Archive of Our Own ^beta

Against the late morning sun through the windows of the dusty, old, double doors of the estate, Ingrid’s father stands at the edge of the terrace with his hands lying lightly on the balustrade, where the creeping vines from the overgrow wrap onto its rails.  From the way the gentle breeze passes, the leaves against the vines seem as if they itch to inch closer and closer to her father, but he always remains just slightly out of reach.

He looks peaceful like this, as still as he is, while he stares out onto the unkempt garden below, where flowers have yet to bloom.  

It is hard for Ingrid to tell his expression with his back turned, but even so, she can appreciate the slight air of relaxation in his body.  She is too used to his exhaustion, one that has long settled into his bones from even before the war.  

In truth, Ingrid hardly remembers this version of her father.  For so long, she had grown used to the sight of the grieving man and then when she had returned from being away, simply met a tired one.

Her father has been tired for so long.  It is nice to see him like this.  It is nice to see worry lift from his shoulders.  He no longer has to be so strong.

When she opens the door, he does not even turn.  He simply waits for her to join him.  She hands her father one of the two mugs in her hands.   He accepts it with a nod.

“Good morning,” he greets, but the smile on his lips at the sight of her turns slightly downward when he stares back out again.  When Ingrid follows his gaze, she understands why.

Across from them, now that Ingrid can see, Sylvain kneels on the roof of one of the four aging walls that surround the courtyard garden, poorly laying tile.

Where it makes her father frown, Ingrid has to suppress a laugh.  Sylvain, with his bright red hair, stands out amongst two of her brothers, also repairing their home.

“That boy of yours is going to fall off the roof,” her father grumbles but the quick glance he shoots her tells Ingrid that he’s more amused than anything.  

“He’s not my boy.”  Her eyes follow Sylvain, and even from this distance, she can see him squinting at the tile. “He might fall off the roof though.”

“Is he not?”  her father pushes.  “Then what’s he doing up there?”

“Fixing it, I think.”

Her father scoffs.  “He has no idea what he’s doing.”

“That’s probably true.”

After all, while Sylvain may be capable of many things, tiling is likely not one of them.  He has never had the need to pick up a hammer.  By contrast, her brothers have learned quite a few things out of necessity, living in a house that was slowly falling apart over the years.

“The last thing I need is a dead Gautier in my garden,” her father huffs.  “I would never hear the end of it from his father.”

He means it in good humor, but Ingrid still flinches.  The war wounds are still fresh, even as ease begins to settle. “You have too little faith in him,” she says.  

“That’s untrue.” It surprises Ingrid a little to hear him say this.  “I have known that boy a long time and I know his strengths.  Roofing is not one of them.”

Ingrid laughs.  It is loud enough that Sylvain can hear it.  She can tell because he looks for her, and when his gaze finally meets hers, the grin that stretches across his face is wide enough that she can see it clearly even at this distance.  He raises a hand to wave, only for one of her brothers to scold him back to work.

This makes her want to laugh even harder but Ingrid refrains.  Her father is next to her after all.  

Instead, Ingrid’s gaze dips back down to her hands, where Sylvain’s touch from this morning still lingers.  Her father watches her.

When he finally speaks, it is with a soft affection that always reminds her of home.  “Not your boy, you say?”

She should have expected him to return to this.  Even now, her father is still her father.  Her fingers curl against the edge of her mug, tingling against the heat.  “He is his own man.”

“A man who has found himself this far south?”

The expression on her father’s face is a bit hard to read.  It is clear that he disagrees with her but there’s also a gentleness to it that makes her still feel safe, even with his insistent prodding.  It makes her feel a bit like a little girl again, bashful in a way she has not felt since she was very young when her brothers would tease her about Glenn.  “He may have followed me.”

“You could have outpaced him ten times over on your pegasus.”

She brings the mug to her lips, smirking against it before she amends, “I may have let him follow me.”

This time, it is her father who laughs loud enough that all three boys on the roof look over to them.

“Not your boy, you say,” he echoes to tease.

“We make our own choices,” she decides to say, “but we may have chosen each other.”

Her father hums.  It settles between them for a second and Ingrid knows what question he has been building them towards.  She expects it.  She has expected it from the second she had shown up on her father’s doorstep with Sylvain in tow.  Dreaded it even. 

Truly, it is a miracle her father has not already asked, a week into their stay here.  Maybe, the relief of winning a war superseded a quest he had been on since Glenn passed.

“Are you happy?”

Ingrid’s gaze snaps up to her father, eyes wide.  

“What?”  It comes out a little breathless.

“With Sylvain, are you happy?”

This question is easy to answer but it still takes Ingrid a moment to gather herself.  Her father watches her patiently with soft eyes and waits.  This was not the question she had expected him to ask.

“Yes,” she says.  “Very.”  

He nods.  “Good.”

Her father does not stay with her much longer.  He retires back into the house, citing work to do.  Indeed, there is still much of it, even with all her brothers returning home and the war over.  Although she has no idea how he gets anything done with all the noises in the house.  They have been rebuilding, repairing aspects of their once grand home now that they have the means.

It started with the broken windows and the roof.  One day, it will be the garden too.

It does not take long for Sylvain to scramble down the ladder when he sees her approach from across the way.  Ingrid can see why her father keeps calling him her boy when he practically runs to her every time she’s near.

“Hey,” Sylvain greets with a beam, prying his work gloves off.  He is covered in sweat and his work pants are dirty.  Still, she finds him just as handsome as always if not more so.  It’s endearing, and once Ingrid glances up to confirm that none of her brothers are spying on them, she allows herself to peck Sylvain briefly on the lips.  When she pulls back, he keeps her close, his hand settling comfortably wrapped around her waist.  “How’s the stable going?” he asks.

“It’s done,” she says.  While her brothers worked on the roof, Ingrid has spent her time repairing the stable after the boys had all but banished her from helping them.  It had annoyed Ingrid greatly when they demanded it and terrified Sylvain to a degree.  It was clear that the ‘male bonding time’ they had cited was simply an excuse to corner the man she brought home but Sylvain had eventually insisted that it’d be fine.  Still, it did not sit well for Ingrid to do nothing while everyone else worked and they all knew better than to protest when she decided to fix the stable on her own.  They would not be able to stop her even if they tried.

Sylvain’s eyebrows knit together.  “What?  How’d you finish so quickly?”

Ingrid reaches up to pat him on the cheek.  “Because I actually know what I’m doing.”  

Truthfully, it was because the stables were not so badly deteriorated as the other aspects of the house.  She only had to repair the doors.  Although the structure could certainly use a new coat of paint.

“Hey!  I know what I’m doing.”

From above, one of her brothers shouts down. “No, he doesn’t!”

Sylvain rolls his eyes.  “Thanks for that!  Wasn’t like I was trying to impress Ingrid or anything.”

Ingrid laughs.  It is silly to think that he still wants to impress her, especially considering everything they have been through together.  “I see you’re all getting along.”  

He deflates.  “If you say so.”  

She presses another kiss against his lips to placate him.  It works.  When she pulls away, Sylvain is no longer pouting.  “You know you have nothing to prove right?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything.”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’m not!”

“Sylvain,” she says gently.  “You don’t have to do this, you know.  It’s appreciated, but really, you don’t have to impress me, or my brothers, or my father.”  

“What were you two talking about anyway?”

“Hah, I knew it.”

It surprises Ingrid a bit when Sylvain huffs a bit and takes a step back, but not so far so that his hand isn’t still connected to her.  Not so far that he seems upset.  If anything, she would guess that he simply wants to be able to look at her more directly.  “It’s not about proving anything,” he explains.  “I mean, maybe it’s a little about impressing you but I’m not doing this to prove a point.  I’m doing this because I want to.”

“You...enjoy tiling the roof?”

Sylvain runs a free hand through his hair.  “How do I explain this?” he says to himself before turning his attention back to her. “Okay, so, the thing about home is...well I never really cared much for it, if I’m being honest.  Gautier is just — let’s just say I don’t really have a fondness for it.  But you’re different Ingrid, you love Galatea.  So much of who you are is tied up in all this.  And I want to help.  I want to rebuild it with you.  I want to do it with my own hands.”

Ingrid blinks.  It is the second time today she’s been caught off guard.  She had again expected many different answers but something about Sylvain bumbling through his words in such an earnest way warms her.  

It looks like there’s more he wants to say.  She can tell by the soft look on his face but she also knows that her brothers are right above them and that they will have many opportunities to revisit this conversation.

“Wow,” she says with a teasing grin.  “You really do love me.”

She expects him to smile back, and return with a quip of his own but instead, Sylvain brings both his hands gently to cup her face.  His expression is open and honest when he whispers so close to her lips. “Was that ever a question?” 

“Not anymore.”

Sylvain kisses her slow and steadily.  She can feel, in his arms, everything he has tried to put into words, everything he has already put into words.

“Sylvain,” she says, her hands drift down to her favorite spot against his chest, one of them placed right over his heart.  “This can be your home too.  If you want it to be.”

He grins.  Against the sunlight with his hair matted against his forehead from the sweat, sunburn beginning to shape against the side of his neck, Sylvain has never looked so happy in her arms.  “You’re my home.”

She doesn’t have the heart left to tease him.  Not when he knocks her breathless so easily.  Not with that smile of his that’s still so charming.  

“You’re mine too.”