Archive of Our Own ^beta

Virgil winces at the squeal of the carraige’s breaks as it comes to a rest outside the Lovelace Manor.

He glances at the newly-polished brass key beside him, resting on its royal violet pillow like everything is fine. Like Virgil isn’t grasping at straws for something he never deserved.

He can still see the shock and horror and hurt in Logan’s face when the curtain dropped and Virgil laid himself bare. 

Logan doesn’t want him. 

What is Virgil doing? He should tell the driver to keep going. He should keep going, keep the wheels turning until he drives straight off a cliff–

Dad–or, well, King Patton, but it would be weird for Virgil to call his Dad by name–leans forward to rest a comforting hand on Virgil’s forearm. 

Virgil glances up at him. 

Dad smiles at him, eyes warm. “Don’t worry. No matter what, he’s gonna need that–” he gestures at the brass key– “and the least we can do is bring it back.”

Virgil nods. “Thanks, Dad,” he says, swallowing up as much courage as he can before the anxiety swallows him. 

“I’ll be back in an hour!” Dad calls behind him.

The walk down the footway sufficiently chips away most of that confidence, and by the time he makes it to the front door, Virgil is choking back bile. He can’t make Logan see him, not after the very clear message he was given–

He’s knocking on the door. 

Logan needs his key, whether he wants to see Virgil or not.

This is a terrible idea. Virgil should run; should break into a dead sprint and be gone before the door swings–

“Elliott, thank goodness you’re–oh.”

Open.

Virgil stares into the heterochromic eyes of Master Deceit Lovelace and tries to look like an imposing future king and not a guilty teenager standing creepily on the doorstep of someone who’s already rejected him. “Hello, Master Lovelace.”

Deceit bows, though the confused twist of his brow never smoothes. “How kind of you to grace my humble abode with your presence, your highness. What brings you here?”

Virgil swallows. “You may be aware of my… failed endeavor to find a fiance,” he says, choking down the mortification. 

Deceit hums, eyes glittering with sharp humor. “Yes. That… wind-up. Quite the scandal.”  Virgil bristles, deciding he most definitely does not like Master Deceit.

He clears his throat. “Yes, well, I’d like to see your son before you kick me out of your lovely home.”

“My son?” Deceit raises an eyebrow, leaning against the door jamb. His steel joints must be lacking proper oiling because they scrape noisily against one another. “I fear you must be mistaken, your highness. My sons are marionettes. Your wind-up is nowhere to be found.”

Virgil fights back a growl. “Is Logan Lovelace not your ward? Have you wasted my time, Master Deceit?” 

He must admit, being prince has its benefits. Namely, the panicked way Master Deceit draws into himself like a turtle. 

“...Yes,” Deceit admits, realization dawning on his face, as though he’s just recalled this fact. “Yes he is. His workshop is downstairs. Allow me to show you in.” He sweeps Virgil through the manor to this mystical ‘workshop.’ “I’ll leave you two to your little lover’s quarrel. Ta-ta!”

Master Deceit leaves Virgil to his mounting panic.

The door to the workshop is made up of slats of dark wood and wrought iron. It curves at an odd angle, and Virgil is distracting himself. 

He kicks at a stray cobblestone–and almost shrieks when a mouse darts out of its skidding path. 

The mouse chitters at Virgil, sitting back on its haunches, fluffed up and twitching. It seems almost… agitated? 

Virgil supposes that’s normal, as he did nearly send a rock at its head. 

He may also be stalling, but that’s irrelevant. 

Virgil examines the mouse. It’s the pale beige of dyed wool cardigans, except for some patches of white on the chest and the bridge of its nose.

Something skitters in the shadows, and Virgil turns to see another mouse, just behind his foot. This one is black, more rat than mouse, and it also seems agitated–or rather, annoyed at Virgil. 

The two mice run toward each other, circling like they’re trying to get Virgil’s attention, and then running below the slatted wood of the workshop door.

Virgil stares where the mice used to stand, baffled. 

Seconds pass, and the head of the black mouse pops out from beneath the door, jerking its head back like it can’t believe it has to reiterate what it just said, which Virgil finds strange as well as rude, because it is a mouse and Virgil has never communicated with mice before. 

Regardless, he makes a good argument, and Virgil finds himself able to stomach opening the door. 

He regrets it immediately, because there’s Logan, standing at the workbench, unmoving. The cream mouse sits near his hands where they rest on the wood in front of an object Virgil can’t see.

Virgil rushes toward him, taking in his vacant eyes and the panel open in the middle of his chest. That’s not good. Virgil’s never seen anyone like this before. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He reaches for Logan like anything he’d do would help, but thinks better of it at the last second, fingertips hovering above a porcelain bicep. 

Virgil gnaws on his thumbnail, ignoring the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. He scans the bench, searching for anything helpful. How could this–how didn’t anyone notice? It’s been almost a week; Virgil only just found one of Logan’s acquaintances from the market; how isn’t he–

Virgil chokes back a frustrated sob.

How could Master Deceit not care where his own ward was? What condition he was in? 

The glint of brass catches his eye; a shining clockwork mechanism sits on the bench, glittering in the harsh yellow light of the workshop. It’s about the size of Virgil’s fist, perfect to sit in Logan’s chest cavity. He makes to grab for it–

The cream-colored mouse’s claws dig into Virgil’s hand. He rears back, staring at it, but it only moves forward, giving Virgil another look mice shouldn’t be able to give humans, like he can’t believe Virgil would do something so stupid as to try to help Logan–

Except it wouldn’t really be help, would it? 

If Virgil touched that heart, it would’ve turned to flesh and blood and stopped beating. He would’ve broken something more of it.

Virgil starts to really, honestly wish he’d never met Logan. If he hadn’t bumped into Logan at the ball, none of this would’ve happened, and Logan would still be–still be–

Virgil covers his mouth with his hands. The tears in his eyes overwhelm him.

God, why is he so stupid? 

What did he do?

Virgil sinks to the ground, sobbing into his hands, full of that same mortification and panic and guilt, because how dare he, how could he, now he’s killed Logan –

He cries for a while. Eventually, the tears slow, but the pop and fizzle of Virgil’s guilt-mortification-terror cocktail in his stomach eats away at him. 

“Okay, Lo, let’s see about–oh.” Someone enters. It isn’t Master Deceit, but Virgil can’t find the energy to look up and check who it is, so he just stares at his knees and lets tears drip down his face occasionally. “Hey, are you okay?”

“M’fine,” Virgil says, waving them off. 

“Well, I know enough to know that’s a lie.” A cool metal hand presses against Virgil’s forehead. “Ninety-eight-point-two fahrenheit. Seems normal enough for a human. Can you give me some deep breaths?”

Virgil inhales. It rattles like nuts caught in a carburetor. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” the other person says, absent. The soft clink of metal on metal sounds in the background, and Virgil snaps to attention.

“What are you doing?” He asks– demands, actually, scrabbling to get up, except for the fact that everything starts spinning and the walls wash out, desaturated and white, until the floor twists suddenly, out from under him–

“Hey, hey–” The person who was tinkering with Logan like he’s some lamp or something says, catching Virgil around the biceps. “No no no, back down, easy, easy, there we go.” They force Virgil back down onto the floor. “You must be out of it if I can force you down.”

Virgil stares up into dark brown eyes. “Who’re you?” He mumbles. His head feels… fuzzy. And the light down here is… loud. 

“Wow, you must be dehydrated,” they say. “I’m Elliott. Master Lovelace called me to check up on his wind-up. Something about Logan taking his own heart out?” They shrug, turning back to Logan. “Dunno why he’d do that, but eh, it’s what I’m here for.”

The beige mouse peeks its head over the workbench’s lipped edge and squeaks at Elliot. “Yes, yes, Emile,” they say, manually twisting their wrist, which is stuck at a ninety degree angle, to get it moving. “I’m here for much more than that. I’m valued, blah blah blah.”

The other mouse squeaks at that.

“I hear you, Remy,” Elliott goes back to their tinkering. A coil of wire clipped here, a gear ripped off there, as they shine an old flashlight into the cavities of Logan’s chest. Virgil feels sick. “I’m not lying, there’s just a few more pressing matters.” They gesture at Logan.

“Why’re–” Virgil’s voice grates against his vocal chords, and he coughs. “Why’re you talking to the mice?”

Speaking should not make him this tired, what happened?

“Well,” Elliott cocks their head to the side, and Virgil should really ask for their pronouns, but he’s so tired he can barely think straight. “They’re Not Quite Mice.”

“What?”

Elliott turns to stare at Virgil as though they can’t believe he’s never heard of Not Quite Anythings. “Not Quite Mice. Harmless fae that prefer a quiet life indoors to tricking dolls or humans into the woods to die and rust. It took Logan ages to figure out Emile–” The beige mouse–er, Not Quite Mouse, Virgil supposes–pops up over the bench and waves– “and Remy were living here. He showed me and Kai not long after.” Elliott brushes loose rust off of a spring, humming thoughtfully. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve never heard of them, being the prince and all.”

Virgil glances up at Elliott, surprised it took them this long to mention it. He waits for the subtle prying questions, the loaded statements, everything the aristocrats have been treating him to for the week, but they never come. “You knew?”

“Hard to miss.” Elliott tinkers a bit in Logan’s chest, and Virgil has to stare very carefully at the wooden floors beneath him to keep from fainting right there. “And thank you very much for not touching this wonderful masterpiece.” 

Elliott is holding Logan’s heart. They are holding his heart. If Elliott squeezes it too hard, it’ll break into a million different pieces and Virgil will scream. 

“I would not like to be the person faced with that mess of blood.” 

Elliott whistles as they reattach Logan’s heart. Virgil is going to scream.

Virgil is going to lose his mind, because what if he’d touched it? What if he’d found that brass hunk and picked it up and it beat in his heart for the last time and then it really was Virgil’s fault, this whole mess is Virgil’s fault –

Emile’s paw lies itself on Virgil’s palm where it’s balled up on the ground, the other of which is firmly nestled in his hair, tugging at the roots. 

Virgil breathes. 

“You good?” Comes Elliott’s voice. Virgil very carefully does not look at what they’re doing. 

“Yes,” he breathes, scooting up against the cabinets. He lets his head reel back and just breathes, for a minute, counting the lightbulbs hung from the ceiling. 

At some point, he is passed a glass of water, (whether by hand or paw is undetermined) and he nurses it slowly.

Time passes, and eventually, Elliott’s hands wave in front of Virgil’s eyes. As well as their face. 

They’ve got painted in stubble and overly long hair. “Now, for the piece de resistance? Can’t really do anything without it.” Elliott holds out a hand.

Virgil stares at them dumbly. 

“The key?” 

“Oh.” Virgil’d forgotten he was holding it. He hands the ornate metal device over to Elliott. Blood rushes into his fingers, and Virgil realizes he’s been clutching the key like a lifeline since he got to Lovelace Manor. 

“Now, Prince,” Elliott positions themself behind Logan and puts in the key. “Get ready to say hello to Logan! Again.” They crank Logan’s key harshly. 

Why does everyone treat Logan so harshly?

In the old, black-and-white picture shows Dad and Virgil sometimes watch together, there are always sparks and loud music when something important happens on screen. Something other than the actors reactions let them know everything is coming together. 

Here, there isn’t any flash of light or loud crescendo of music, but there is a quiet clicking and whirring as Logan’s eyes flutter closed, then reopen. 

He smiles softly to himself, bringing a hand up to his chest. That smile melts off almost immediately afterward, and Logan repositions his hand on his chest a few times, searching for something. 

“If you’re listening for it, your heart won’t tick,” Elliott says, readjusting Emile where he’s perched on their shoulder. “Guess the whole human look didn’t agree with your homemade hunk of junk. Or maybe all your circuitry’s busted now.” They twirl a wrench between their fingers idly.

“Maybe,” Logan says. “But I’d say all the physical labor had something to do with it. Dolls don’t–” his voice catches and wow, Virgil is just the worst, isn’t he? “–dolls don’t breathe, so there’s no need for air in the blood. I wasn’t made right for–for that.”

“Well,” Elliott says, crossing the workshop to haul Virgil up by the shoulders. They were right, Virgil is weak. “I guess you’ll have to convince him of that, because I don’t think he’ll leave without talking to you.”

Virgil would be lying if he said he didn’t expect Logan to have a bad reaction when seeing him again after the disaster last time had been.

He will, however, contend that he assumed it would be explosive. Logan has proven multiple times he is capable of prose and satire in equal measure. Virgil will admit he expected scathing remarks and a lashing tongue.

This is worse.

This is much, much worse, because Logan emits a pained squeak and–and bows?

He’s saying something, but the ringing in Virgil’s ears overpowers it. “Please–please stop.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Straight–straighten up, please–” Virgil presses a hand to his mouth, bile stinging the back of his throat. “Don’t do that. Please don’t treat me like–like some–”

Like some nameless aristocrat.

“I–I don’t–” Logan’s eyes dart to Elliott, clearly asking them what to do. 

Virgil shakes his head. “I–” beg you, please give me another chance, please don’t hate me, please let me explain, “–apologize. I apologize. I came back to return your key, I don’t–I don’t quite know why I’m still here. I’ll–go.” He turns to head for the door.

“No.”

Virgil turns in surprise, though he is happy Logan seems less shell-shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

Logan opens his mouth. Closes it. He points doubtfully at Virgil. “No, I–I want an explanation.” 

“I don’t think–” Virgil tries.

“No,” Logan cuts him off, pushing his shoulders back as he steps forward.

(Elliott quietly scoops up Remy and Emile in their hands and uhh, fuckin’ bolts. No fucking thank-you, that’s a room full of Emotions, and they want no part of it).

“No, I–I just–I want–I deserve an explanation,” Logan says, and he sounds so small, so upset, Virgil just wants to pull him close and keep him safe from anything that could ever hurt him. “It–it’s fine, that you wanted to–to teach me a lesson, but I don’t–” Logan hiccups. Virgil stares into his eyes, horrified. 

Dolls can’t cry, but the sounds Logan is fighting back make Virgil question that. 

“I don’t know why you–to use a–a common colloquialism, ‘strung me along’ like that, I don’t–I pardon myself, but that wasn’t fair.” 

Virgil’s gonna puke. 

He’s gonna throw up all over Logan’s workshop. Oh god, how did he do this?

“No,” he breathes, making to step toward Logan. (Logan doesn’t want to touch him). “No, I–I didn’t–I wouldn’t do that, Logan, I–please believe me.”

Logan shakes his head. “I–please just tell me why you pretended to–um. I don’t–you don’t have to...apologize, I understand why you wouldn’t want–want me there, I just want to know why you stayed and–and just played with me like a toy.” He covers his face with a hand and stares at the floor.

“I wasn’t playing.” Virgil may be ‘explaining,’ but it feels–it is more like begging. Begging Logan to see him, to hear what he’s saying, to believe him. “I was–I fell–I’m in love with you, Logan.”

Logan steps backward as though he’s been slapped. “Don’t,” He says softly, on a breath, looking hopelessly crushed. “Don’t lie to me like that. Please, no.”

Boiling tears slide down Virgil’s face. He wants to scream. Wants to cry and stomp his feet, why couldn’t he just do this right? “I’m not lying,” he swears, stepping forward. “I love you. I love your laugh, I love your hands, I love your mind.”

“Your highness–”

Virgil’s knees give out, and he kneels at Logan’s feet. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes. “I adore your wit. You made my stomach hurt from laughing every night at the balls. The way you speak–it’s like poetry, every breath.”

“My prince, I–”

“You’re a genius, Logan. You could be an inventor, a scholar, whatever you want. You’re amazing–”

“Virgil!”

Virgil looks up at Logan. He’s leant forward, fists balled against his pants. “Yes, Logan?”

“I–I don’t…” Logan kneels beside him, hugging himself. “How could you mean that? I’m a wind-up, I’m not–I don’t–” 

Virgil fights back the urge to grab Logan’s hands. “Logan, I swear. I don’t know how else to prove it to you. I wanted to marry you the night we met, which sounds...crazy, and stupid, and like something out of a poorly-thought-out fairytale, but it’s still true, and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. I love you, Logan, and I can’t say anything more true than that.”

Logan is silent for a long time. Virgil knows in very loose terms what he is doing. He’s processing, like the time (a very brief period on their second night together) Virgil took him to the castle library and Logan squeezed his eyes shut tight and breathed deeply in and out his nose instead of flitting from shelf to shelf like Virgil assumed he would.

Finally, Logan takes a shuddering breath and says. “I… Really?”

He sounds like he’s crying. He sounds like he can’t believe a word Virgil’s said. 

He sounds like he’s hoping it’s true.

Virgil leans forward, planting his hands on the floor. Thank god. He didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t get through to Logan. “Really. I swear, Logan–on the moon, or stars, or whatever you need, I swear. I love you. Please let me prove it to you.”

“I… I love you.” Logan says, eyes rooted on the ground. “As well. Virgil–I love you.”

He looks up, finally, meeting Virgil’s eyes. “I love you.”

Tears slide down Virgil’s face. “Can I– I want to–”

Logan nods, arms curled around himself. “No–no kissing, not yet. I think I’d prefer to figure out what causes the–transformation, but I–I’d like–to hold you...” He trails off, eyes downcast, and Virgil can’t help himself.

He pulls Logan right up beside him, winding his arms around Logan’s waist. It softens easily, and Virgil tucks his face into the crook of Logan’s neck. 

Logan’s arms slide around his back. “Thank you,” he whispers, hoarse.

“Thank you,” Virgil whispers back, just as hoarsely.

Moments pass before the creak of Logan’s door sounds, and Deceit’s voice slithers into the air. “... I do hate to interrupt– whatever this is that’s happening here, but the King is at my door, asking for his son, so if the two lovebirds would kindly show up and prove me and my sons innocent of any ill-intent?”

Virgil puzzles as to what that means, but Logan snickers quietly, helping him up and out of the basement.

And Logan is a porcelain wind-up doll, cracked and chipped, when he leads his beloved up the steps to a new ball.