peers around her, and her hand falls to the girl’s head.

 

“The professor ain’t here, my lord,” the woman replies. “Who’s askin’?”

 

There’s a beat while you fit that word into your ever-complicated mental map—professor—before you offer a name. It’s fake. You pulled it out of a hat. Based on the last meeting, if it could even be called as much, you know that Shai won’t take it well if someone tells them that ‘Ashley’ was asking after them. And then you bid the woman a good evening and carry on your way.

 

You suppose the university is the next logical place to check, though that means you still need to narrow down which one.

 

——

 

You know their schedule. You have seen the company they keep—the zailor, the soldier, the devil, the singer, the functionary, the forger, the fawning gaggle of Veilgarden, their students, their aunt—and you have read their work, fictional and academic. You hear what people say about them. You don’t like to rely on gossip, but you’ll take what you can.

 

The more you learn, the more concerned you get.

 

They have died in your absence. (Several times, actually.) Worse, they have found a sense of curiosity. You hope eventually you can save them from it, but you don’t know when or how. In the meantime, it seems likely that they’ll keep indulging it. They have not yet been to the Cave, but you know that it is coming, and you try to put together plans to waylay it.

 

You have even seen them with some of the Masters. They are cordial with Pages. They are downright cheeky with Wines. But given how deeply entrenched they are in the Correspondence, you suppose you can’t be surprised.

 

You know more than most what sorts of things lurk in the darkest parts of London, and just how quickly they can snatch you away and flip your entire life upside down. You know where their explorations could lead them. But how are you supposed to keep them safe if you can’t see them?

 

——

 

You behave. At first. For weeks, you are good. You leave them be, keeping at a distance. But your willpower only stretches so far before it breaks.

 

You have heard people discuss their lectures and classes at Benthic. You’ve tried to content yourself with gossip and secondhand information, until you decide it will be fine if you listen in on one. You can just stay in the corridor. And it goes well enough at first, but it’s just…so Shai.

 

They are loud and vibrant and active. They laugh when their students challenge what they say, and relish the chance to go into more detail. They have an enormous silver tabby draped over their shoulders for the whole class, like a fluffy scarf. It takes you until nearly the end of the lecture to realize it’s Victus. She was scarcely the size of a soup bowl the last time you saw her.

 

They whisper amongst each other every so often, when the class is otherwise occupied with their work. It is after one such hushed conversation that Shai looks straight at the door out to the corridor, and you know you have been found out. For a moment, you consider leaving, but they make no mention of you and call no attention to your presence. They simply carry on with the class. And against your better judgement, you stay. You wait. You’re so tense you barely catch another word of what they say, and only realize the class has ended when students begin trailing out of the room.

 

Shai is at the back of the group, standing a full head taller than most of them. A full head and shoulders over some of them. They have always been tall, but they dress to emphasize it now. You might come up to their chin. Possibly.

 

They’re speaking with a woman roughly their age as they get closer, and you only pick up the tail end of their conversation.

 

“Honestly, just ignore everything everyone else has ever said about gut-feelings. Translation is as much a feeling as a process. Now, if you’ll excuse me…?”

 

The woman blinks at them. Then looks at you. And understanding dawns in her eyes.

 

“Ah. Right. Next time, then.”

 

“Of course. Say hi to Danny. Tell him you’re doing well only by my good graces.”

 

She flips them off as she leaves, and they call a merry, “Be seeing you, Henri!” after her back. They hold their smile until she rounds the corner and the two of you are alone, and then their expression goes blank.

 

“I would ask if you found it informative, but you’ve always been good at being better than me,” they remark after a moment, and it stings in a way you can’t quite put your finger on.

 

“Shaicarus—“

 

“Don’t.” They reach up as if to pinch their nose, only to remember their claws and instead pull their goggles off. “What do you want?” they ask, studiously cleaning their goggles with the corner of their jacket.

 

A good question, all things considered. You don’t really know the answer to it. Or you do, just not for this specific moment. You find yourself saying, almost unbidden, “Just…a moment. Let me look at you.”

 

They pause for a moment, and then they loop their goggles around their neck and let their hands fall to their sides. They don’t say anything, but you take the gesture as permission.

 

Much has changed.

 

Only one of their arms was prosthetic, before. And it had claws, true enough, but they were…decorative. Not like these…gauntlets. They’re broader across the shoulders, as well. You suspect the gauntlets are heavy.

 

Their ears were round, before. They’re pointed, now, and you find yourself reaching towards one of them before you can quite help it.

 

They snap their teeth a few millimeters from your finger tips, in a way that seems partly instinct but mostly honest intent. You pull your hand back sharply, startled less at almost losing a finger tip and more about how sharp their teeth have become. And how long ago must it have happened, for it to be an ingrained habit to use them as a weapon?

 

“Do you ever truly sleep?” you ask fretfully. You’re more or less expecting it when they snort at you, and they don’t offer a real answer. You can probably take that as an answer on its own. They’re tapping their claws against their thumbs at their sides, rapid-fire succession back and forth, and they won’t quite look at you.

 

“I just…” You pause. Try again. They finally offer you their full attention. “I want…” No good. At least not while they’re looking at you like that, guarded and expectant. Some things don’t change, apparently.

 

Finally, they sigh. “You don’t know me, Ash,” they offer, and for once it doesn’t sound accusatory. It’s…a small comfort. “Not anymore, at least.” They laugh quietly, but rather than explain what’s so funny, they shake their head.

 

“We’ll speak again,” they decide. “Soon. Probably.” They shrug one shoulder, and you know the dismissiveness is calculated, but it nags at you all the same. “I can’t promise you anything more than that.”

 

You should say something—you want to say something—but you don’t get the chance. They’re on the move a second later, long strides carrying them down the corridor and away from you. You could follow them, but your gut tells you that the gesture wouldn’t be taken charitably.

 

So you stand there, stiff as a gargoyle, watching their back until they reach the end of the corridor and turn the corner.

 

You aren’t sure what you expected to happen.