Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You thought it was simply normal perfume. 

It had taken you a while to find out the giant’s likes and dislikes— about how he hated stale bread, about his love of flowers, about his penchant for rare, nearly bloody meat, and countless other things you’ve observed about him over the course of time. 

Most relevantly, his taste in perfume.

The first time you had given him perfume was straight after one of your house-raids. It was entirely not worth dangling off of someone’s faulty balcony for, but still, you had gotten it in the end.

A red, heart-shaped bottle with a heart-shaped top. 

The scent was undeniably strong. You had considered taking it for yourself, but after a quick whiff you swiftly decided against it. 

The smell wasn’t unpleasant, by any means. It was just… strong. A punch to the nose. 

You were sure the cashier would like it, but honestly, you didn’t feel in the mood to give anything to the cashier other than trash from the street. 

So, you had given the bottle to the lawman instead. 

Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest idea for a crook to give an officer of the law something you stole, but, if he had noticed you stealing it, he said nothing of it.

He hated it, to put it simply. His nose had practically shriveled as soon as he took a sniff out of it. 

“Urgh! No!” He exclaimed, dropping the perfume. “No, no, no. This is dreadful. What made you think I would enjoy this?”

You apologized hastily, raising your hands with your palms towards him in an action of surrender. 

He seemed to soften at that, if only slightly. 

“Uh… fine. Next time— think.”

The second time you had gotten him perfume, it had been a small blue bottle instead. 

It was very pleasing. Delicate, and soft on the nose. Practically the complete opposite of what the first perfume had been. 

Its bottle was simple, but effective. The smell was more light, and almost airy in a sort of way.

You liked it. This time, you thoroughly debated with yourself on whether to keep it or not.

In the end though, you decided to give it as a gift to the giant. As a proper apology.

It paid off. 

“Oh, wow. This is so…” He trailed off, his eyes sparkling. “Elegant, yet so powerful…I have an extremely sensitive nose.” He continues, “it’s the beast in me, I suppose.” He had gazed at you thoughtfully. “…You know me all too well, I appreciate it.”

A pink flush arose in his cheeks, an image you’d keep in your mind forever. 

You found that you liked getting to know the giant more. You liked giving him things. You liked finding out about his likes and dislikes, and what his thoughts were about certain things or topics.

You simply liked the giant.

—

All of these interactions pass through your mind as you eye a new bottle of green perfume in the captain’s window.

“I haven’t seen this item before,” you say to the captain, pointing to the bottle. 

He coughs. “Yes… This item in particular… it didn’t wash up here from the flood. It came from outside of this town.” He mumbles, his voice raspy.

“Out of town?” You repeat, confused. 

He nods, placing a croissant and a bundle of flowers next to the green perfume. “A friend of mine came recently, by train. They gave me some stock.” He explains simply. “Along with it came this green perfume. If you want to buy it, it’s 200 rubles.” 

You gaze at the bottle, contemplating. 

“200 is a little steep, no? The other perfumes you sold previously were only listed at 150.” 

He huffs, not in impatience or anything, but simply to catch his breath before his next coughing fit. 

“If you don’t want it, leave it. I’m not willing to— kngh— negotiate my prices.” He says, covering his mouth.

You sigh. “Could I at least get a description of the scent?”

He crosses his arms, raising his head thoughtfully.

“I’m afraid not. That’s the only bottle I have, if you want a description you’d have to buy it yourself and see.” He says, “the only description my friend told me about it is that it smells… magical.”

Magical? 

“Sounds like a scam.” You mutter under your breath. 

“Hmm?” 

“Nothing.” You say, hurriedly. “I’ll take it.”  

Before you know it, you have a bottle of green perfume in your hands. 

You examine it, turning it over slowly in your hands. Its similar in bottle design to the red perfume, the bottle itself is made of clear glass which the sun reflects off of. 

Yet, it’s heavier than the other bottles. It’s… odd. A jolt of electricity shoots through you, like you’ve just been shocked by static. 

You blink.. 

That Captain must be playing tricks on you.

Experimentally, you press down once on the nozzle. A bit of perfume floats in the air, and you watch as it rains down on you. Surprisingly, it’s sparkly. 

You take an experimental sniff. 

Oh. It smelled… 

You tilted your head at the bottle in confusion. 

It’s odd. A mixture of mint and something unexplainable. 

Hm. Magical…

You shake your head quickly, expelling the thoughts from your mind. 

You didn’t hesitate for a moment, safely tucking the perfume away whilst you began to climb the nearest building. 

Eventually, you reached the top of the roof of the tallest building in town. There, you cupped your hands over your mouth, and shouted. 

“Militsioner!” 

The giant raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, nodding slightly at you.

“Hmn?” 

You grinned, rummaging through your bag before grasping the bottle in your hand, holding the liquid above your head. “The Captain put in stock a new perfume, I want to hear your thoughts on it!” you said, observing closely as his face began to draw nearer. 

“A new perfume?” he questioned, scrutinizing the bottle. 

“It’s supposed to smell like magic,” you say, purposefully amplifying the dramatics. “Spray it! I personally think it smells a bit like mint.” 

He does just that, spritzing it in the air, letting it fall on him as you had done for yourself. How he managed to cover himself with such a small bottle, you don’t know. 

“Well?” you queried, probing. “What do you think?”

The militsioner considered his words for a moment, his eyeline landing slightly below you, at your feet. 

He looked deep in thought.

“It… It smells like mint for sure,” he affirms, nodding. “But there’s something else, something I can’t place.” 

You nod. “I thought that as well,” you reveal. “I thought perhaps it might be the magic The Captain was talking about.” 

The officer only looks at you in concern. 

“Are you being serious?” he asked, worry woven in his voice. “That man, he’s a good man, but you have to understand he does everything for business.” 

You shush him, cutting him off. “I know, I know. But still, isn’t this exciting? There’s a new perfume! I’m fine with being scammed, just this once.” 

The militsioner considers your words, looking at you quietly.

“If it does turn out to be a scam, I’ll make sure The Captain reimburses you.” 

You smile. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

The two of you continue conversating, the day slowly fading away as time passes. Eventually, when you turn into bed, you nearly forget about the green bottle, pressed against your pocket.

—

You awoke to shouting. Distant, far away shouting. Almost like buzzing. 

You somnolently swat, trying to hit whatever bug could be bothering you.

Eventually the buzzing gets so annoying that your eyes pop open.

“Will someone get that fly?” you grumble, voice still ladened with fatigue.

Your eyes drift over the wide expanse of land below you.

…

Below you?

Your eyes don’t just widen, they bulge, practically out of your sockets.

The ground looks so far away, distorting your vision. Things feel pinched, everything too far away. Your head feels too heavy. Everything just feels wrong. 

You scream. 

You’re not ashamed to say it, you scream so loud and so shrill that you’re sure the noise can be heard all across the world. Below you, civilians cover their ears in terror and shrink away.

Not one, though. He flinches, covering his ears like the rest, but he doesn’t cower away.

“Stranger!” he yells. The voice catches you off guard, it's familiar yet different. 

Your screaming ceases, waning away into just a few hapless gurgles of confusion. 

“Militsioner?” you try, both your voice and hands shaking. 

The figure nodded. “Yes it’s— do you have any idea how this happened?” he asks, his voice frantic. He holds his hat in his hands, tensely rubbing on it. 

You look downwards at your body. All of it’s… it’s… 

You look down at him.

The perfume.

The trembling of your hands intensifies. 

“The perfume— it really was magical.” you murmur. You let out a nervous bark of laughter. “Oh my god… what are we going to do? This can’t be real.”

He’s just as nervous as you, it seems. He can’t keep still. “I don’t—”

A memory surfaces in your head. “The bottle,” you realize, hurriedly searching your pocket. It’s hard to hurry anything with a body this large, but you manage, eventually pulling out the bottle. 

On the label, in fine print, it states ‘Long lasting scent: 1 week.’

.

You inform the militsioner, showing him the bottle. You want to fret more, to worry more, but truthfully, all you can do now is wait. 

You do feel a little bit guilty, though. The Captain did say it was magical. You just didn’t think he meant it so literally.

He paces around nervously. It’s an interesting sight, one you assume to be purely instinctual. You don’t think he’s ever done that before.

“How am I supposed to do my job?” he exclaims, his eyes widening.

Silence follows. What were you supposed to say to that? “I’ll do it?” 

Maybe.

He shoots you an incredulous look. 

“I don’t know how wise it would be to allow a criminal to oversee a town full of other criminals.” 

“What?? I promise you, my background won’t contribute anything to my work. I’ll be the best officer this town has ever seen,” you boldly claim, the tension rolling off of you in waves. 

“We’ll see about that,” he grumbled. 

—

It was a bit odd how quickly you adjusted. After the initial scare, you found yourself strangely tranquil about the whole situation. 

There was a sort of comfort in the unknown. All you could do was hope that the perfume— or rather, more appropriately named— potion wore off in a week. 

The officer seemed to feel the same, his posture still a bit tense, but more relaxed than usual. It seemed being on the ground served him some good.

Time had passed rather quickly. True to your word, you oversaw the town just as the officer had done previously. Being a criminal yourself, you actually were pretty good at catching them. A lot of the crime done in the town had been sloppy and amateurish. It was no wonder you never got caught, if this was the level of crime the militsioner had been previously acclimated to.

But, on day two of your transformation, you began to grow curious. Not once had you used his notebook yet, the one he oh-so-often jotted down information in. Due to not being on his person at the time of the transformation, it remained in the water, the back of the cover slightly dampened. 

“What’s in this notebook of yours?” The blue cover catches your eye, the heart in the middle making them widen. It looks more like a journal if anything— hardly an official government document. 

“Did you request for this heart to be put on it?” You ask, tracing over it with your fingertips. With one hand, you begin to gently open it. “It’s quite… cute.”

He flushes. 

“Don’t read it.” he demands.

Your eyes flicker away from the journal to look at him. He’s slightly bent towards you, looking completely mortified. His arms twitch, as if he wants to reach out, but can’t due to his sudden small size. 

“Why, is there something bad in it?” you question, raising an eyebrow. 

His silence alone answers your question. Your eyes widen in amusement. 

You decide to take a shot in the dark. “Is there a page about me?”

He sputters, shocked and flustered. “No— no, there isn’t.” 

A soft laugh pushes past your lips. “There totally is! You should see your face right now,” you squint, a light smile ghosting over your face. “You’re so red. Are you embarrassed?”

“There’s nothing in there about you,” he denies, tilting his head away from you. It seems your gaze has proved to be too scrutinizing for him to handle.

Your laughs continue, coming out in short, uncontrolled bursts. “I promise I won’t get angry if you’re talking bad about me,” you say between giggles. 

“It’s not that,” he corrects, fumbling his words. “It's personal.” 

“Personal things, about me? I don’t understand. Are you talking about my case files? You know I stole those a long while ago.”

He looks surprised at your words. “You stole your case files? I’ve been looking for them everywhere— you shouldn’t have told me that. When we switch back you know I need those back, I’ll have to issue you a fine.” 

You wave your hand dismissively. “Yeah, alright. We’ll see later. So, what about my information then is personal to you?” 

He struggles, his lips pursing. “No, sorry. I misspoke. It's just— it’d be better if you refrained from looking in it.”

Better for who? You wonder. 

“How am I supposed to do your job without it?” you wonder. “I can’t remember all of these fines…” 

You’re curious, sure, but you’re genuinely worried. 

Did you issue a fine to that citizen, or that one? 

Catching criminals was easy. Keeping track of them and their offenses were much, much harder. 

He hesitates, before caving. 

“Alright. Just… don’t look at the back of the book.” 

And— you don’t. 

You continue to do the militsioner’s job, strictly sticking to the front of the blue journal to log people’s fines and offenses. 

Despite your ever growing curiosity, you manage to keep it at bay. He seemed worried. Uncharacteristically worried. 

You planned to respect his wishes, trying your hardest not to even think of what information the back end of the journal held. 

To your credit, it wasn’t your fault.

You were on patrol late on the seventh night, futilely attempting to keep your eyes open. Your head began to droop, your vision blurring. The stars in the night sky were more inviting than they ever had been before, practically calling out to you, chanting your name and tempting you with the sweet sweet release of sleep.

You had just finished issuing a fine to a citizen with an unfathomably long name, the blue notebook sprawled out across your lap. 

Right before your eyes close for good, a light breeze starts up. At least, to you it’s a light breeze. You’re sure that if you were on the ground you’d call it more of a gust if anything. 

But that’s irrelevant. Before you know it, the sound of pages fluttering and flipping catch your attention. 

The large, emboldened headings flash by. 

General Observation

Suspicious Behavior

Arrests

Fines

Then finally: 

The Stranger. 

Your heart nearly stops.

Well, you’re certainly awake now.

It felt wrong. It felt like an invasion of privacy— but you can’t even control the movement of your eyes at that point. It’s as if they automatically lock onto the page. 

Your hands feel like lead, unable to lift, unable to shut the cover. 

Your breath hitches. 

You were wrong. 

There’s nothing bad about you, and your section isn’t just a page long. 

It stretches on and on. Your hand, that little traitor— suddenly feels light as a feather, flipping to the next page on auto-pilot with zero difficulty. 

It's just— details about you. 

Quirks you exhibited that you didn’t even know you had. Little observations of your expressions. Your favorite things. 

It’s ironic. You spent so much time trying to get to know him you didn’t realize how much he noticed about you in the process. 

Beside some of the notes lie pictures of you to accompany them. They’re drawings— surprisingly detailed and accurate despite how hard it is to see. It shows his attention to detail. You’re left speechless by how carefully crafted they are, how deliberate each line seemed to be. 

You’re honored. Your eyes even start to sting and tingle a bit. How odd.

You flip. 

Oh— 

You think you’ve finally reached the end of your section.

The next page is filled with poems— with beautiful poetry. Each word is carefully crafted, each line a bit smudged with how much revision had been done to them. Dates are written next to each one, going back multiple years. 

The first ones are filled with pencil markings that are more shaky, less certain. The sign of a freshly new poet They’re about simple things like haikus on the colors of the earth, or on the hues of the sky. These are significantly more revised than the later ones, some words or sentences even fully struck-through. 

They’re still breathtaking nonetheless. 

You continue. You don’t think you can stop. 

The poems get increasingly more and more deep and self-reflective as you go along. Things about his identity, about his role in the world; he writes about his own thoughts, about how they keep him up at night, and about how he feels like a stranger even in his own skin.

You recognize some of them that he showed you. Those are fairly recent ones. You can still hear his voice, soft and uncertain, his eyes flickering up towards you every few seconds to make sure you weren’t laughing or mocking him. 

Your heart twists and aches for him. He’s gone through so much. 

You’re proven wrong for the third time in the past thirty minutes. 

Yes, a few pages ago— that was the end of your section, but it wasn’t the end of your presence. 

It’s more poetry. There are still some poems sprinkled in about himself, about the clouds, the birds and such— but a staggering amount of the poems are about you. 

Each word pricks at your heart. Each sentence pierces at your skin. Each stanza puts the full extent of his care front and center. 

Each poem gradually pieces together something delicate, something soft and unspoken but loud and bold when put onto paper. 

It starts out purely platonic. About your smile, about how he values the time spent together, how he looks forward to your conversations. 

But as each page turns, each line scanned over— something shifts in his tone. 

His care for you is still evident, still everpresent— but it’s coupled with something more. 

You think you’re delusional at first. You curse yourself and your sleep-deprived brain for even thinking such a thought. 

You nearly convinced yourself out of it before you reached the poem that confirmed it all. 

Some poems had titles, others did not. 

This one, did. 

It was titled the stranger. Similar to your section’s heading, but different. Your heading had been bold, written in a thick black pen. 

This one had not. It was etched in pencil, the strokes soft and unsure. 

The last line made you choke, your heart lodging in your throat and blocking your airway. 

Maybe one day I’ll find the courage.

Your hands finally find themselves and shut the cover with a soft thump. 

Your cheeks are wet. You don’t even know when you started crying. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, your stomach in knots. The weight of the journal suddenly feels too heavy to hold, and yet— you hold onto it still. 

It’s him. Written in those words, oozing through the pages, it’s him. It’s all him. Authentic and true. 

Your watch ticks quietly in the background, barely audible. 

Your vision blurs from your tears, your eyes fluttering shut. 

The world feels different. Like something has shifted, imperceptible to the average person, but so, so clear to you. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whisper out, the words hushed and in almost reverie. 

You set the notebook down gently, back into the water so that only a slight bit of the back cover gets damp. Just as you found it on the second day. 

The clock strikes midnight, a green haze surrounding you. 

A week has passed, yet so much has changed. 

Who knows what may lie in the future?

Mint, and something more.

Chapter Text

The lawman awakens, a faint green light slowly fading behind his eyelids, the soft clutches of sleep gradually loosening and setting him free.

He startles. He’s in the sky. He’s back to being The Giant once again. 

It’s a silly thing to be surprised by. It seems as though his week on the ground has more effect on him than he thought.

Nevertheless, he recovers quickly, stretching his creaky limbs out with a yawn. 

His gaze wanders over to his blue notebook. It’s been odd not feeling its familiar weight. 

He reaches outwards, his fingers drifting over the spine— over the blue heart you endearingly called cute.

Gingerly, his fingers curl, wrapping around to support the book and bring it onto his lap. He flips to the first page. Admittedly, he’s curious as to what you wrote during your time as the mock-militsioner.

He never thought he’d ever get an opportunity to see your handwriting. His finger traces your lettering almost absentmindedly, something buzzing in his heart. It’s so simple— something mundane. And yet, he’s grateful for it nonetheless.

He finds himself pleasantly surprised. Your writing spans across the length of multiple pages, paired with off-handed scribbles and either frowny faces or smiley faces beside every other fine and arrest. 

It makes him smile. He’s seen you write before, sure, but it was something different to actually see the result of it. 

It’s not that his penmanship is messy, per say— objectively, one might say it was actually quite neat. Loopy, near-perfect cursive that looked good letter-by-letter, but looked muddled when put together. 

It contrasted with your own writing, messy, yes, but carefree, yet precise and neat when looked at from afar. 

He wonders if perhaps that’s what the two of you look like. Your writing certainly reflects yourself.

Over the course of the last week he’s watched you up above, sitting idly in what was his usual position. It was odd, being able to physically walk around and walk into buildings. It was something he hadn’t done since his adolescence, and something about it sparked a strange sense of fear in him. His legs had been embarrassingly shaky. He only wondered what the experience might have been like for you.

Were you as scared of the sky as he was the ground? Did your hands shake in the clouds the same way his knees did on cobblestone?

He wishes to know.

If you were scared, you never let it show. You handled his job with surprising grace, after the initial scare wore off you seemed fine. Some citizens who hadn’t been woken up to your blood-curtling scream hadn’t even noticed the change at first. 

He flips a page. Right under where the lines ended lay your words. 

I think I understand why you write in this so much. It's grounding, in a way. :)

It sets his heart aflutter. 

Flip. 

He flips through many more pages. Most are filled with his own handwriting, some with yours. It all comes together as a duet of sorts, one of hastily scribbled notes written beside his idle observations.

His hands linger as he hovers over the last page separating his normal work from his poetry.

A quiet weight settles in the air.

Flip.

His breath catches. 

—

The morning doesn’t come soon enough. He stays up all night, his fingers agonizingly tapping against his leg in a frenzied rhythm that even he doesn't know the tempo of.

A shadow passes by, a mere flash. Yet, his eyes track the movement anyway, his heart already beating out of his chest.

He calls out to you, watching as you whirl around in surprise. It’s early. Too early. It’s no wonder you’re shocked. 

Who could be up this hour? You must be thinking.

He doesn’t care about that.

“Did you read the— did you flip to the last pages?” he questions, his voice gradually increasing in distress.

You freeze, your eyes widened. He can practically see the gears in your head turning, slowly creaking back to life. You seem to turn the words over in your mind, considering them carefully.

It’s agony to wait for your response.

Finally, you open your mouth to speak.

“...Yes.” 

His breath hitches. 

No, no—

“I saw what you wrote,” you say, your words muffled, the ringing in his ears too loud for him to focus on anything else.

His heart stops. Yours words simultaneously act as a relief and as the catalyst for a surging stab in his chest. He chokes, struggles, fights to get the words out of his mouth. Anything. He pleads.

Say anything.

“What did you think of it?” he manages, his voice cracking.

Not that!

His mind races through a million worst-case scenarios. You could scream, you could run— you could never speak to him again.

They all seem too painful to bear. His palms sweat. He didn’t know that there would ever be an opportunity for you to read his writing— and now you have. His declarations of love were far more brave and outgoing on paper than anything he could come up with in reality. 

His tongue feels too big for his mouth.

Now that he’s looking at you, your face illuminated in the pale light— he feels a deep sense of shame. All courage he may have had previously slips through his fingers, dripping uselessly into the ocean below.

You part your lips. “I—”

“You must find me repulsing. I’m sorry. It was never my intention for you to see my words— my feelings.” 

He hates how his voice shakes, and yet he can’t seem to get it to still. 

He’s never been rejected before, but he imagines this is how it feels. His tongue feels bitter, the air around him stifling.

The giant has resigned himself to this fate— he half-expects you to tell him off and run— yet you still attempt to continue in your speech. The urge to cover his ears grows stronger, he doesn’t know if his will is strong enough to hear what you might say.

“Militsioner,” you seem shy. Are you shy? You must be feeling nervous, as much as it hurts to get rejected, rejecting someone else probably doesn’t feel very good either.

He tenses. 

“Don’t be.”  

What?

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, stepping forwards— almost in caution— but in caution regarding yourself, not him. As if you’re holding back.

“I feel the same, Militsioner. I hear you, I see you— I—” your words begin to spill out, increasing in both intensity and speed. “I see past your uniform. I’m not repulsed by your want, my thoughts mirror yours exactly. If I found you disgusting, I’d be a hypocrite.” 

His eyes flicker to your face, searching for any hint of dishonesty, but all he finds in place of it is a bright red coloration and sincerity. 

“Do you mean that?” 

“I do.” 

He doesn’t believe it. His world tilts on an axis, his vision blurring. 

But— when his eyes meet with yours again— the fog seems to clear. 

You’re grounding, in a way.

“In your poetry, you mention your dreams. They don’t have to just be dreams anymore, Militsioner. I want— I want that— I want to create that reality with you.” 

How badly has he wanted to hear that? How many nights, after you had waved him goodbye, did he lie in the water, his heart aching to hear those exact words from your mouth?

Many. Almost every night since you’ve arrived.

“I wish for nothing more,” you finish, your voice hushed. 

“...I can’t believe this is real,” he chokes out, his hand lowering, the tip of his finger grazing you ever so slightly. “I was worried I would ruin things.” 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you say, your eyes softening. “In fact, I— I wish you had said something sooner.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t. Don’t apologize for anything,” you murmur, lowering your head. “We just have to make the most of the time we have now.” 

He’s left with the small yet burning sensation of a pair of lips placed on his fingertip.

—

When you had first seen the green perfume in the display case of the Captain’s shop, you had no idea purchasing it would lead to this.

You find yourself thankful.

Perhaps, one day, another perfume would appear, allowing the both of you to grow to the same size.

But for now, the two of you remain, a giant and his stranger.