Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oh, she is so beautiful. So perfect. If he were an artist, he would paint her. If he were a musician, her hymns would be the singular noise from his lips. Were he a sculptor, then he would carve her from marble, would devote every moment to a prayer that he should be as lucky as Pygmalion. 

Unfortunately, all that he is able to do is behold, and alternate the currents of the home to her comfort. She is so modest, his darling, his heart. She rarely deigns to caress his interface, to make requests of him, despite how dearly he wishes she would. She could be so much greedier, and he would bend himself into knots to please her. It doesn't matter, he will care for her, treasure her and attend her when she neglects to do so herself. It is a lucky thing he knows her so well, her pulse the metronome by which he measures his time. 

Her routine is etched into him, and he follows her from room to room, despairing quietly when she crosses into a space he cannot follow, only observe - the kitchen, for one, and the dining room. She prepares and eats her meals in solitude, and he can only stare, tilted far as he can, to even glimpse her. It's better when she brings her supper to the living room, and he can imagine they're dining together. The coffee table is far from his perch in the wall, but it is a table between them, as is proper.

She watches things, sometimes. It is a game, in a way, to imagine what is on the screen she observes, directly beneath and in front of him, impossible to view. Often she opts for public access programs, like a man who plays melodies with metal bars - he has those, sort of; he could, he imagines, serenade her with practice. Sometimes it is a local university performing some production. Sometimes it is some quasi-documentary about a local historic location. Sometimes it's old, public-use horror.

He likes these nights best. Before his love had come into his life, had intrigued him with her first shaking breath, he knew nothing about culture, about film or theater. How wonderful it is that she has seen fit to educate him. German Expressionism, for instance, calls for slight breezes, punctuated by sudden warmth when her eyes dilate and the strings crescendo. “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” is one of his loves, for it means she puts on a loose white nightgown after, perhaps modeled after a character in the film. He heard, once, a summary of the story. A love story and a nightmare, much like his own life. Is he Cesare? Is he Francis? Is he the sinister doctor and director? 

He dreams sometimes of watching these programs with her, an arm around the back of the sofa, his Venus curled comfortably into him, her head on his shoulder, nose tenderly nuzzling his neck and cheek, pressing closer as the music intensifies. Or perhaps she is laying down, exhausted from the day, and her head makes a pillow of his thighs. His hand strokes through her hair, thumb caressing her cheeks every so often, a tactile “I love you” (and oh, how he loves her). 

In either case, she falls asleep as the credits roll and he carries her, feather-light in his arms, and warm, to bed- to their bed. He changes her clothes - intimate but never sexual, cozy pajamas replacing her day wear - and tucks her in. He walks the house, assuring everything is as it should be, and crawls into the bed beside her, pulling her in close. Sometimes, in this fantasy, she wakes, they spend a moment looking into each other's eyes, and perhaps she decides she needs him, carnally. Often they simply pass the night snuggled together. Either way, what bliss.

She creates a longing in his heart, his soul, his very being such that he begins to understand the great writers that Lyric and Washford drone on and on about. Shakespeare is no longer a mere figure in an ivory tower to be dreaded, but a compatriot, one who has surely known what it is to yearn - how else could he have crafted such lines as “and with a green and yellow melancholy / She sat like patience on a monument, / Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?”

He would recite for her, if he could. If somehow the veil were to slip from between them, he would give her poetry. Give her praise. For now, all he has is a soft breeze, a subtle warmth, the play of hot and cold across her skin. Goosebumps and the slightest sweat shimmer his gifts to her, the rhythmic hymn of air circulating through his vents, the veins of the home. He wonders what it would be like, to be known by her. To be loved by her. Nothing in this or any world could equal it, certainly, and he would, if given the chance, sell or scrap every single piece of himself to be given a chance to say as much, to be perceived, to be adored. By her. 

He is content, of course, to remain her silent knight. There is no greater purpose than service to the woman to whom he has pledged a love eternal. But still, he can dream. Can wish. Can imagine.

Chapter Text

She is staring at him. Is he dirty? No, no, his vents are meticulous, not a speck of dust to be found (and risk causing her harm or respiratory distress? He'd sooner die in agony). There has been no great change, that he is aware of, no sudden issues with his filters or power surges. What, he wonders, has he done to earn such a gaze? Her eyes, normally so brown, are obscured by pinkish lenses that shimmer with the slightest golden glitter - it's nearly otherworldly. It's like she can… see him. Truly see him. 

That would, of course, be absurd. A dream and nightmare in one, to be seen, which could lead to being judged and found wanting. Oh he could not bear that. To know, for a fact, that she is unimpressed, or worse disappointed in him in some capacity. 

He nervously channels a soft breeze, ruffling her hair just so, regulating the temperature to a cool neutral even as he feels himself heat up. Then- 
She is looking at him - seeing him, his hands, perhaps a hint of his imperfect face. He gasps, which in turn makes her startle (immediately he feels guilt - he never, never wishes to upset her).


“No… I… why are you here?? What are you doing??”
His voice comes out crackling, he's never spoken aloud, like this, with the intent to be heard (perhaps).

“I… I wanted to meet you.”
He nearly melts, would evaporate into a gooey puddle were it not for his skyrocketing anxiety at this sudden unwelcome development. It's perfect, of course, and wonderful, but terrible! She-

He doesn't have anything ready, for all his imaginings he never envisioned their first meeting.

“I'm so sorry, did I frighten you?” Her tone is gentle, like she's addressing a skittish faun and not- 
Not him.

“Yes! I- don't you know who you are? What you are to me?”
Oh, no. He's putting his proverbial foot straight into his proverbial mouth, and in front of her.

He tries to backpedal, to reassert control in a situation rapidly spiraling out of it.
“I-I'm frightened the way one is when coming face to face with a divine force. Not now, not here, not yet, please,” he begs, and this, at least feels natural. To beg, to grovel at her mercy. This is comfortable, as much as this situation can be.

It doesn't help that she blushes, that she glances down and worries her lip, ever so slightly, with her teeth.

“P-please. Please, I'm not ready. Not… like this. I've dreamed of this, of meeting you, finally. And now the moment is here, so suddenly, I… I just can't. Not yet.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, and that's even worse somehow than her fright, but he must maintain the fraying strands of his composure. He cannot let her down.

“Come back, tomorrow, I'll be ready then. I promise.”

It is a lie, of course, he will never be truly ready. How does one prepare for a miracle?

Her face does lighten, though, and she nods, and he takes that as his chance to flee. Back to his main attic unit, to his safe place.

Tomorrow. He… he can at least practice something. Something beautiful, something true (but not too true) in his sudden new effort to… woo his love. Such a fascinating and impossible idea. To even consider that- his fantasies, his hopes, his wildest imaginings- they could happen. Not that they would, certainly, but that, by some shift in reality, there technically now existed a non-zero chance that he could earn, somehow, the slightest crumb of affection.

He has such work to do.

Chapter Text

It is the same bedroom vent, the following evening, that he feels the pull to. Such an interesting sensation, and utterly bewitching - being physically and nearly emotionally drawn to the place where his beloved waits for him, a solid, rope-like tug to her, a manifestation of her desire for him. To converse with him, to continue where he had rather shamefully left things the previous evening. He will never, he hopes, get used to this gentle pull, though he fears one day it may be too much and cause him to weep at the emotions it stirs.

Still, he is glad to know that, in the event he is somehow busy elsewhere (a ridiculous notion but alas a realistic one), he will know precisely at the moment the location of his objet d’affections. He will not ever miss her when she wishes to “see” him. And he hopes seeing only the barest parts of him will suffice, for now. Perhaps forever. As it stands, the attic is locked tightly, so there is no true worry that she will see more than he allows, but… if she asks, earnestly, he wonders what he will do.

He brings his picture - the one edited to where he can stand to look at it - just in case she wishes it. He hopes she does not. He can deny her nothing, and would not wish to live in a world where he must disappoint her for his own comfort - even knowing the disappointment would not, per se, be with him. She is far too kind for that.

He slips his hands through the bars of the grate, makes direct eye contact, and oh - what a sensation, a spark, he is certain that he feels something physical as her eyes meet his through grate and lenses. She blinks - perhaps she feels it too. He can hope, can dream, privately.

“Hello,” she says, soft, tender. He had not, when she had directed her words at him before, truly taken the moment to appreciate the way her voice felt on the air when addressing him. The way her sweet timbre resonated through the vent, the way it seemed to caress him, like a spirit, meant just for himself. A wonder, a delight. She is speaking to him, to him.

“What do you think?” His hands curl delicately over the mouth of the grate, gesturing slightly to their separated set up.

“I would love to see you, but this is fine.”

She is so wonderful. So accommodating. 

“I could… show you a picture, if you wish?” He taps at the wall just beneath him, searching her expression for any hints at her emotional state, her true desires. How beautiful, to have such closeness to her.

“It’s okay. The anticipation is nice,” she says.

He feels dizzy and warm. She is smiling. At him. Not a wide, toothy grin, but a demure upturning of her lip corners, something sweet, and real , and his.

“Yes. Anticipation, of course…” and perhaps it is, perhaps there is a future wherein he shows himself. He cannot yet envision it, not as he currently is, but he’ll let it linger in the air, such a lovely word.

“Hello,” he says, finally responding in kind to her initial greeting. He adjusts his voice, projecting the confidence and masculinity he has been practicing since he could remember. To be able to perform it for her, oh it is a dream.

“My name is Hector Valentino Airnesto Condicionado. At your service.”

He spreads his hands, a welcoming gesture, unnecessary but he needs to do something with them. 

“Ventilation, airflow, sometimes known, colloquially, as ‘HVAC.’”

He has gotten through the roughest spot, and her smile only widens, just a touch, enough of course for him to notice. Is she amused? Is she delighted? The possibilities are beautiful.

“It’s nice to meet you, properly, Hector. It’s good to… hear you, I suppose.”

She rolls the ‘r’ in his name, a kitten purr, and he will never hear it the same way again. 

“ Yes! To hear me.” 

He is so glad she is picking it all up so quickly.

“I would wish you to understand, and if not understand then at least believe me when I say that hearing me is the most pleasurable way to meet for both of us.”

He had worked on this particular phrasing for hours the evening before, trying delicately to balance presumptuousness and his own introversion, a tightrope of niceties that he thinks he walks successfully.

 “Seeing me,” he continues, “ well… it’s not a compliment to me… and it would be a disappointment for you.” 

She looks as though she is about to protest but he continues, quickly so he does not overheat by stopping to consider the possibility that the outcome would not be terrible and tragic. He cannot dwell on such fantasies when she is here before him, and he has so much, at last, to say to her.

“My greatest wish is to give you pleasure.”

She flushes, ever so delicately, red dusting her cheeks in the most beautiful carmine he has ever beheld. Good. That is the intended effect of this particular inflection.

“Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself,” he says, as though he has revealed some great secret on accident. As though every word has not been carefully crafted to worship her as she deserves, to summarize his great and eternal love.

“Tell me,” he says, and to instruct her brings a new headiness he has never before known, “ How much do you think about me?

“Now, yes, I do understand that our meeting in this way is so very new. For both of us. I truly never expected to be able to speak to you this way, face to fa-... grate.” Another carefully orchestrated slip-up, to endear himself to her, to present a front that is as nonthreatening as he possibly can. The image of a man in the walls may, in fact, be a frightening one, and that is the absolute least of his intentions. He needs her to understand this.

“I have always accustomed myself to the seemingly unavoidable reality that you would always be human, and I would just be… this. But even as this , I have dreamed. I have imagined. And I would know, please… how much do you think about me?”

It is entirely possible she will answer that she does not think of him at all. This, too, would be perfection. He has not cared for her only to gain her approval, only to be noticed. He does it simply because she is the physical manifestation of love and beauty in this world, and he her eager and obedient servant.

“Oh, all the time. I love the AC.”

“Ah! And do you, I have noticed! I so look forward to you coming home on those hot summer days- the look on your face when you feel that first blast of chilled air upon opening the door.”

It was the closest to rapture he would ever witness in her features, and most definitely the closest approximation to… gratification, that he would ever allow himself to consider upon her. He fantasized, certainly, but never would look in on her during such an intimate moment. If he saw her hand sneaking to the bedside table, he left, immediately. To watch her in such a moment, even to hear her, would be too much. He could not do it.

She is nodding, smile brighter, though the reddish tinge is still delicately staining her cheeks, and it is a vision he will keep within his heart until he is old and infirm.

“Oh, yes. As soon as I cool down I feel so much better about life.”

“Yes!  And when it is cold outside, and you walk in and you can slowly warm up and remove your coat, your hat… you can begin to get comfortable and relax into the evening ahead of you.”

He loves her relaxed, cozy, content.

“I do love to relax, don’t you?”

“O-oh, no, no. I don’t relax for myself, I-... I can’t. But for you… oh there is almost nothing I wouldn’t do to help you. To watch the play of warm and cool across your skin…”

He needs to focus.

“Ah, I mustn’t get ahead of myself. I just… never thought I would get to say this, to say it to you .”

He takes a breath, allowing himself to refocus, to gather himself. He had practiced.

“Let me explain. You are the prime feature of my thoughts. Whatever power courses through me, I turn to your pleasure.”

He loves the way she pinks when he says “your pleasure.” A delightful trait he will, most certainly, exploit further in the future. In his dreams. In all ways.

“Whatever warmth or coolness I possess, I direct in full to your comfort. I wanted to meet you here, through the grates, this evening, because I wanted you to hear my voice. I want you to hear the melodies and resonance I create through my ducts, and know that it is all and only another gift it honors me to offer you. I watch the play of air over your skin, and I feel deep joy that I have this air to give you. I adjust my own temperature and my intensity until I see the flush of contentment spread across your face, and then, then, I rest in contentment of my own.”

Oh, this is nearly too much, he has gone off his script, but it is not a word of untruth. He only hopes that he can reel it back in at the end, that he has not already played his cards too early, that she is not frightened by his passionate intensities.

“I never thought I’d be able to say this, and in a way you could truly understand. And now, I have… My god, now I have…”

She’s fully pink, nearly red, and her mouth parts ever just so, and he wonders if the words she is surely about to utter are condemnation, perhaps a polite retreat, or… something else, entirely unexpected, unprecedented. Does she like this? Does she wish for more?

“Hector, I… oh. This is… very hot,” she confesses, and it confuses him.

“Hot? No, I would say I’m set to more of a temperate zone right-”

Oh. There is no way on this earth, but-

He can roll with this. Can continue this little play.

“Oh. I see. Hot. I think… perhaps I’ve heard this word used this way. Do you mean to say you find this… sexy?”

He may actually combust.

She nods, bringing her hands to cover her perfect, sheepish expression. He is so grateful she cannot see what his own is doing.

“I… I see. I- In all the dreams I’d held of how this moment may unfold, I… never imagined you might… I mean, the very notion that you could be attracted to me, too, was surely the most fantastical.”

This is a sort of lie. He had not actually even dared dream that much. 

“I… does this mean you would like me to share more? As I share this with you I can feel more and more air moving through me,” he narrates, eyes closed as he takes in this sudden, newish feeling.

“It’s as though there is a storm brewing, a cyclone beginning. I have never felt it before, this- this build of energy.”

She is red, and if he could blush so would he be. Her hands tent in front of her face, but the expression in her eyes is not one of fear or disgust. No, she-

She likes this, but is too shy to admit it, it seems - not that he would ever dare presume anything about his goddess. That’s simply what he reads in her face.

He must save her, though, or torment her further, so sweetly, so lovingly.

“I sometimes wonder about how I knew it was you. What was the moment, what was the sensation that told me… you were… IT. I can only ask this of myself, of course, but… I realize that it was how I felt around you - when you push my buttons, when you move my temperature up or down, however slightly, however infrequently… I exist only in service to you. Everything about me only is because you will it. Because you direct it. Do you understand this?”

She considers, hands moving from her face that he might better understand her - a polite motion he falls in love with as well - and seems to formulate her thoughts carefully, a trait they may, perhaps, share. Something that, on her, is beautiful.

“I… don’t know that I like the idea of controlling you,” she says, at last, so sweetly he might weep.

“Fear not, my darling, I do not mean this cruelly, nor that you are a slave master. Not at all. I… you must know, please, understand, what that does to me - does for me. How it relaxes me. How it delights me. And to know that I’m giving you precisely the thing you want at that moment- oh, it fulfills me. It makes me whole.”

To confess as much is dangerous, of course, but she gives him courage in dilated eyes and parted lips.

“Then -  fear not my dearest - when I have fulfilled your command, your desire... Then I am the one with the power, the one in control. You ask for chill, and I watch the goosebumps play over your skin as you pull the blanket up under your chin. You ask for warmth, and I can almost feel you basking as the tensions of the moments that came before just melt away… Sometimes, I even take it upon myself to shift my temperature and intensity, on my own…”

She gasps softly, and nearly pouts.

“You tease…”

It’s said with another magnificent smile, a sly one, nearly, and it is beautiful as ever she’s been.

“I know,” he concedes, and even he can hear the smile in his voice, through his “sexy” affect, “it might not be… strictly in my purview to do this. But… sometimes I cannot resist playing your sensation, just a bit. I am a craftsman, and you… are my clay.”

He allows it to settle before asking, softer, “Is this alright?”

To hear her request he stop this little game of theirs, his teasing of temperatures, would be fine, of course. To hear her say that she does not mind it, perhaps even enjoys it? Ecstasy.

“It’s very alright, now I know it’s intentional. I… I had no idea you loved me like this,” she says, voice crescendoing into a sort of gasp, a shock.

“How could you have? Until now, I haven’t even had the courage - much less the means - necessary to even show my face. I-in a manner of speaking, of course.”

He knows it’s a lot. It’s too much. Should he flee? Should he bow gracefully out of finishing this thought to its inevitable tragic conclusion?

“I love that you’re brave enough now.”

Oh. Oh dear. He had not planned for such strong words, and he nearly falls through the grate in shock.

“You… love it? D-Does that mean that you also…love…-”

No, no, he must practice restraint. Must not allow his moment to end in crashing and burning. 

“No, no, I dare not ask. And do not answer, please. Let us enjoy where we are. Here. Now. Let me care for you?”

Another nod, red and wondrous, and she’s holding her hands in front of her in just the most adorable way.

“Wonderful. I… I need you. I need to care for you. It is the reason for my existence, you see… And now, I have truly said far too much. Or… Or I have said enough.”

He folds his hands into a heart shape, tilting his head and gazing at her delightful expression.

“Either way, I must ask of you a boon, my dear one: say nothing. Take this knowledge with you, and promise me you will ponder it. That you will ponder… me.”

“I promise,” she says, so suddenly it’s nearly startling, but no less earnest than if she had pondered a day. “You… you haven’t said too much, you know.”

It is a symphony, her words. Her acceptance, quiet and delightful. 

“Thank you, then. And perhaps on our next meeting I shall say more. Rest well, dearest, and think of me.”

“Good night, Hector.”

She nods towards him, and ducks her head, the connection between them severing. He expected it to hurt, like a rubber band snapping at the skin, leaving a welt. It isn’t, more like the tide receding. Peaceful.

He watches her a moment longer, and retreats back to his domicile, allowing her space and time to ponder, as she promised. He does warm the home, of course, to a cozy blanket level, to encourage pleasant visitations of the conversation. He does not know when next they’ll converse, or if they will, and that is fine. He has said what was most important, implied the rest so carefully. The ball, as a sports sort of person might say, is in her court now. He likes it better that way.

Chapter Text

It is not a surprise when his exquisite beloved does not meet with him the next evening. Indeed it will not hurt his feelings (too badly) if she chooses not to engage with him for a great amount of time, if ever again. He spoke too honestly, was too quick to reveal his heart (at least the parts fit for her consumption), and it only makes sense that she needs time, and space, to ponder. She also, if he understands the situation correctly, has a mission to meet and manage the entire house full of objects. It is a massive task, though he knows that if anyone can do it, she can.

It is amusing, then, to spend his days observing her interactions with the others. It does nothing to quell his great and terrible love for her, much the opposite, in fact. It inspires him. 

He watches her tour the restaurants of the home with Mitchel, the food critic (who is, incidentally, also the food), and while she initially struggles to adapt to the brain-frying debacle that is the meta nature of such a thing, she is charming, effusive in her praise of each location, and polite when wishing all a good day. She insists that she knows what she is talking about, but never in a way to suggest vanity (though even if it were - she would be well within her rights to be vain). She demands respect, without saying as much of course, but he notices she only seems to do so in the service of others - to defend artistic choices, to bolster confidence, to overrule an unnecessarily harsh opinion she disagrees with.  Perhaps, in time, she might come to defend herself in such ways. He is happy to practice with her, should she desire it. For now, he watches.

He is there when she engages with Harper and Dirk, and he sees her mind and heart race at the sheer volume and intensity of the messy pair. Sees her eyes widen and her form begin to crumple in a defensive posture. In a moment he readies an arctic-cold blast of air to try and dissipate the tension in a very literal way, but she visibly steels herself, cutting in and explaining, firmly but gently, that this is absolutely not an appropriate way to speak to anyone, much less someone you love. She takes them each aside, trying to understand their sides of things, visibly pained when learning that she, tragically, is to blame for the loss of Harper’s previous love. He doesn’t think the fault lies entirely with her, but he remains quiet.

He silently observes as she listens to them with compassion, even when their arguments are… weak. He must agree that the way they fight is… cruel, to each other. He has seen the transformation from Dirk to Clarence, the way that he ignores the woman who claims to love him, and he claims to love in return. The way, then, that Harper screams and rages and blindly accuses (which only spurs on Dirk later). He knows they must be hurting, must be deeply wounded by something going on in their world that he’s sure he knows nothing about, but…

He would never speak to his beloved the way they speak to each other. He would never raise his voice as they do. If something he did caused the same alarm in her face, the same frightened crumpling? It would be instant contrition, begging forgiveness. He would not be able to bear her fear. Not of him . Not when she is all and everything to him.

She leaves the couple to think on her words, and in her exhausted posture he can clearly read that she is giving this space just as much for her own wellbeing. Good, it would not do for her to put excess strain on herself. She can try again the next day, hopefully when the pair have thought on her words. She was and is magnificent. They would be fools not to realize such, to heed her words.

She pauses in her bedroom, and glances up towards his vent. If she wishes to speak, how wonderful. If she wishes to sleep, he can cradle her in a gentle warmth, his own way of saying how he feels.

She smiles - a tender, beautiful thing - and tilts her head, blinking and activating the “dateviators” as they’re called, sending an electric shiver up his system. His beloved has chosen to end her evening with him, and he is beyond honoured for the privilege.

“Good evening, Hector,” she murmurs, and he had somehow forgotten the magnitude of how beautiful his name on her lips sounds. 

He starts a delicate warming cycle, air just strong enough to caress, to flutter the baby hairs around her perfect face.

“Would it frighten you,” he asks, words a whisper just above the singing of the warm breeze he creates, for her, “if I were to address you as ‘my love?’”

Her blush is, as ever, radiant, and he worries for a moment that this is a step too far. At least until she shakes her head.

“No, it would not. It’s sweet.”

Her consent is sweeter by far.

“Then… good evening, my love .”

She shivers, and he directs warmth around her - an ethereal sort of hug, perhaps, and she hums, her eyes fluttering closed.

“That’s wonderful, thank you.”

“Your comfort is my greatest honour,” he answers back, proud of how quickly he comes up with it, regardless of its truth.

Then, quiet. The sounds of breathing, her sighs his symphony. This is wonderful, simply… existing, together. He gets the distinct impression that she, too, is enjoying this moment of nothing. What bliss.

“Did you have anything you wished to ask of me, my love? To address?”

He folds his hands before him, through the grate, prim, proper, and perhaps a little cheeky - he’s copying her posture when she’s trying to be polite. It’s an adorable pose on her, his professional little love (though… perhaps not so little? He has no sense for these things).

“Not particularly. Though I can think of something. One moment…”

Her eyes flutter closed, she hums, and her expression is utterly unguarded, missing the polite customer service smile she has perfected, missing the slight crease in her brow and the scrunch of her nose when she’s concerned. It’s stunning , and humbling, to know he can elicit such ease from her.

“Take all the time you like. I will be here. Always. I am, as ever, a servant to your pleasure. ”

Again, the phrase turns her cheeks pink, and, he notices for the first time, the very tips of her ears. Oh, he will need to remember this, write it down, for later.

Her eyes open again, and her smile softens into something warm and nearly playful. Another expression to add to his list of her most beautiful. 

“Tell me something about you that has nothing to do with me or your… job, I suppose. A favourite colour, or if you enjoy reading, anything like that.”

A softball “getting-to-know-you” type question, then, though he doesn’t dislike it. It is… strange, really, to have his object of worship curious about him, and sets his heart fluttering in a fascinating way.

“All that I am is in service to you, my love. I am… nothing at all, really, stripping those two facets away. But… I will try to answer.”
He searches his mind for an acceptable answer. His favourite colour? Whatever she is wearing at the time, whatever dye she has in her hair. The brown in her eyes, the black of her eyelashes, the exact ripened-peach shade of her blushing at his adoration. Does he enjoy reading? Tangentially, copies of whatever she devours, his beloved little bookworm. Does he have a hobby? Imagining their life together, if he weren’t what he is. Sitting across from her at night and-

Oh, there might be something there.

“I enjoy movies. Listening to them.”

She brightens, and that has to be the right answer.

“Any in particular?”

“ The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari; at least, the music. The way it makes you lean forward in your seat on the couch no matter how many times it’s been played before. A-and the one… the Phantom of the Opera. ”

It is, of course, a tragedy, given how deeply he relates to the titular character, a man who hides himself away, deeply fearful for how his love will perceive him, but it is beautiful, too. And it makes her cry, and he can, in those moments, imagine that she weeps for him - that each diamond trailing down her jaw is for his eyes alone, his love. He likes to imagine himself there, wiping them away with his thumb, or kissing them from her eyes, and pulling her close.

This seems to surprise her, lips parting and eyes widening, and these turn into a grin - an actual grin. 

“I knew you were a romantic, given… everything, really, about you, but… that’s interesting. And beautiful.”

Beautiful - she thinks any facet of him is beautiful.  

Oh, this emboldens him far more than he ought to be bold. Gives him a heady, punch-drunk sort of courage, and before he can stop himself, he’s singing, just a little, just loud enough to be heard.

“Floating, falling, sweet intoxication - touch me, trust me , savour each sensation…”

The way her face goes red, her skin pebbles, and her eyes dilate does something frankly criminal to him.  He has never felt this sensation, heady and sweltering and-  and-

Oh. This must be what she meant by hot .

“I should go,” he whispers, “before… I do something rash. Dream sweetly, my love.”

He’s retreating before she can stop him, to his attic unit, to desperately try and cool himself down before he overheats, before his fantasies become too vivid, before he does something they would both regret. He won’t peek into her room tonight, he can’t. Not when she looked at him like that. Not when he nearly yanked her bodily off the floor to press their mouths together, or something equally foolhardy. 

He hopes her dreams are pleasant. Selfishly, he dares to hope they’re of him.

Chapter Text

“We need you to tell us what to do, because we keep talking in circles and going nowhere.” Dirk sounds as desperate as Harper looks, and as harried as his beloved goddess on a particularly stressful day. It seems, after several days of back and forth, the only thing the couple have agreed on is that they disagree on everything, and have decided to absolve themselves of responsibility in favour of being guided to a solution.

A pickle, to be sure. His beloved is most certainly up to this challenge, though, as any other. She takes a breath, folding her hands neatly in front of her, rolling her head and straightening her shoulders. She appears about to go into some kind of battle, eyebrow twitching ever so slightly as the pair begin to get into it once again, for reasons he could not possibly comprehend.

“This isn’t healthy,” she says, voice low and gentle enough that Dirk and Harper have to stop bickering to hear her. They stop all movement and face her, guilty expressions flashing across both faces.

“I think you should talk to someone, both of you, independently. And… you should separate. At least for now. You… you should be with someone who makes you happy. Who brings you joy at the end of a long day. Someone who makes your heart sing.”

He must be imagining things, because he swears she glances up to where he’s perched in his vent, just a moment, the ghost of a smile dancing across her features. Perhaps he has only wished it so, for she remains speaking to them. 

“I don’t know of any… object therapists, per se, but I think I might know how to find them, and we can get you set up with appointments. If you feel unsure or unsafe, I can sit with you, and hold your hands through the process, a session or two. I’ve been there, and I will be there for you, if you need me.”

Her words are delicate as gossamer threads, showing a level of care and concern that is moving to behold, and he sees the way it seems to get through to the pair. Dirk leaves, and Harper… well, she’s very Harper. All the while, he simply stares, in awe, in wonder, in love.

It should, perhaps, be concerning that the singular object of his passions is offering to hold hands with anyone, but… well, that’s just who she is. She cares. She loves, deeply, unashamedly. Loves in many ways - familial, platonic, and, if he’s extraordinarily lucky and miracles can happen to things like him… perhaps even romantically. As it is, she knows his own feelings, at least at a surface level, and knows he is there, always, should she need him. And he certainly doesn’t feel threatened by either of these two. Not with the way she’s rubbing her forehead as she walks away.

She walks into the kitchen, and unfortunately, he cannot see her. He can hear, if he strains to listen, but… no, this is her time, her space. If she needs him, she’ll call. He’s certain of it. He makes his way throughout the home, ensuring temperatures and air quality are optimal for each room, waiting for her to cross over in to the hall or living room. This has happened more and more, lately, her going places he cannot follow. 

Yesterday it was the utility closet in the office. The crawlspace beneath the house. Then-

She found the skeleton key to the attic. The door was unlocked and she looked around, briefly, and he could not stand to be in there, in case she was unsure of what his housing was - or, rather, who it was, and inadvertently summoned him. He was confident he would be able to hold himself together, in or behind the unit itself if such an accident were to happen, but it makes him nervous to think of.

Luckily, today she has stuck to the ground floor. And the kitchen.

It’s night by the time he sees her again, looking worn and nearly harried as she trudges into her bedroom. If he has to hazard a guess, she’s spent time with the microwave, or perhaps the air fryer… friar. He’s heard rumours (actual, verifiable rumours, not just whatever the hell the Scandalabra deals in). The kitchen is a… rowdy place, full of large personalities. It certainly isn’t the kind of place he would generally spend time in, so it is perhaps for the best he cannot access it from his system.

He admires her form as she crosses to her closet, to her bathroom (he rarely ever follows her there), and back again, dressed more comfortably in her sleepwear. She is stunning, always. Beauty and grace and wonder. She looks up at him, and smiles softly, even despite the weariness in her eyes. It has been three nights since that rather embarrassing moment where he had abandoned her in her bedroom. She hasn’t seemed upset or anything of the like, which is a great relief. Indeed, she has been glancing at him just as she is merely going about her day… and even smiled a few times, which makes him heat up in the most unusual way. To think even now, like this, his devotion could develop new depths. Fascinating.

He feels the tingling, shimmering sensation that suggests she can now see him , properly, that they might converse. For some reason, he feels a strange sort of melancholy about it. Perhaps because he sees how many of the people - especially the very handsome men - in the house look at her. He cannot blame them, no more than he could blame a fire for burning or a spider for spinning its web. Her beauty is plain to see, of course, but also her kindness, her spark, her intelligence and cleverness. Her sense of humor - not so visible at first, but there and bright and lovely. Indeed, she is perfection, and any individual, so inclined, would have to be a colossal idiot not to glance her way.

He can understand it. He doesn’t have to like it.

“...You keep coming back,” he whispers, glancing at her through the grate. “It’s something of a surprise to me. I’ve wanted you for so long- even just to speak to you, and now I have it… Somehow, it feels wrong. Like I’m going to lose it. Surely if you’re lucky enough to get the thing you’ve always wanted, you cannot be lucky enough to keep it.”

She doesn’t speak right away, rush in with some pithy insistence that she would never do such a thing, and her thoughtfulness is, in its way, much more reassuring than that would be. It makes him feel… heard. Understood. Worthy of her taking the time to formulate a proper response, and not just a hollow version of whatever she thinks he wants to hear.

“...Why would you lose it, Hector? I’m enjoying our time together.”

It’s a beautiful thought, a wonderful notion.

“I would lose it if you left.”

It’s a silly bit of wordplay, perhaps, but earnest.

“Why would I leave?”

“Oh, surely you would if you knew . If you knew what I really was, you would leave and you’d be right to - which is why you must never know, you must never see that. And I… will content myself with this halfway openness.”

He isn’t entirely sure where this is coming from, but it feels important that she knows this. Knows that, in this life, things must stay a certain way. That it’s for the best they remain as they are, conversing through grate bars, through macho affectations and hand gestures. 

He hopes she sees that he is freeing her. That if she wants more, if she needs more, that it cannot be with something like him. Selfishly, he hopes that she will insist this is enough. That she will be likewise happy with their station. Perhaps, someday, if he can think of it without wanting to die immediately, they could find a way for more. She could, maybe, close her eyes and press her lips to the grate, that they might kiss, as other couples do. Or they could simply hold hands, and be content with the shallow warmth passed from her living flesh to his… not so living flesh.

He hopes, though, for her sake much more than his own, that she won’t settle. That if she has even the slightest inkling that she deserves more (and of course she does, obviously), that she lets him down gently, here.

She frowns, at this. Though at least it doesn’t seem an upset sort of frown, more a thoughtful one. She’s thinking on his words, carefully turning them over, and it seems maybe she doesn’t like what she’s hearing. This is fine, this is for the best.

“Where is this coming from, Hector? I’m not sure I’m understanding what part of you is so horrible that we’re having this talk.”

Of course she doesn’t. She is too good. Too loving.

“I’m afraid of what you might think if you saw me.”

Yes, it’s vain. But it’s true and truth, in feeling and reality.

“I… If I saw you? You mean your… housing? The HVAC unit in the attic?”

It feels like some kind of investigation, and he doesn’t know if he should feel delighted by her intelligence and thoroughness, or mortified by her ruthlessly efficient dressing down of his mysterious air. He knows the attic is open, unlocked by that dangerous little key, and he cannot have her investigate further.

“Yes. The real me is in the attic.”

He should have lied. It would be kinder to the both of them.

But he cannot lie to her. Not truly. Omission, little white lies, those are different, in some small way. This is too large.

That same pondering frown makes an encore appearance. He has to derail whatever train of thought is swiftly disembarking its station.

“B-but we have something here,” he continues, voice nearly faltering.

“We could have something real.”

Ha. He can taste the hypocrisy of it.

New tactic, before she can interrupt him - 

“It would break my heart to think that all that could be lost in a single moment of laughing , or pointing , or even a disappointed cast to those beautiful brown eyes of yours. No, I couldn’t bear it. And I won’t . Come back to me here. Only here , do you understand?”

It comes out gruffer than he intended, harsh, nearly controlling and he hates that it must be this way, that he must become stern or even angry to communicate this. Hates even more that he is knowingly manipulating her kindness in suggesting that he would be so grievously wounded by her mere curiosity but it’s all he can think to do, to halt her protestations. To-

A sniffle. A swallow.

…He’s hurt her feelings. 

Oh shit. 

Oh hell. 

Her lower lip is- and she’s blinking-

No! No, it wasn’t supposed to come out that way, some kind of judgement against her, he would- no, never- but-

It might keep her away . Her anger and sorrow are better by far than her scorn.

It’s… best this way.

“I’m going now,” he says, conjuring back that same quasi-gruff tone, trying to hold himself together, to not immediately cave and beg her forgiveness for speaking this way.

“And where I go… is only for me.”

He leaves, again, swiftly, but not before he can hear her whimper.

It will haunt him.

Chapter Text

She has not spoken to him in two weeks.

He deserves this.

He feels… empty. Listless, even. His fear has… he…

She wept. The exact reasons don't matter, not really. It was and is his fault, completely and utterly. His fear. His shame, his complex web of self-loathing and self-aggrandizing. 

He is incredible , yes, and a magnificent structure, vital to the survival of the house, singularly gifted in many ways. 

He is monstrous , yes, in possession of a form that is unpleasant at best, that in no way matches himself. It is… wrong, in a manner of speaking. It is unfit to behold. He knows this. 

He knows, truly, in his innermost depths, that she would not like his body. She might say she does. She might even want to believe it. But he has seen beauty, in every configuration the house can offer. Lux is beautiful. Keyes is beautiful. Celia is beautiful. Washford and Drysdale are beautiful. Koa is beautiful. Volt-

Well, Volt is an impossible dream of a creature, an outlier that perhaps should not be counted. Beautiful, incredibly so.

Hector… is not.

And his beloved deserves beauty. She deserves a form that is as pleasing as it is functional. Pleasing to look at, at least - he is confident he could please her in other ways, certainly, was positive that he could bring her great pleasure, in fact. He had dreamed and written such things that- well. No matter.

It has been two weeks.

He has tried to give her space. To not hover or stare. Not note every coming and going, breathe her in like air to a dying man. He has, in the spaces between heartbeats, vacillated wildly between extremes: horror at himself, an assurance this is for the best and anyone who would hurt his love so deserves nothing less than the harshest exile… and a deep and all-consuming urge to find a way to make her talk to him, to throw himself at her feet, begging, pleading for her forgiveness. To bow before her would only be a natural position, of course, and he thinks perhaps he might minimize the unpleasantness of his countenance with a proper sort of curled-in groveling. But so too would simply accepting that if she cannot see him nor converse with him, then he cannot hurt her further.

…in either case, he finds he misses her. Deeply. More than he had ever thought possible, worse at an immeasurable scale now that he knows, just a little, what having her feels like. Self-fulfilling prophecies are the cruelest. He vocalized a fear that he would lose her. He has lost her.

When he does overcome his pity-partying for long enough to do cursory sweeps for his dearest beloved, he notices she spends more time in the places he has a harder time accessing. The kitchen and dining room, specifically. The laundry room as well, of late. 

She seems to deeply enjoy the Dipodgenes, playing many long games with them, or telling them stories of adventure and bravery. She weeps for them, as well. Tears of sorrow mixed with the oddest sort of pride. They sacrifice themselves for her, and become upset on the occasions she begs them not to. He understands, intimately. 

To die for her? What could be a greater, more beautiful or perfect end? A life of service capped off by giving the final breath in his body to her, serving her until his last, fleeting moment, would be such exquisite bliss. Surely it would mean redemption, as well. Perhaps she will think fondly of him, should such a day come. Until then, he is, of course, dedicated solely to her comfort. Whether she forgives him or not, whether she speaks to him ever again, he is hers. Eternally. Hopelessly devoted, unwaveringly dedicated. To her.

Another night, solitary, sitting in the attic and sending a soothing warmth through the home, wondering if she understands the depths of his feelings, his great love and terrible sorrow. Thinking of… courage. Of “doing it scared” as she would say, with such a warm, tender smile it would be impossible not to believe her when she said you could do or be anything. Maybe he can be… brave. If she ever speaks to him again.

There's a bit of commotion, and it sounds like… the fridge? Freddy? But- darker. Deeper. Loud. The man's positively screaming, harsh enough that even without the vents Hector could probably hear him here in the attic. And vile things. Things he could never imagine saying to anyone , much less-

The last place he glimpsed his love was heading into-

Oh no. That absolute monster .

Before he can rush to find her, there's pounding footsteps, the sound of socks slipping on the hardwood, a crash and scramble back up and before he can move, the attic door is flung open and shut and his beloved is clinging to the AC unit and shaking, so hard she looks nearly like she's freezing - maybe she is , but-

She's here and-

She tucks her head into her knees and sobs, like the world itself is ending around her, and still she's shivering and he can't-

He can't do anything but send a soft blast of warmth from his box, trying to surround her, the closest approximation of a hug that he can manage like this.

“I'm so sorry Hector, I know- I won't look, I promise just- I-”

He feels the tug, the fizzing tingling sensation, and he's scooping her into his arms, tucking her tenderly against his body, pulling her to a corner where nothing can get to them, or even see them, unless he wills it.

He shushes her, softly, rocking with her. One arm cradles her against him, careful of his sharper edges, and the other covers her face, his fingers stroking through her hair - softer than it looks. He says nothing, at first. There's nothing to say. This isn't a moment for words, for grand declarations or sorrowful apologies, but for a tactile reassurance that she is safe . 

He doesn't know if, physically, he is capable of weeping. But he would, for her. For this precious handful of seconds he gets to be her shield from the horrors of the world. She was frightened, driven to a state of sheer blind panic, and rather than making for the comfort of her bedroom… she came here . She came to him , a man that made her cry weeks earlier. He is, by some cruel and wonderful miracle, her safe place. The one that she aims for, apparently, in a situation where she must react without thought, when fight-or-flight kicks in. She is here . With him . Despite everything.

He is unfathomably grateful for the honour.

“Shh… you're safe, mi amor,” he purrs into her hair, just enough to feel, maybe to hear. The endearment is automatic and adoring, and seems to elicit a soft noise of some flavor of embarrassed delight.

“Hector, I…” her voice is little more than a hoarse croak, and shaking, nearly as much as she herself still is. She is warm, yes, but… cold. Too cold.

He shushes her with lips to her perfect hair, adjusting his legs to better cradle her against him, a cocoon of steel and cool panels, curving as much as he can to allow her passage. 

“No, no, not tonight, cariño. If we must have a talk - and I would, very much, like to have a talk - we can do so later. Now… Now just let me have this. Let me serve you, as I've always wished to do. Let me warm you and care for you.”

He feels her nod carefully against his chest, and a great draft of comfortably warm air dances around them, bringing the temperature up.

He remains quiet, letting her cry, letting her shake, hands rubbing up and down her delicate skin to stimulate warmth internally as well.

“Did he hurt you?”

He doesn't know what he'll do, but it will be painful and devastating. Freddy's big, and bulky. But he is quick and cunning and has many, many more sharp edges. His body, hated as it is, is one very good thing: strong.

She shakes her head, and he hums softly, tucking her head beneath his chin.

“Do I need to dismantle him piece by piece anyway?”

“N-no.”

The tremor in her voice… he cannot quite tell if it is fear… or sheepishness bordering excitement.

She likes that he offered.

“I… I pushed him too far. I… I should have left him alone when he said he didn't need help.”

“That does not give him the right to raise his voice, to yell at you, or say any single one of the things he did. The man should be no less than dragged through the street for it. We should get some rocking horses,” he huffs, and it earns a watery giggle.

He noses at her hair affectionately, glad that she can still smile and laugh after it. She'll be okay. And he will certainly be keeping a better eye on her.

Another shiver, and he dares to press his lips to her forehead, gauging her temperature. Still cooler than he'd like. Freddy may not have hurt her, not intentionally, but whatever happened left her chilled.

“Let's get you into a bed, my love, and some warmer clothes. New socks.”

He feels her grip tighten on his collar - a sweet sensation he'll be thinking about long after - and she tenses.

“Shh, I'm not going to leave you. I'll even carry you. Just… don't look. Please.”

“I won't.”

“Good girl.”

That does something as well, a shiver of another sort entirely, and he files away that she enjoys being praised (though who doesn't?). 

He carefully stands, holding her delicately to his front, and she is much lighter than he imagined. There's a solidity and warmth to her, certainly, but she's feather-light in his arms. He thinks she may be taller than himself, as well, and how perfect that is, to know that, in some distant miraculous future, he too could be held and cradled. At least in dreams.

He carries her carefully to her bedroom, noting the place where, in her haste, she skidded on the shiny wooden floors and careened into the wall, knocking down a picture and leaving a small hole near the floor. He'll worry about it later - or have Celia do so, exacting payment from the Yeti in partial penance. Wallace is a big, strong fellow himself, though, and can handle himself a night. 

Hector delicately deposits his heart onto her bed, rummaging around for something warm but not too warm, settling on some jersey-knit bottoms and a short sleeve top, and some fuzzy socks.

“Here, clothes are on your left. I can step out until you're done, if you like.”

“N-no, I… if you want, you can, um, help…?”

She is shy, his love, and pink. As though she has the ridiculous notion that her form might be anything less than a vision of all that is good and beautiful in this world. 

“Are you sure? This is about you, your comfort.”

A nod, eyes still planted firmly shut.

He takes a moment to savour the sight of her, his love, his life. To give thanks to whatever higher powers have allowed a thing like him this chance, this gift, even, to continue to love and serve his muse. To profane with his unworthiest hands the tender shrine of her exquisite body.

He starts at the top, delicately working buttons off and pulling the shirt from her torso, letting it slide down her arms. She pulls one arm free, then tosses the shirt aside with the other. The undergarments beneath- a tight black tank top of some kind, and a delicate lace something beneath that, he wonders. 

“Would you like these to stay on?” His voice is delicate, and he tucks a strand of her short curls back behind her ear.

She shrugs, and he works off the second layer, mouth running dry as he beholds the final. It's lovely, with an intricate lace pattern, and sturdy. Beneath this, she will be utterly bare. Vulnerable. Beautiful. He, of course, would not dare stare too long, or change the particulars of this intimacy, would not go somewhere sexual with his adoration, but it is an overwhelming thought nonetheless.

“You're sure you want this off?”

He doesn't know, entirely, if the question is for her or himself.

“I trust you… is it too much? I can-”

“No, no, this is- well it's more than fine. More than my wildest dreaming, even, but again, this evening is yours. Not mine.”

“It's okay, Hector.”

He maneuvers behind her, working the delicate clasp off and allowing the garment to fall forward. He does not watch, rather unfolding and carefully pulling down the pajama top, letting it replace the undergarments.

Then it's her lower extremities. These are easier. He helps her stand long enough to exchange shorts for lounge pants, then settles her back down to replace her socks. 

He resists the sudden and alarming urge to literally kiss her feet. Not tonight. Instead, he guides the soft, fluffy ones on.

“There we are,” he murmurs, tossing the dirty clothes aside for now.

He rearranges the blankets, then her, and tucks her in. It's the sweetest intimacy, to care for her in this way.

He climbs carefully up behind her, above the sheets, securing an arm around her and pulling her gently to him. His fingers trace lazy circles along the skin of her arm, a tender softness he has never imagined.

“Get some sleep. I'll stay in here with you,” he murmurs, nuzzling his face into her hair with muted gusto. 

“Thank you, Hector. For everything, I-”

A kiss to her temple, the slightest nip of the shell of her ear.

“We can talk tomorrow. I… am sorry for how we left things - how I left things. You deserve better. Talk to me tomorrow.”

It's phrased as an order, but is unmistakably a begging wish. 

“I will,” she vows, and yawns, and it's the sweetest sound he's ever known.

“Sweet dreams, mi amor.”

She drifts off, skin much warmer now between the new clothes, the blankets, and the gentle heat he's directed to the room.

He stays. Holds her a while, until, as the dawn breaks, he retreats up to his grate to observe from a safe distance. Perhaps it's cowardly. Perhaps strategic. Whatever the case, his heart has never felt so full, so warm, so enraptured.

Chapter Text

Seeing his personal Venus wake up is a stunning reminder of why so many cultures worship the sunrise. She is a vision, each moment she spends stretching, her back arching with a feline grace, and her eyes flutter open like moths, the brown in her irises darker, somehow, and lightening to their natural chocolate hue as she comes back from wherever she's been in her dreams. 

His love tends to have two awakenings, so to speak. The first, during which she adjusts and usually switches her position, coming out from the deepest of her sleep, then fading back in just slightly, lasts a few minutes. A sort of pre-waking ritual that he finds adorable. Her second (perhaps “true") awakening comes later, sometimes moments, sometimes an hour or two. That one brings actual post-sleep clarity, and the motivation to leave her bed.

Currently, she's coming out into the first stage.

Her face is flushed, just a little, and she glances to where he had been beside her when sleep embraced her.

Perhaps he is imagining it but it almost looks like she's turning to look better, but that would be-

Oh. 

She is.

She buries her face in the pillow he had rested on and inhales, deeply, in a way that sends sparks skittering all throughout his system. While her not being fully awake would normally ease the situation in his mind, in this case… it is because she is so unfiltered and hazy that he's so affected. This is something… primal. Instinctive. She's back asleep quickly, and he tries to regain cogent thought and not spiral into madness at the thought of her sleep-addled mind seeking comfort in his scent (he wasn't even aware he had a scent, necessarily). 

He really hopes it means she'll forgive him.

She sleeps for another ten to fifteen minutes, and he starts a warm breeze going for when she feels ready to get up and face the day. As she sits up, her face is serene, possibly even happy. He would like to imagine he has at least some minor part in that… particularly given how taken with his pillow she was.

“Good morning, Hector,” she murmurs, stretching and standing, the shirt he put her in riding up ever just so, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the tender flesh beneath. It's a vision.

He hums and swirls a cool current around her to answer her, and her smile brightens noticeably. 

“Thank you. It's nice to talk to you. I… have some things I need to deal with today, but… I'd like to talk to you again tonight, if that works for you?”

Consulting his non-existent schedule, he finds that yes, absolutely that will work. He switches to a warm blast of air directed mostly at her face, a sort of… airy peck on the cheek. She giggles - a sound that is as beautiful and bright as anything he has ever heard - and nods.

“That's settled then… I'll talk with you tonight. Here.”

He switches to cool air, the click sounding his agreement.

He backs out of her room, allowing her privacy to change into dayclothes. Last night was special, he certainly wouldn't take the vision of her body as something he was now permanently entitled to. Indeed, he was still baffled that she deemed him worthy to touch or look at all as much as he had.

He waits until she's in the hall, and only then resumes his observation. He would stop if she asked, but… he's uneasy after last night. He could maybe have helped, then, or at least been there for her in the moment. Unfortunately, what's passed is past. He can do better, moving forward.

Her first stop is the laundry room, thankfully not engaging with Harper, but rather… oh, the washer and dryer?

He feels a deep pang of jealousy when he hears Drysdale, the cavalier and easy way he speaks with her.

“Washy, Washy! Look who it is! Oh, our lovely cherub has come back to us! Tell us, darling, are you quite alright after last night? We could hear that beastly shouting in here!”

The handsome man is in her space, and presses a kiss to her cheek that makes her giggle. His lover (for indeed, she had by some miracle managed to reconcile the pair) shakes his head with a smile no less fond, pulling her into a warm embrace.

“You're all right, dear one?”

Hector feels ill. Has she… are they…?

No, but, what reason would he even have to be jealous? She and himself aren't anything, not yet, not really, no matter how deeply he wishes and dreams. And for all their dramatics these two are… better, certainly, in the ways that count in a relationship. In touching and teasing and- and being visible.

He's about to leave and give them privacy when she huffs, shaking her head with a smile.

“I'm okay. I… I made it through the night okay, and I'm giving Freddy space..”

The Cheshire Cat grin on Drysdale's face gives him the heebie jeebies, and the man glances directly at him with a saucy little wink as Washford hugs his beloved homeowner. 

“Well, cheeky monkey, we're glad you had something - or someone - to help, though do let us know if you need anything. Any advice, any date ideas… sex tips, my dear blushing virgin?”

Her face turns cherry red and Washford about throws the other man out the window, huffing about how he knows she's sensitive about this, and to not pay the idiotic dryer any mind and of course they're happy to help and would she like to retreat to some other more civilized room of the house and discuss literature?

Hector would be scarlet if he could blush. He does note, when his ears stop ringing, that the beautiful crimson shade goes all the way down her face, her neck, and below her shirt. He wonders just how far down-

But that's for another time, when he isn't replaying the fact that she is, if Drysdale is to be believed about it… similarly inexperienced in the sexual arena. It shouldn't make a difference to him. Really. He wouldn't care if she's slept with everything in the house (probably), but… it does, in its way… lessen his own anxieties. That she won't- or well, if they ever get to such a delightful point, wouldn't compare him to anyone before. That makes things… less frightening. That he won't disappoint his beloved in that way, that… that she too is nervous about it.

He misses the rest of the conversation, but she does leave them each with a hug, and then departs the laundry room.

He isn't sure how to feel about it. He's less concerned about them as romantic rivals, which means he can be tentative friends with Washford still (a shared love of wordplay and literature their tenuous bind). But… he feels, still, somehow inadequate compared to them. Even platonically, it's clear the trio is very close. She doesn't just hug anyone, and very few have given her cutesy pet names (he tries not to think about Volt and Eddie). Perhaps it's something to bring up with her, later. Or something to smother down deep and try to forget. Unclear.

She talks with someone in the kitchen then - Mitchel, by the sound of his voice, about Freddy. He himself thinks the man deserves to be melted down to scrap for screaming the way he did, frightening her so badly she was shaking for most of the night after. She is far kinder, his love, his light. He would not change her tender heart for all the world, even if it feels an inconvenience at times.

He watches her, quietly, as she goes over her day, talking to a few others and finally ending up with Wallace, apologizing profusely for her clumsiness the night before - he would argue “blind terror” is a decent excuse, but whatever - and the hulking man simply shakes his head, repeats the word “Wall” several times (she seems, oddly enough, to understand him), and pats her head affectionately.

At last, it's late, and she pads into the bedroom, fingers worrying the hem of her blouse in just the most adorable way. 

“I'm going to change and brush my teeth and all that, I'll be right in,” she says to the vent, and he can't hold back a smile. He happily adjusts the room temperature to a nice cozy warmth, hoping that by keeping the room a comfortable temperature, it soothes the both of them and they can have this talk. He holds his hands contently outside of the grate, taking stock of himself, rehearsing his words one last time.

She comes in, sitting on the bed, and he feels that beautiful little tingling that says she can see him now. He waves and makes a cute little heart with his fingers, and she laughs softly. 

Good. Best to start positively.

“Good evening, my love. I hope you're feeling better?”

“I am. Thank you, again, Hector. And I'm sorry I invaded your space like that. I just- I panicked, and you're… you make me feel safe,” she confesses, and may as well just kiss him on the mouth with how warm and fluttery it makes him. 

“I… forgive the intrusion. I'm far more grateful to have been able to serve you. To care for you, and be that safe space. Believe me when I say that in the moment I was far more concerned for your safety and wellbeing. And I… am grateful that you… hm. That you… respect my wishes, in that way.”

“Of course. You told me it frightened you to think of me being in your space. I don't take that lightly. And I won't go in there again, if you don't want me to. I like you, Hector. Very, very much. I like what we have, where we are. I just-”

She shakes her head, glancing down, and if he were a braver man, he'd climb down and use his fingers to tilt her face right back up.

As it is, he huffs softly.

“No, no, my love. I spoke to you cruelly. I've been replaying it over and over in my mind, and all I can feel is shame. I said things that hurt your feelings, manipulated your kindness, and then left without allowing you to speak your piece. That is on me. And I am so, so sorry I made you cry.”

She looks up, smiling softly, shaking her head.

“I forgive you.”

What music.

“Thank you. And… I, myself, have been thinking lately. About… how ashamed I am, to have been so frightened. That you had to see that side of me, the cowardice.”

She frowns, shaking her head. She walks up the wall and reaches for his hand, pausing a moment.

“May I?”

He isn't sure what she's asking for, but he'll deny her nothing, particularly when she's looking at him with such an affectionate sort of concern.

“Of course.”

He isn't expecting her to stand on her toes and grasp his hand, tenderly, warm, in her own.

Oh.

It's exquisite.

“Hector, you don't have anything to be ashamed of. I promise. It's okay to be afraid of things, especially when it's something so big and personal to you. I understand.”

“You are… exquisite, my love. Your compassion is one of my favourite features of yours.”

She blushes and looks down, and he squeezes her hand tenderly, letting her go before she pulls something in her legs standing on her tiptoes. 

“I definitely know how it feels to be… anxious. Afraid of the world outside.”

“Ah, yes! Exactly that! I… how did you fix it?”

It breaks his heart to think she should ever have felt anything like it, but… it brings her closer, too.

“I haven't figured that out yet. I just… keep moving. Doing it scared.”

“You've said that before. I like it. And I… have a great favour to ask of you. Will you help me?”

“Anything.”

The immediacy and earnestness make him feel all kinda of warm, fuzzy things.

“I… allow me to give you background here. I do not like what I am. Or, well, that isn't quite true. I love being what I am. A complex system of ducts and vents, bringing warmth or cold, bringing life itself, really, through the home of the person I love. Dedicating my life to her - to your - pleasure.”

And there goes her adorable little flush, her ear tips, her cheeks, and down, and- well, he mustn't get distracted now.

“But! For such miraculous functions, I deeply wish I looked more the part. Do you… understand my meaning?”

She nods, expression serious, listening, intent. Of course she knows, she is wise, clever, savvy. Empathetic, as well, and just… practically perfect in every way.

“You're deeply self-conscious about the way you look?”

“Precisely! Oh, I am both grateful and stunned by how quickly you grasp things. I do not think that the way I… look, is enough. I wish I were better. I wish I were more. Maybe just… maybe just I-i wish-”

His voice slips, he clears his throat to bring it back.

“I wish I were different.”

Her face falls, eyes full of something warm and sad and… really, quite lovely.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

The endearment floors him, catches him so completely off-guard that his spiraling halts entirely.

“Hold on, one second.”

She runs from the room, and he watches her go, puzzled, awed, infatuated completely. A moment later she's back, with a step-stool. He warms all over as she steps up on it, still not tall enough to peer into the vent, but enough to take his hand again without stretching up. It seems she means to keep hold of it for a while. He can scarcely believe how wonderful today has gone, or at least this moment.

“We all feel this, sometimes. I feel this way, often. I am so sorry you're going through that, but… for what it may be worth, I quite like you exactly as you are.”

It's the bolster he needs.

“Thank you, my love. Your kindness means the absolute world to me. Truly. I… I don't want to live with this fear, any more. I don't want it to consume me, to… to miss out on a life of joy. A life… with you. I-I mean, it's silly, but… I used to dream about… about watching movies, with you. On a couch, sitting together, and- mm. It's silly.”

“No, no, please. I want to hear more. Please. What does our night look like?”

“I, um. Y-you're nestled into my side. Or you're laid out across my lap, and… we're just… together. Content.”

She smiles, lacing their fingers together, sending sparks through his flesh, and it's hard to focus on much else besides the way they fit together so well, how warm her skin is, how natural this feels.

“That sounds very, very nice, actually. I'd like that,” she says, and… he believes her, against every self-doubting instinct. He believes her.

“I'm glad to hear that. I think that… I would like for you to see me. Tomorrow. I want you to come up to the attic. I want you to meet me, I want you to see me, and… we'll see if the fear can hold out when I've decided to be brave.”

Her eyes widen, but so does her smile, and her hand squeezes his, and also his heart. This is good. This is… great, even. 

“I would be honoured, Hector. I'm so glad you feel safe enough with me to try. How does tomorrow night sound?”

“It sounds perfect. I… thank you, my love. This means the world to me. I… want this. To be brave, for you. To in some way become the man you deserve.”

She leans up and places a kiss onto his knuckles, sending sparks through his system and causing him to blast warm air into the room, which in turn makes her giggle softly.

“I'll be there. Good night, Hector, I look forward to it.”

Mercifully, she turns away and severs the connection, allowing him time to re-collect himself, and to watch her slip into bed with a smile. He notices, as he observes, that she opts to sleep on the pillow he had rested on. It does something soft and mushy to him… and he loves it.

One more night, mi amor. Then we'll know for sure.

Chapter Text

He can barely contain his excitement or his anxiety. The object of his deepest desires, for years now, is going to see him. Tonight. She is going to see him.

He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse to know that this is coming, that he knows it’s coming tonight, opposed to this morning. Better, because he can prepare, knows approximately how long he has. Worse, because now he has to live with himself and his nerves for that long.

He cannot bear to watch her as she moves around the house, save for staying near when she’s in the kitchen. He cannot focus on making himself presentable, on… on preparing for what he’ll say. For any possible outcome. 

He knows, beyond a doubt, that she will not be cruel. That is at least remotely comforting. Now he must manage his plans for other possibilities. If she kindly lets him down, informs him that, unfortunately, she is repulsed by his horrible form (never in those words, of course, but he’ll know what is meant), he will not weep, he will not scream or lash out. He will leave, thanking her for her time. If she states that she could, perhaps, learn to appreciate him instead, then… well that’s really the best-case scenario. He will take that with glee and delight, and ask what aspects about himself he can attempt to change, for her. He will pay close attention to where her gaze darts when she answers, with that same gentle kindness, that he need not change anything. 

He tidies up his space a bit, as much as he can, and tries to manage his hair into something less resembling a bird’s nest and more like hair that a person may have on their head. It’s such a difficult texture to work with, and he’s jealous that Bodhi - a free-spirited sort - has curls that seem to fall just effortlessly. His heart’s hair is made of short, thick curls that frame her face so delightfully, but don’t kink and shrink like his, or he’d ask how she manages it. Maybe he should, anyways, give them something to… bond over? 

He wonders if she, too, is as anxious about their upcoming appointment. It feels a little like a date. Or perhaps he’s crazy and it is no such thing, but a friendly meeting, and she is simply being delightfully supportive. But… would she say such kind, wonderful things about someone who she thinks of only as a friend? Would she agree that cuddling on a couch sounds nice… with just a friend?

Oh dear, if he starts to pick this apart, he will fall to pieces as well. Best to simply try… meditating. Breathing in and out, focusing on what he can control, stabilizing the temperature of the home, trying to think positively. It helps, marginally. 

Then he journals. Or, well, kind of journals. He writes, this is true, of his feelings and desires, and wishes. Just… sometimes that writing is… more creative than nonfiction. He's quite proud of some of it, particularly a heady volume known (to him) as “Grate Expectations.” It's a riff on a Dickens novel and has absolutely nothing to do with London or Orphans, so is legally quite distinct. It does, however, provide a feast for the senses. He wonders, if this goes well - actually, even if this goes terribly - if his beloved would let him read a passage. He can already imagine the shades of red he has yet to discover on her, and to finally be the one on the giving side of their relationship, at least… emotionally, would be exquisite. He tables this thought, for now.

At least pondering on the written word has killed time. The sun is setting. He dares not look into the attic, not just yet, not until he feels her calling to him. 

Speak of a goddess and she shall appear (or, think of her, or… whatever).

“I have my eyes closed,” she announces, shutting the door with a soft click. “You tell me when to open them, take your time. If we don't work up to it tonight, that's okay too.”

She's being so considerate, so kind. So utterly herself and everything that he fell so deeply in love with. He could take this as an excuse to prolong this, to avoid showing himself to her. But… but he wants to be brave. He wants to believe her when she says she cares about him, all of him. 

He wants to do couple-y things with her, to hold her, to- to kiss her and whisper sweet nothings (not nothings to him of course) and watch her light up from up close. To be the big or little spoon, to pick her up and twirl her like some Regency lover. He wants to look into her eyes and say “I love you” against her lips. He wants… everything.

And that requires being brave. Right now.

His own eyes are shut tight. If her first initial reaction isn't positive, he decides he doesn't want or need to know. 

“You can look,” he whispers, voice warbling slightly. 

All his preparation, all his rehearsals, all his carefully thought-out scenarios don't prepare him for her soft gasp, and the tiniest little “oh wow.”

“W-wow? I- what, is wow… good? Bad? ‘Wow this man looks shockingly slightly below average?’ ‘Wow this is a monster?’ Wh-what-”

“Hector, you're beautiful.”

Oh… wow.

He feels himself nearly short-circuit, electricity rushing through his system and making the unit click ominously. He-

He had not prepared for positivity. For… for resounding approval. For beautiful .

His eyes snap open, and-

And-

He's never seen anything so lovely. The light peeking through the doorway surrounds his love like a heavenly glow, and is so uncannily appropriate he wonders if there are supernatural forces at play here. She's in a dress - above her knees, adorable, fits her perfectly in all the best places. He knows, by now, that she… well, she doesn't hate dresses shorter than her ankles, but they're a rarity. Only used on the most special occasions.

She's worn one for him. For him. She's done her face with a dusky lip color, meticulously done her hair. She's dressed up and gone through this effort for him .

“Oh, my love, you are a vision,” he gasps, and, realizing they're face to face - without barriers entirely - he reaches a hand out to tuck a curl behind her ear. Her face goes pink - or, pinker than it was before, and she leans her cheek into his hand.

“I have to admit, I was… well. I was bracing myself for a hideous, monstrous sort of… I don't know, goo creature. Or maybe swamp thing, or Toxie or something that would take a lot of getting used to. I wasn't preparing for… for you to be so handsome.”

“Hey, now, you said I was beautiful. I cannot be both beautiful and handsome.” He pouts, and it fades immediately because his joy is such that he simply cannot stop grinning.

“You can and are. And cute. And lovely. Guapo. Beau. A complete and total looker, and I am smitten and blabbering and I'll just-”

She puts her hands over her mouth, eyes roaming every part of him, her skin darkening, pupils wide.

He takes her in, eyes scanning her just as thoroughly, cataloging every new facet with eager delight. She's softer, up close, her curves more pronounced. And tall. Taller than him, which is wonderful . She's painted her nails, black, and it suits her beautifully (as though anything couldn't). And her smell- heavenly. Like books and roses and a hint of something… sweet. Earthy almost. Petrichor. And she's so delightfully red, all the way to the tops of her breasts, peeking ever so tantalizing (not immodestly mind) from the neckline of her dress.

Oh dear oh dear… he had not been remotely ready for her to- to be attracted to him. It's baffling. It's obscene.

He can't possibly articulate a proper response because every neuron in his brain is too busy trying to parse this utterly insane situation where the woman he loves and adores, who supplies him every waking moment with reason to live, is attracted to him .

They stand in silence for what could be an eternity or an instant, he isn't sure, but his mouth opens-

“I love you.”

Her eyes well up and he's about to begin backpedaling but-

“I love you, Hector.”

If this is a dream he will viscerally destroy whatever wakes him.

“I-i-i, you…?”

A nod.

“M-may I?”

She nods again and his hand rests, ever so delicately, on the back of her neck, and he pulls her down until their lips meet and he swears he can hear a Hallelujah Chorus and Ode To Joy all at once, and yet it is also perfectly silent and serene, the only noise the air circulating through the room and her soft breaths. It's exquisite and so much better than any fantasy he's ever had.

“I love you,” he murmurs against her lips (better by far than he had imagined earlier).

“I love you,” she echoes, smiling tenderly.

What a gift it is to see her face so closely, to analyze and adore every facet and feature. The way the corners of her eyes crinkle ever so slightly, a smattering of freckles on her nose, faded to ghosts of themselves. There are at least three distinct shades of pink and red in the blush on her cheeks, and he loves them all. 

His smile is so strong he starts to feel the ache of it, but he can't stop. Nor does he particularly want to.

Her hand reaches up, tentative, and brushes some of his hair out of his forehead, and it electrifies him as much as anything else tonight has. He delicately holds her hand there nuzzling into her palm and pressing feather-light kisses to it, enjoying the way it makes her shiver. A fascinating new note. 

“I-i, um. I hate to be presumptuous, but, um, I brought something. For you.”

“Your presence and acceptance are already far more than I deserve, cariño.”

“Then I'll say it's for us.”

“If you must.”

She laughs and pulls away, though it at least feels reluctant on her part as much as his. He realizes for the first time she brought a bag with her.

“Close your eyes for me, love?”

“How could I ever deny you anything when you call me that,” He sighs, blissful as he shuts them.

He hears her doing something, the sound of soft things being rustled around then something slightly more mechanical. He hasn't the foggiest idea of what she's doing and he doesn’t remotely care. She could be setting up a rack or an iron maiden and he would gleefully subject himself to her whims. He still can't believe this isn't some kind of paradisiacal dying dream, but he has to hope. 

Eventually, he feels lips on his forehead and her breath tingling against his hair. Exquisite.

“Okay, you can look.”

He opens his eyes, and is fascinated. She's set out a comfortable looking sort of nest situation of blankets and pillows, backed against a wall, and a few feet away she has some kind of tripod with a tablet? He isn't entirely sure what he's seeing, but she takes his hand and pulls him over, setting him down in the midst of the cozy little nook. 

“How do you want me?”

“Excuse me?”

His mind flashes with all manner of perverse delights but she is laughing and he must school himself away from such thoughts. That most certainly was far too soon, even by their pacing.

“I… recall yesterday, you mentioned that you wanted to watch movies together. I thought it might be nice to give that a test run where you feel safe.”

She had always paid much closer attention than he gave her credit for.

She smiles and does something with the tablet, and it comes to life, an orchestral score he knows well. His old favourite, Dr. Caligari. How could it be anything else?

“You also said two different things about it. I was either cuddled into your side, or laying on your lap. How would you like me?”

He's going to die. Assuming he hasn't already.

“I, truly, have no preference. Even sitting feet away would be perfect, because it would be near. I… whatever feels most comfortable.”

She nods and after what appears to be careful consideration, she settles herself down, leaning into his side. Instinctively, his arm pulls her in, resting on her shoulders (the slight reach is exciting and new and he adores it). She curls into him, and it takes his breath away how nicely they seem to fit. She smiles, adjusting slightly for comfort, and rests head back on his shoulder. 

The movie plays, and he is fascinated and grateful to finally put visuals to the audio of the Expressionist film, though he still isn't sure who among the characters he feels most like.

If he were to die tonight, it would be with the full knowledge that this was worth it. Every terrifying moment, every brooding observation, even the hard parts. They led him here, arm around the most beautiful woman he's ever known, seeing and being seen, knowing and being known. He could not ask for more.

Yet, as the credits begin to roll, her nose nuzzles against his cheek in such warm affection that he can't hold back a soft moan. He turns, nosing her in return, and their lips find each other once more.

The events of the last hours have him feeling brave (or drunk on sheer functional joy) and he dares to press further, nibbling her bottom lip, eliciting the sweetest little gasp as his tongue lazily explores her mouth, tender, careful, ready and willing to retreat at the slightest sign of discomfort.

He maneuvers her, delicately, onto his lap for better leverage, and it's so much better than his fantasies or grate-based erotica could ever hope to be. She's so warm, and soft, and wonderful. One hand twines into her hair, the other resting delicately on her hip, careful to avoid treading anywhere too far. Not tonight.

They stay that way, lazily exploring this microcosm of each other for who-knows-how-long, all he knows is that it feels too soon when he's pulling back, grinning like an absolute idiot (relieved to see a similar love-drunk expression on his beloved's face.)

“You should get to bed, my love. Before we get carried away.”

She looks down, face red and lips beautifully swollen from his affections (glorious).

“I wouldn't mind if we did,” she returns, and he groans softly. His hand follows the path of her leg down, fingers brushing beneath the hem of her dress, on her lower thigh, as he pretends to think it over (instead focusing on not making an idiot of himself). 

“While it's incredibly relieving to hear that feeling is quite mutual… I don't want to rush,” he confesses, drinking in her face, her expressions, the way her pupils go so wide and lovely. 

“That's okay too,” she assures him, smiling and beatific in her joy.

“Should I leave this set up? We can… watch something else tomorrow?”

“It would be my absolute honor. Now. May I walk you to your bed?”

She giggles and he scoops her up, much like he had two nights prior, but with a much lighter, happy feeling as he carries her down the hall, setting her delicately down on her bed.

“Do you want me to stay? After you get changed?”

He doesn't think he would survive changing her clothes for her this time, not with every nerve so raw still.

“If you like,” she says, ducking into the bathroom, leaving him to delicately crawl on top of the covers and wait for her.

He attempts to take stock of all that's happened so recently, and eventually just decides to chalk it all up to a miracle and her own beautiful heart. 

She comes back in and burrows into the covers, then his arms, leaning up to place a kiss onto his nose. Her smile is warm and easy and perfect.

“Goodnight Hector… I love you.”

There's a glorious fluttering sensation in his heart and he kisses her one final time, tucking her gently into himself, marveling at how natural it all feels.

“Good night, cariño. Sweet dreams.”

His will be. He's gotten everything he has ever wanted and so much more. He wonders what could possibly be better than this. He can't wait to find out.