Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rumi lies wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

She heared the faint shuffle of boots, the front door creaking an hour ago.

Celine slipped out into the night.

When she was younger, she never thought much about it. Sometimes she woke just enough to catch the sound, but in her half-dreaming mind it meant nothing.

A midnight errand. A walk to clear her head.

Just... Celine being Celine.

But Rumi isn't a little kid anymore. Now she understands. Celine is out hunting demons. And that means danger. Blood.

Death.

Rumi sits up, heart thudding.

What if this is the night? The night Celine doesn't come back? The night she ends up like—

Rumi's chest tightens, her hand pressed into her blanket, clutching the soft fabric until her knuckles turn white. She shakes the thought out of her head.

But she can't stay in bed. Not like this.

So she drags the blanket with her, padding softly into the living room. She curls up on the couch, eyes fixed on the front door. Every few minutes she glances at the clock.

Ticking. Ticking. Ticking.

Time moving too slow.

Her body begs for rest, her eyelids heavy, but every time she drifts, that same whisper pulls her back awake.

What if she doesn't come back? What if you're left alone?

Rumi pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She can only sit here, waiting, her heart leaping at every sound outside. She can't sleep. She won't. Not until she hears the key in the lock. Not until she knows Celine is safe.

Then — finally, the sound of keys. A faint jingle outside the door, followed by the slow scrape of metal against the lock.

Rumi sits up straighter, anticipating, her body stiff, her heart hammering until the door swings open.

Relief washes over her and she sags against the couch cushions, breathing out shakily. 

Celine is here. Celine is alive. I'm not alone.

But the relief lasts only seconds. Celine steps inside, the dim hallway light revealing her properly, and Rumi's stomach drops.

Celine's clothes are shredded in places, stained dark with dirt and blood. One sleeve hangs loose, nearly torn from the seam. Her steps are heavy and uneven, her face pale, jaw clenched as if every movement hurts.

"Celine!" she squeals, shoving the blanket away and stumbling off the couch, feet padding frantically across the floor.

Her eyes sweep over Celine's body, searching for the worst of the damage — her shoulder? her leg? her side? Rumi's mind races with too many questions, none of them with answers she wants.

Will Celine be alright? What if she won't? What if this is the beginning of the end?

Celine's gaze lifts, tired eyes finding Rumi. Confusion flickers there first, brows knitting. 

"Rumi?" Her voice is rough, worn out. "You should be sleeping." The words come half as a scold, half as disbelief. She didn't expect to be caught like this — she counted on slipping in and out unseen.

Rumi freezes a few feet away, hands twisting together in front of her. Her throat tightens and she looks down, unable to meet Celine's eyes.

"I couldn't…" she mumbles. "I was worried about you."

Oh.

Celine blinks once, slowly, the words taking a moment to sink in. Her eyes widen just slightly, and for a second the hardness in her expression slips.

Worried about her.

When was the last time someone said that to her? Her friends have been gone for years — buried, vanished. She long ago gave up the thought of being cared for by anyone.

And yet here stands this girl. 

This strange, impossible child. Half human, half demon. Someone who by all logic should have no place worrying over her. And yet Rumi keeps surprising her, bringing disorder to Celine's carefully categorized thoughts.

It only gets more difficult as the years pass and Rumi becomes increasingly aware of their predicament and capable of handling more. Rumi grows more eager to help, more eager to please. And still, eager for contact.

And now this. Sitting awake through the night, waiting, anxious.

For her.

Celine's chest aches in a place where her heart is. 

It should not matter. She tells herself it doesn't. And that Rumi shouldn't cloud her little head with such burdens.

So she straightens, ignoring the pull of aching muscle, ignoring the ache in her limbs. She forces her lips into a faint curve that isn't quite a smile.

"I'm fine," she says, though the blood on her clothes and the wounds on her body tell a different story. "Go back to bed, Rumi. You don't need to worry."

But Rumi doesn't believe those words.

"You're hurt. Let me help."

Rumi stands there with eyes wide and shining with something that twists Celine's gut.

She exhales slowly, steeling herself, ready to brush it off with another I'm fine. But she isn't fine, and she feels it in every breath. Her limbs scream each time she moves, her side is sticky with blood, and she isn't sure her legs will carry her much longer. She tilts her head, meeting those hopeful eyes.

"…Alright," she mutters at last, reluctant but resigned. "Go get the kit."

Rumi nods quickly and bolts to the bathroom, to the cupboard where the supplies are kept. By the time she comes back, Celine has already peeled away the ruined layers of her clothes, tossing them aside in a heap. Celine lowers herself into the chair with a hiss, jaw tightening in pain.

Rumi holds the medical box in her arms, balancing a bowl of warm water against her chest. She sets them both down carefully, kneeling beside Celine. Her hands fumble for a moment before they steady, dipping the cloth into the water.

She presses it against Celine's side, wiping away the dirt and blood. The longer she works, the steadier she becomes — full of focus as she cleans wounds, dabs gently, and wraps bandages around gashes.

The methodical movements, the fact that she can help, that she can nurse Celine back to health — it gives her a sense of control. Perhaps it's false, but it's there.

Her anxious mind finally quiets. The whispering voice that asked what if she doesn't come back? what if I'm alone? falls silent.

Here, now, she can do something. She can help.

Celine watches her in silence. The girl's brow is furrowed, her face set with determination, her hands tender. It's strange — comforting and unsettling all at once.

Her mind circles back to years ago. Small Rumi sitting on her lap, hair soft against Celine's chin. Back then, she was freer with her affection — arms wrapped tightly around the child, voice softer, touch gentler. Maybe because babies were easy to love. Innocent. Fragile. Easier to forget where they came from, what blood ran in their veins.

But children grow. And as Rumi grew, so did the strange, swirling markings on her skin. A reminder Celine couldn't ignore. 

Slowly, she pulled back.

She tells herself it's because Rumi doesn't need so much coddling anymore. Teenagers want space, don't they? Independence. But beneath the logic lurks something else: fear. Fear of what Rumi might become.

Yet right now, here is her little Rumi, kneeling at her side, face etched with worry, her hands careful as they work to heal her. And Celine wants to let herself sink into the intimacy of the moment. Just the two of them, spending time together. Even if the circumstances are grim, it feels like they're a team, a family.

Celine's gaze lingers on the girl, warmth welling in her chest. It spreads through her ribcage, fighting against the exhaustion and pain, the dark thoughts.

Rumi is such a good kid. 

For all her oddities, for the dark truth of her origin, Rumi's heart is… good. Pure.

And yet, no matter how much warmth pools inside Celine now, the doubts are never far behind.

What if one day these hands aren't there to heal her, but to harm her? What if, instead of bandaging her wounds, Rumi is the one to cause them?

The idea is like a knife twisting in her gut.

She can almost see it: Rumi standing over her, eyes shining gold, violet demon marks swirling across her body. That soft voice turned cold. That affection replaced by hostility.

It would shatter her. Rip out her heart.

So Celine finds herself caught in the familiar tug-of-war: the part of her that wants to lean in, let the love and affection for this sweet child consume her entirely; and the other, harsher part that warns her to keep a distance, to guard herself against the inevitable heartbreak. Because if Rumi does change, if she becomes the threat Celine fears, it will be easier to let go if she doesn't hold on too tightly.

"It's done." Rumi's voice cuts through the spiral of thoughts.

Celine blinks, focusing again. The girl looks up at her with a bright, proud smile, her expression glowing with the satisfaction of a job well done. Exhaustion shadows her eyes, but they still shine, wide and earnest.

Celine's chest constricts. She doesn't know what to feel. Let Rumi in. Or pull away.

Perhaps she's too tired to hold up her walls. 

Her lips twitch, softening into a smile. Before she can think better of it, her hand lifts, palm resting against Rumi's cheek. Her skin is warm and soft beneath Celine's fingers.

"Thank you, Rumi," she says, her voice as soft as her expression.

Rumi's eyes flutter shut at the contact, her head leaning instinctively into the touch. She presses closer to the palm, cherishing the warmth.

So trusting and innocent.

Rumi savors the moment. To her, this is proof that everything is alright. That Celine is alive, here, with her. Proof she isn't alone. Rumi's world is simple in that way. In her mind, Celine will always be her family, her protector. She wants to pull Celine close and never let go, to cling to her no matter what.

But for Celine, nothing is that simple. A part of her yearns to give in completely, to love this girl with the same unrestrained devotion Rumi has for her, to bury the doubts. But another part whispers warnings of loss and betrayal. She fears what might come if Rumi's other half ever surfaces fully, fears what she might have to do.

˜”*°•.˜”*°• ■ •°*”˜.•°*”˜

Rumi carefully guides Celine step by step down the hall. The woman leans heavier than she means to, but Rumi doesn't complain. She just keeps her arm firm around Celine, murmuring encouragement as though Celine is the fragile one.

When they reach the bedroom, Rumi pulls the sheets back and eases Celine down onto the mattress. The woman hisses as her body meets the bed, still in pain. 

Rumi fusses over her, tugging the blanket snug around her until Celine is cocooned, safe and warm.

She should leave now. Close the door, let Celine sleep.

But she doesn't.

Rumi lingers at the foot of the bed, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Her hands tug at the hem of her shirt, twisting and untwisting the fabric.

"Can I…" she begins, then falters. "Can I stay with you tonight?" she asks at last.

The question brings back old memories. Tiny footsteps pattering in the dark, a small figure clutching a stuffed animal, eyes wide with fear. Rumi crawling under her covers, clutching her waist until she fell asleep. Or those nights when Celine found her curled in her own bed, too afraid to move, and she lay down beside her until Rumi felt safe enough to rest.

But that was years ago. Rumi isn't small anymore. She hasn-t asked for comfort like this in so long.

Celine blinks, taken off guard, lips parting soundlessly. Mind at war with heart. 

But looking at Rumi — tense, uncertain, waiting — she can't bring herself to say no.

"Sure," she says at last. She shifts slightly, wincing at the pull in her side, and lifts the sheets.

Rumi doesn't hesitate. She slips in quickly, curling close, tucking herself against Celine, her arm sliding around her waist in a hold that is both gentle and desperate. The girl buries her face against the side of Celine's chest, breathing her in, letting the steady thrum of the woman's heartbeat soothe her fears.

"You know…" Rumi mumbles into the fabric, her voice muffled. "I love you. I don't want to lose you too…"

Celine's breath catches, her body stilling, every muscle taut as the words sink in. Her eyes fix on the ceiling, unblinking, heart rattling against her ribs.

She didn't expect that. She isn't prepared.

For a long moment she says nothing, lost in the maze of her thoughts. Then, quietly, almost reluctantly, she mutters, "I love you too."

The words leave her lips in a soft whisper, too scared to say them any louder, admit them to herself.

But Rumi hums at that, a low, content sound, and presses closer, satisfied. Her grip around Celine tightens just a little, her fears soothed, if only for tonight.

Celine's mind, however, spins in chaos. Reason tells her to keep her distance, to guard herself from the inevitable. Her heart tugs in the opposite direction, demanding she give in, that she hold this girl as tightly as Rumi holds her. Tonight, her heart wins.

Her arm lifts, wrapping around Rumi's shoulders, fingers tangling in the messy strands of her hair. She strokes gently, nails grazing Rumi's scalp in slow, soothing motions.

She doesn't know if she's comforting Rumi or herself. Maybe both.

˜”*°•.˜”*°• ■ •°*”˜.•°*”˜

Morning comes, pale light slipping through the gaps between curtains.

Celine's eyes flutter open, groggy but alert out of habit. Her body aches from the wounds patched up hours earlier, but that isn't what roots her to the bed.

Rumi's arm is draped firmly across her waist, her grip tight even in sleep. Their legs are tangled together, Rumi pressed close, her breath warm against Celine's skin.

The girl looks peaceful at last, lost in deep sleep that only Celine's return home allowed her.

Celine stares at the ceiling, her mind already restless. She should get up. There are things to do. But when she shifts even slightly, Rumi stirs and tightens her hold with a small, muffled sound.

Trapped.

Celine lets out a slow breath, her brow furrowing. She could wake her. Untangle herself, slide out, retreat into her usual distance. That would be the easy thing. The smart thing.

But looking down at the girl — Rumi's hair a messy halo across the pillow, her expression softer than Celine is used to seeing when she's awake — the decision doesn't come so easily.

Damn it, she thinks, jaw tightening. What do I do with this kid?

Her hand hovers awkwardly in the air for a moment before giving in, settling lightly against Rumi's back.

But eventually, Celine knows she can't just lie there forever. The day won't wait for her.

So, carefully, she begins to untangle herself, slipping her leg free, shifting Rumi's arm from her waist.

The movements stir Rumi, her brows knitting as her eyes blink open, still heavy with exhaustion. "...Where are you going?" she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep. Her hand reaches out instinctively for Celine's, catching her fingers before she can step away.

Celine freezes, looking down at Rumi, at her expression — soft and unguarded. So trusting. Such a precious creature. Just a child.

Celine almost smiles. Almost.

"I'm just going to get some food," she says, her voice softening automatically. "I'Il be here. I'm not leaving the house."

Rumi makes a low sound of protest, clearly unconvinced, but her grip loosens anyway. Too tired to fight, her hand slips from Celine's, falling back against the sheets. She buries her face in the pillow instead, her body going slack as sleep pulls her in again.

˜”*°•.˜”*°• ■ •°*”˜.•°*”˜

Celine tells herself she will focus on her own things. Let Rumi sleep. She isn's a baby anymore so there's no need to check on her. Rumi is safe. She repeats it like a mantra, reminding herself she can detach, that she doesn't have to linger in that room.

And yet… something tugs at her heart, insistent. Her resolve slips. She isn't strong enough today. Inevitably, her steps carry her back to the bedroom.

Rumi is still fast asleep, breathing even, her body curled beneath the sheets. 

It has been a long time since Celine has seen her like this — fragile and at peace. When Rumi grew older, Celine stopped checking on her at night. She told herself it wasn't needed. That the girl could take care of herself.

But the sight now warms her heart in a way that aches. Rumi isn't a little baby anymore, no. But that doesn't erase the care Celine feels for her.

Quietly, she sits on the edge of the bed. For a long moment, she does nothing but watch. Rumi's features are softened, her mind at rest. For this single moment, everything seems simple.

Celine's hand moves almost on its own, brushing strands of messy hair aside. Her fingers trail down, caressing Rumi's cheek with a tenderness she rarely allows herself as of late.

Her mind drifts back to the night before — to Rumi's worry, her careful, precise touch as she cleaned Celine's wounds, the gentle way she laid the bandages in place.

How could that same sweet, earnest creature ever grow into something dangerous?

The thought twists in her chest. She would hate to see such a day come. And if it does — if Rumi becomes what Celine fears, what duty demands be destroyed — she doesn't know if she could strike her down. Even if it meant saving the world.

Her fingers linger on Rumi's cheek, and the girl stirs, eyelids fluttering half-open.

"Shh. Rest," Celine murmurs softly.

"Will you stay?" Rumi mumbles back.

"I will." The answer comes after a pause, one she shouldn't give. But she can't bring herself to leave.

Rumi's eyes slip close again, too tired to resist sleep. She relaxes, a faint curve softening her lips. The sheets smell like Celine. She feels safe. Not alone.

Celine shifts, bracing her hand on the mattress behind Rumi's back as she leans closer. She presses a kiss to her temple, her forehead resting against the girl's for a long moment, unwilling to pull away.

If only things could stay like this. If only Rumi remained this sweet, innocent creature — someone Celine could always protect.

She wishes nothing would ever take Rumi away.