Archive of Our Own ^beta

Other London was a dark, dank place.

Sasha could never forget it. Nor did she want to, really. It was her home for a while, her prison for longer. She had friends there, and she learned lots of what she knows there. The sky wasn't varied like it is up here, it was just as dark every day, just as dreary. She woke up every morning to only her internal clock, never the rise of the sun. Even the loudest thunder could only be heard if you strained your ears.

All this to say, Sasha forgets she’s not in Other London sometimes, when she dreams something she can’t remember and wakes up in the middle of the night. She… she can't decide how bad of a thing it is. It certainly doesn't feel good, but there’s a semblance of nostalgia that comes with it, when the drawn blackout curtains and too-stagnant air remind her potently of playing dice on rooftops as a preteen. Calling her feelings around it ‘comforting’ would be a stretch, but… familiarity, at least, has its own comfort to it when it wants to.

This is a night much like those others. She wakes up at around two in the morning, eyes not opening, body not moving. She stays still and listens, on instinct, before she realizes there are no footsteps above her, and opens her eyes in curiosity.

Oh, right. Wilde’s inn. She lives here, now, above ground and by the sea. Zolf and Wilde are both here, sleeping somewhere down the hall. Nobody above her, unless you count the ghosts in the attic that Wilde keeps on musing about.

Well. She won't be getting any sleep right now, anyways. Not with Brock’s scent following her subconscious.

On nights like these, she’ll head downstairs. Usually, she just looks around at the inn while it’s quiet and still. She won't often be in the living room while it’s unoccupied, only coming out of her natural state of scarceness when prompted by Zolf or Wilde.

One time, late at night, she came down and tried to read one of Wilde’s books. It was nonsensical and the main character was a rich prick, so she put it back on the shelf. She ignores the bookshelf, now, instead looking to the sofa.

There she is. Sasha spots the cat Zolf and Wilde adopted sitting in the armchair by the empty fireplace before the cat spots her, but once they make eye contact, the cat just blinks. Sasha blinks right back, before she continues on to the door. It’s a little routine of theirs; Sasha’s never tried to pet the cat, nor has the cat ever tried to be pet. Instead, they just have mutual respect. Cats are sharp, little wisps of animals, disappearing deep into nooks and crannies when they don't want to be found. Sasha understands it better than most.

Leaving a building through the front door is a privilege Sasha wasn’t used to a year ago, at the end of the world. Now she can do so whenever she pleases. Wilde and Zolf never said a thing when, at the start, she would climb out of her bedroom window on the regular. She knows, now, they’d never pass judgement on her habits. It’s nice to be sure of something.

The air is still warm from the day before, even this early in the morning. The front steps lead down to the beach, with a dock not too far to the left. Sasha’s footsteps are silent as she walks down, feet sinking into the sand. They don’t have to put on shoes when they leave the inn for a walk, given how soft the sand is. Sasha often still expects there to be debris and glass and things on the ground, which she learned to avoid at such an early age.

She gets restless, sometimes. A year is a long time to be in one spot, especially one so… inactive. She doesn’t quite know why she’s stayed so long; the one time she talked to Wilde about it, he suggested it might be something to do with her nervous system, that maybe she just needs some time to rest and learn to get out of fight-or-flight mode. She feels more calm, certainly, than she used to. Less like the eyes of a predator are constantly on her back.

But she’s been toying with the idea of setting out again; Wilde’s said he’ll tell her when she finds something he thinks she’d like, and she trusts it. Really, trusting people is a great feeling. So, so unfamiliar, but nice. The only thing so far is that Bi-Ming said they were going to start finally rebuilding Other London, soon. Sasha thinks she wants to help with that, but part of her doesn’t want to leave. Not because of the inn, or the beach, but because… well, Zolf and Wilde are here, and it’s nice being around them. They make Sasha feel safe. She knows that if she left she’d be leaving them, too, even if it’s not forever, even if they write, even if Bi-Ming is a safe person, it’s still not as strong. When did this happen to her? This… feeling, the pull she has towards this place and these people, has been ruminating and growing stronger day by day.

That doesn’t negate the restlessness, though.

Tonight, however, the sand is warm beneath her feet, and the sky is clear. Sasha takes a deep, silent breath of salty air. The stars blink at her in greeting, and she blinks back. Gods, it really is a wonderful feeling.

Walking down the beach, she spots Wilde before he spots her. She can recognize his silhouette now, even in the dark. But— well, he is the only person she knows who’s as tall as he is while still being so thin, so that’s not saying much.

She silently goes over, sidling beside him where he stands looking out over the dock. It’s a small one, what with how little the village nearby is, but it’s still something.

Wilde doesn’t seem to notice her. But then he speaks, not even looking her way as he does.

“It’s all… very different now, isn’t it, Sasha?”

He and Zolf are both getting better at that, spotting her and then not being startled when they do.

Well. Wilde more than Zolf. The dwarf still jumps when she leans over his shoulder while he’s cooking.

“...Yeah,” She agrees, knowing that whatever prompted that question is only a little bit of whatever’s going on in Wilde’s head and it will do her best to agree. “‘S… good, though, isn’t it?”

Wilde gives the tiniest of chuckles, though Sasha’s not sure why, and reaches over to wrap an arm around her shoulders, leaning his cheek against her head. It’s… nice, again, in the way only this place is. Secure. Sasha never used to like hugs, but now she at least tolerates them from Wilde and Zolf, because they’re safe. She knows that.

“That it is, my darling, that it is.”