12 June 1891 — Fae Ball, Ireland

This was the sort of party Ford would have enjoyed coming to for his own sake, even if he didn't have debutante sisters to ferry around, and he was enjoying himself. He liked poetry, so the performance that afternoon had been just to his tastes. The Irish verses had him wishing he could learn a little Gaelic, because it sounded so pretty and lilting (maybe he could track down Miss Potts from the dance last month and see if she knew any and wanted to teach him). The decor was enchanting, making Ford feel as though he might not mind being stolen away to the land of the fairies. And he looked nice, too; he was just wearing one of his normal suits but Verity had charmed it emerald green, with gold leaves embroidered on the cuffs, because she wouldn't be embarrassed by showing up on the arm of someone who hadn't even tried to dress to theme. He'd rolled his eyes, but secretly he was pleased. He had always loved colorful suits and accessories, but he couldn't justify the expense for himself when he wouldn't be able to wear them regularly. Mama had bought him a little circlet of gold-colored leaves (thankfully not real gold) to wear in his hair, and though he'd protested the expense and called it unnecessary he was a little fond of the way the gold leaves looked in his curls, even if he found himself forgetting he was wearing it and reaching up to push it away from his ears repeatedly throughout the afternoon.

Everything was going well until they reached the dance portion of the evening, and even then the first four or five dances went swimmingly. Verity was charming everyone she met, and Grace hadn't fallen over or anything yet. Ford had danced twice before he caught sight of a familiar head of dark hair. His breath caught in his throat and he missed a step in the dance, causing his partner to give him a concerned look as she struggled to find her footing again.

Obviously he'd known he would see Macnair again after their last conversation. He'd been lucky to have avoided him so far, but he knew it couldn't last. Still, he wasn't sure he was ready to see Macnair. He definitely wasn't sure if he was ready to see Macnair twirl Tatiana Lestrange around the ballroom, or stroll from conversation to conversation with her on his arm. It was even possible that Ford might be forced to talk to the pair of them at some point, and he knew he wasn't ready for that. He managed to finish the dance without further incident and made profuse excuses to his partner, then decided to go find Grace. Having someone else to worry about would keep him from tracking Macnair's movements around the periphery of the ballroom the whole rest of the night, he hoped. This was a big party, with plenty of people in attendance, so there was no reason he had to watch Macnair all night. It was even possible that Macnair had been here for hours without Ford having noticed him yet — but now that he had noticed him he knew he wouldn't be able to tear his thoughts away without something more concrete to put his mind to.

He was obviously still distracted as he moved away from the dance floor and towards the garden patio, though, because he'd forgotten there were steps at the doorway. He missed a step, took his next step too hard to compensate, and felt his ankle roll beneath him in a way it shouldn't have. Shit, he thought, letting out a quiet hiss of breath as he reached for the door frame to steady himself. This was certainly going to put a damper on the evening, and maybe an end to his excursions on the dance floor. Ford took a breath and then walked a little more slowly out onto the patio — or started to, anyway, because as soon as he put that particular foot down he couldn't help but flinch from the pain. Definitely no more dancing, then. He might even need to leave early, if this didn't improve, because there weren't very many places to sit and he wouldn't be much use as a chaperone if he was just parked in a chair the whole evening anyway. Ugh, it was just his luck that the first ball he was actually having fun at for weeks was the one where he wouldn't see the end of the night.

---

He'd won. He had Tatiana on his arm, mother was ecstatic and had paid him more attention over the last two months than she'd paid him in his entire life, and there was no way that Charles Macmillan could come between them now. It was exactly the outcome he'd been hoping for from the moment Macmillan had challenged him to a duel that one day in mid-April, so why did he feel so miserable? The end of his affair with Greengrass was still fresh in his mind, but he refused to believe that was the culprit. He'd gotten over that, just as he'd gotten over his previous lovers when they decided they'd had enough of him. Maybe he was mourning his bachelorhood—that was something he'd heard men did whenever they got engaged. Of course he'd never romanticized the idea of bachelorhood as most men had, because in his mind a wife was a necessity and something to look forward to having, because that meant he could further the bloodline and cement his place in his family. Maybe then it was his bride who, despite checking off nearly every box on his list of traits he required in his wife, had not been too eager to marry him on top of his difficulty in seeing her in more of a wifely light. He could dance with her and lead her around the ballroom all night, but it still felt no different from when he'd done so as her designated chaperone.

At least the hostess had planned the ball with enough substance to take his mind off the newness and awkwardness of it all, and at least engaged men were not barred from dancing with women other than their wives-to-be. It provided reassurance, really—in no woman he'd danced with during the night did he find a spark that he didn't have with Tatiana. Not a spark like he'd had with...

He hadn't meant to focus on him. He hadn't been looking for him, either, because that wasn't something Valerian consciously did after a relationship ended. But he couldn't help it—Greengrass was taller than most men, had a mop of brown curls that was unmistakable in any crowd, and somehow never traveled too far out of sight from the moment Valerian had noticed him. It was definitely a distraction from the awkwardness of Tatiana—but maybe not the type he sought after. Instead of inviting Tatiana or some other woman onto the dance floor after noticing Greengrass, Valerian glued himself to a spot off to the side and watched the couples dance, his eyes too frequently focusing on Greengrass as he twirled some unknown woman around. He wasn't jealous—he couldn't be, not when Greengrass was dancing with some dainty debutante who would never have the other man as he'd once had. Greengrass would never have her as he'd had him, either.

He finally pried his eyes away as the dance ended, but even then found himself following the other man as he walked off the dance floor in the opposite direction. Valerian found himself moving from his spot, trying to follow Greengrass with his eyes as he disappeared behind the crowd of people. Valerian's breath caught in his throat as Greengrass disappeared altogether behind a small group that had gathered in the space between them, but then released it a little too loudly as he reappeared near the exit to the patio. At least he would know where not to go, he told himself—a thought quickly dismissed at the sight of Greengrass stumbling and subsequently limping off to the side.

Valerian had no obligation to help him. He knew that. He really shouldn't, because even though he'd done such a great job of getting over Greengrass he couldn't be certain that Greengrass had had such an easy time. He should find Tatiana, he told himself, trying to pry his gaze away from the spot where Greengrass had just disappeared out of sight and back to the dance floor, but really it was no use. He exhaled loudly through his nose and shook his head before surrendering to the urge to follow.

He pushed the door to the patio open slowly and peeked through the crack in the door. If Greengrass was with someone he wouldn't dare interrupt—but he wasn't. In fact he was all alone, facing the other way a mere few feet from the door letting out a hissing noise that sent a pang to Valerian's chest. Merlin help me, he thought as he pushed the door the rest of the way open.

"Walking on it won't do you any good," he said in a quiet voice as he stepped through the doorway and closed the door quietly. "You need to sit." There weren't many places to sit from the looks of it, though, and someone might notice if he went back into the ballroom in search of a chair for more convenient seating. "Let me—help you."

---

Ford jumped at the sound of someone's voice and glanced over his shoulder. Turning all the way around would have meant putting more weight on his injured foot, and currently it was only barely touching the ground, serving more to keep him balanced than to carry any of his weight. Of all the familiar faces that could have come through the door, this was the one he was least eager to see. If it had been a family member he could have conveyed his plight to them and had them help him to the floo so that he could head home. If it were a friend or even an acquaintance he could have sent them in to go find one of his siblings while he tottered on one foot outside, trying not to do any more damage to his ankle. He couldn't ask Macnair to go and find one of his siblings, though, because that would mean that Macnair would have to talk to one of his siblings, and the idea filled him with a vague sense of dread, even though he knew that was stupid.

What Macnair suggested wasn't much better than sending him in to find one of the other Greengrasses, though. What did he mean by help? Surely he couldn't mean to imply that Ford could lean on his arm, the way that he might have done with his brother in order to get to the floo? As if either of them wanted to be touching each other in such a public setting.

"I'm okay," he insisted, though he really didn't have any alternative plans to propose. There wasn't anywhere nearby to sit, and he wasn't going to try and protest that he could walk just fine when it was already obvious that he couldn't. "I'll just — rest here a second," he decided, indicating the frame of the door and taking a hesitant (painful) step back towards it.

---

He'd worked with enough patients and been through enough breakups to know how this went. Greengrass was clearly not fine, but he probably preferred the pain over talking to him, which—was fine, he told himself even as he felt his chest tighten at the thought. Greengrass could dread being around him all he wanted, and he could even spend the rest of this (probably brief) conversation refusing to acknowledge that they'd ever known each other, but from a healer's perspective Valerian was not about to let him suffer. Not when he had that unfamiliar, strained expression on his face and struggled to step back to the door.

"You'll need more than few seconds of rest," he explained, taking an instinctive step forward to try and steady Greengrass only to pull back when his hand was mere inches from Greengrass' sleeve. "But I can—I know how to help a twisted ankle. If you'll let me." He'd never been so hesitant around a patient before; usually he would insist that he help despite their protests, and usually they would give in because they knew deep down they needed help. With Greengrass it was more than that. There were boundaries set in place now that they weren't... together. He didn't think he'd ever tried to heal an ex-lover before, save for Arthur (but that was a different circumstance entirely).

---

Oh, that sort of help. Now that Macnair had pointed it out Ford felt silly for not realizing what he'd meant more immediately. He knew Macnair was a healer, of course, though presumably his position of authority at the hospital meant he wasn't frequently indulging such trivial matters as men who had forgotten how to walk down a short set of three steps. Ford couldn't deny that having his ankle healed was appealing, though. Macnair hadn't touched him yet, either, so maybe he wouldn't. He'd very pointedly not touched him, in fact, and of course Ford had noticed. He could feel where Macnair's hand would have been on his elbow as clearly as though Macnair hadn't stopped himself first. Ford's stomach did a nervous flip.

Was this as sensitive for Macnair as it was for him? Ford would have assumed no, for most of the time they'd known each other. Macnair was experienced, and confident, and unshakeable; he would hardly be fazed by anything Ford did or didn't do. There was that one moment in their last conversation, however, that made him wonder. The look on Macnair's face right before he'd said go. Ford had thought a lot about the look on Macnair's face in that moment, and now he couldn't help but wonder. Could Macnair feel Ford's skin beneath his fingers just as clearly as Ford could feel the ghost of his touch on his arm?

"Well, alright," he said hesitantly. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up. "If you want," he added quickly, as if eager to give Macnair an out if he changed his mind about the offer.

---

He did want to, yet to admit that out loud would mean admitting the fact to himself, something he wasn't prepared to do while he was still telling himself that he was doing this because it was a shame for someone (even if that someone was Greengrass) to be limping around when he knew how to cure a rolled ankle. "Good," he answered instead, avoiding eye contact as he stepped forward and hesitantly placed his hand around Greengrass' elbow. His fingers tingled against the fabric of his coat, something that should have alarmed him considering that it wasn't even Greengrass' skin—but at that moment he was too worried about watching the way Greengrass reacted to his touch.

"If you can sit down against the wall, it'll be easier to take care of," he said quietly, nodding in the direction of the stone wall that extended a few feet beyond where they stood. It was easier to heal a foot sitting down—easier to heal Greengrass' especially, since he wasn't sure he was emotionally capable of kneeling down on the ground next to Greengrass without being distracted by the memories of their time spent together. Dammit.

---

Macnair had touched him. Ford had known instinctively that this would be disastrous but he hadn't anticipated what an immediate and powerful effect it had had on him. His mind went blank, or at least blank of anything that was happening currently. Instead he was transported back to another moment that had started this way, with Macnair's hand on his elbow when the two of them had been alone at the house in London. Macnair tugging him closer with a self-assured smile on his face, already knowing that Ford wouldn't put up any resistance — the beginning of a laugh on Ford's lips stifled by Macnair's mouth on his. Their hands on each other and the friction of their hips and buttons coming undone and getting too caught up in the feeling of the moment to think of anything else.

This wasn't the time or the place to be reliving a moment like that. Ford couldn't afford to be retracing their time spent together weeks after they'd agreed to stop seeing each other, not when he still spent half his nights as he fell asleep alone wondering what Macnair was thinking or doing at that moment. He certainly couldn't be letting his mind do this in public. He didn't know what it would do to him. And they were already too close, and Ford didn't know how that had happened. Had he leaned in to Macnair without thinking about it when Macnair had touched him, or had Macnair leaned in? Maybe both — when they had been alone their bodies had always responded to each other without either of them having to think about it. What was a benefit then was a detriment now, because they were too close and Ford didn't even know how they'd gotten there. He entirely missed what Macnair was saying, too distracted by their proximity. He took a small step backwards — or rather, tried to. Ford had forgotten about his ankle and stepped back on that foot without thinking, then immediately lost his balance as a jolt of pain reminded him of the injury.

And then he was falling, face flushing furiously before he'd even hit the ground, because honestly! Was it not enough that he'd rolled his ankle on the stairs in the first place, after being so distracted by Macnair that he'd forgotten how to walk? Now he couldn't even stand up without making a fool of himself? Ford might as well have sent all of those pitiful letters he'd been writing and keeping in his desk drawer at home, because it wasn't as though Macnair was going to be fooled into thinking he was handling this well.

---

Valerian sucked in a sharp breath when Greengrass leaned in, and although the logical part of him told him it was an instinctive reaction that came from a need for physical support, half a dozen alarms had started off in his mind saying So close. So close. Right there. Close enough to—. He couldn't let himself finish the thought, not with a heat rising up his neck that was fortunately obscured by the high collar of his shirt. He found himself looking Greengrass dead in the eye, and he was right there, and it was impossible to keep his mind off the things he might have done had they been alone.

Greengrass reacted before he did and began to pull away, and for a moment Valerian had forgotten about the entire reason he'd followed Greengrass out of the ballroom. He loosened his grip, but he couldn't bring himself to let go entirely, but it was loose enough to allow Greengrass enough freedom to move around on his own—something he quickly realized he shouldn't have done, because shit, Greengrass' ankle.

His eyes widened as Greengrass stepped backwards and immediately lost his footing. Valerian scrambled forward and tried to catch Greengrass before he hit the floor, one arm hooking under Greengrass' while his other hand caught him at the waist. He didn't succeed at stopping Greengrass from falling altogether, but Valerian was able to lower him the rest of the way to the ground, although Greengrass' legs slid awkwardly between Valerian's own legs as he hovered above him, trying to help him against the wall. "Careful now," he said quietly, although it was less directed at Greengrass and more at his own clunky movements.

Finally he released Greengrass and stepped back, and for a moment did nothing but stand in silence, his gaze fixated on Greengrass'. "Um, I'll just..." He trailed off and lowered himself to the ground, kneeling at Greengrass' feet and feeling terribly awkward about it. He was right in front of Greengrass, his eyes and hands on his ankle, and he could feel his cheeks ears beginning to burn red because he knew Greengrass was looking at him. How could he not be? Usually he wouldn't mind, and maybe if the situation or time had been different he'd want to be seen, but being here was doing nothing but bringing back memories that left him feeling more sensitive and vulnerable than he liked.

---

If it was possible to die of embarrassment Ford would have been a spirit by now. There was no way he could have survived Macnair catching him and lowering him to the ground at the base of the patio's retaining wall. It was clunky and awkward, and Macnair was touching him all over (really just below his arms but it felt like all over with how hyper sensitive Ford was to the other man at the moment), and his ankle hurt both from the initial step back and from having to change the angle of it as he moved to the ground. And Macnair meeting his eyes — Dead, he was dead. Ford leaned his back against the wall and hoped at the very least this might prevent him from falling over sometime in the next few minutes. Given how this interaction had gone so far, however, he wasn't holding out a good deal of hope. No indignity seemed too large or small to be visited upon him presently. He wished they were alone, but not for all of the reasons he usually did — it was just that if they were alone, he could exclaim oh, for fuck's sake without attracting any extra attention to himself, because Macnair would have understood exactly what he meant.

Ford watched with barely concealed horror as Macnair knelt at his feet. Honestly, how was he supposed to cope with that? With Macnair on his knees and at eye level and still touching him? Ford was only managing it now because Macnair wasn't meeting his eyes, but he knew that couldn't last forever. Here in a second or two Macnair would glance up at him, maybe not even changing the angle of his face — pale blue eyes peering up from beneath dark brows — and Ford was going to lose his damn mind.

He couldn't do it. Ford reached up to run his hands halfway through his hair, knocking the ring of golden leaves askew, and left the heels of his hands covering his eyes. It would be obvious to anyone who glanced this way that he was mortified, but better they think him embarrassed than know how caught up he was in every little detail of Macnair's face.

"...fuck," he muttered under his breath, not because he wanted to communicate the sentiment to Macnair but rather because there was too much emotion rattling around within him to remain entirely silent.

---

Despite the muffled sound of laughter and music and talking coming through the closed door into the ballroom, Valerian heard none of it. All he heard was his own breathing, Greengrass' breathing, and something Greengrass muttered that he didn't pick up on, not because it wasn't audible but because he was trying so hard to avoid looking at any part of Greengrass except the small spot on the man's ankle where the swelling peeked out from under the edge of the pant leg. He stared at the spot, ran his fingers along the skin right underneath the swelling, but wasn't really examining it; in fact his mind was focused on what he wasn't looking at, what he wished he was brave enough to look at. He could see Greengrass move his arm up out of the corner of his eyes, but he didn't dare look, because he knew that there was no way to maintain a façade of apathy when Greengrass was injured and pink at the cheeks.

"You're lucky it didn't break," he said, just to break the silence between them. He still didn't meet Greengrass' eye, and instead tried to concentrate on the actual injury, although doing so with the detail-driven focus of a healer was proving impossible when this was his patient. He carefully rolled up Greengrass' pant leg, exposing the skin, and Valerian was brought back to times he'd laid in bed next to Greengrass, his hands wrapped around his waist and his head against his shoulder while he ran his foot up and down the length of Greengrass' leg. His face fell a bit, but he kept his head tilted down in the hope that Greengrass wouldn't notice. "It's much more difficult to heal a broken ankle... at least without permanent weakness."

His tongue darted out to wet his lips that had gone dry. He'd never thought it would be so hard to talk to an ex-lover like this—but then again, he'd never made a point of talking to his ex-lovers who'd broken up with him, maybe because none of them had never managed to hurt themselves while he was around. It was awkward and a little painful in a multitude of ways—painful because he realized it probably looked like he was following Greengrass, painful because of the awkward fumbling with his hands, and painful because, as reluctant as he was to admit it, he missed Greengrass. Just a little.

Valerian pulled out his wand and finally managed a glance up at Greengrass' face. "The spell makes it crack again. Tell me if it hurts."

---

The only consolation in this situation was Macnair's competence as a healer, which meant this interaction was going to be brief. Ford could focus on that and try to block out everything else about this. He could count through the seconds until his ankle was functioning again and he could make his escape and he didn't have to look at Macnair while he worked, and he didn't have to make conversation. He just had to breathe through this and manage to not fall over for about one more minute. One. He had to breathe and not fall over and also not think about Macnair's hands on his bare skin. Two. Good that it hadn't broken. Ford agreed but lacked the mental capacity to respond to that; if he opened his mouth he wasn't sure that what came out at this point would even be words.

Three. Macnair was rolling up his pant leg slightly and that was making Ford's chest feel tight and panicky, so that was another thing he had to do besides breathing and not falling over: he had to very intentionally block that out. Four. Macnair was talking again and Ford supposed he heard him, but it might as well have been a foreign language for how well he took in the meaning of the phrases. Five; a spell, he understood that part. That was a relief, because it meant they were one step closer to being done with —

"Ow! That's —" The words escaped him before he could think about it and he dropped his hands from his face so that he could ball his fists on the ground on either side of him, sucking in a pained breath. The flash of pain from his ankle was followed almost immediately by a wave of regret; he was embarrassed by the severity of his reaction and clamped him mouth shut before he could say more. "Sorry," he said after a second, with a sheepish look at Macnair. Merlin, he wanted to die. "Yes, that — hurts."

---

The spell was really a series of spells, one after another meant to undo the damage done and then rid of the pain. Unfortunately that meant causing more pain before it could be completely healed, because the ankle had to be moved in a way that someone with a sprained ankle tried to avoid moving it. The little yelp of pain gave him pause, and he looked up from the ankle with a brief look of alarm that quickly settled back into sympathy as Greengrass apologized.

"No, I'm sorry," he replied, his hand mindlessly caressing the space around the swelling with his fingertips. Only when he moved to resume his spell-casting did he realize how he'd been touching Greengrass, and his fingers froze against Greengrass' skin. His wand hand was shaky, and it was annoying for more than one reason; of course he hated how nervous this made him, but trying to heal with a shaky hand was never ideal. Luckily he was taking extra care because of who his patient was. He waited until he steadied his hand before he resumed, this time casting a spell to bring down the swelling.

"You shouldn't dance on it—not tonight, at least," he advised, caressing the formerly swollen area, this time out of a need to check to make sure the swelling had disappeared entirely rather than affection. Still, it didn't seem to matter to his body. The touch sent little jolts up his fingers and into his knuckles, and in the back of his mind he yearned to touch Greengrass elsewhere. His arm, maybe. His jaw. The curve of his neck, where he'd placed so many kisses...

But he couldn't, and it was silly of him to let such a thought cross his mind. Stupid of him, even. It was over. That's why Greengrass was acting so nervous—this was awkward for him, because he was being forced to endure a healing from the man he'd broken up with. He didn't want to see him, because if he had he would have contacted him by now or something, so their reasons for being nervous were definitely not the same.

He cast another spell, this time to rid any remaining pain. "Tell me how you feel now."

---

Putting his hands down and meeting Macnair's eyes had broken the spell Ford was trying to cast on himself to block out every painful part of this interaction, so when Macnair brushed his thumb against his leg Ford was utterly defenseless. His mouth went dry and his chest felt tight again. That was a caress, not just a touch. That wasn't fair at all. I miss you Ford thought, and the words made it all the way to the tip of his tongue before he bit them back. Macnair had focused his attention back on Ford's ankle, which meant that now Ford was looking at his face from an angle. He couldn't say it, but he could stare at Macnair for a moment while his eyes were elsewhere and wallow in it: I miss you, I want you, I miss you.

What Macnair was doing to his ankle hurt, but he didn't want to let on about what a low pain tolerance he had, so he bit the inside of his lip hard to keep from making any further noise of protest. Low pain tolerance — that really summed him up, didn't it? It could explain away all those unsent letters in his desk at home. Not handling this well, but he didn't want anyone to notice; didn't want his hurt to intrude on anyone or inconvenience anyone. It wouldn't have made any difference anyway.

And Macnair wanted to know how he felt. Miserable, that was how he felt. His ankle had nothing to do with it.

Ford swallowed and flexed his foot slightly. "Better," he answered, voice thick.

---

Better. It was both a relieving and heart-wrenching phrase, because Greengrass' ankle being better meant he didn't have much of a reason to linger around, did he? No reason at all, really. He hadn't been invited to talk to Greengrass, and no pleasantries had even been exchanged during this short meeting, so there was no reason to believe he was allowed to linger. Who knew how long it would be before he spoke to Greengrass—or if he'd ever speak to Greengrass again? There was the pain again, right in his chest. The uncomfortable tightness that was accompanied by shallow, unsteady breathing. It was the pain he tried so hard to avoid, which is why he usually didn't do this. Yet he couldn't regret approaching Greengrass, couldn't regret the small glances they'd exchanged and the touching he knew he'd think about while he lied in bed tonight, because Greengrass had been hurt and he'd have regretted it more if he'd left the other man to suffer through the pain.

He couldn't meet Greengrass' gaze now, though, not when he had no further reason to. Or at least he told himself that, because as he rose from his kneeled position and stood in front of Greengrass', his shadow enveloping the entire of Greengrass' body as it sat against the wall, he found himself looking down at him. "Try to get up," he found himself ordering in spite of himself, not sure it came from the side of him that wanted to make sure Greengrass was actually better or if he wanted one last chance to stand in front of him before they parted ways.

---

Macnair stood up and lingered there a second, instead of bolting from the area as Ford probably would have had their positions been reversed. Maybe Macnair wasn't as eager to leave, because maybe this wasn't as bad for him. Well, it couldn't be as bad for him, because he wasn't the one making himself look like a clumsy idiot. Aside from that, though, there was a whole spectrum of how Macnair might have been feeling and Ford had no idea where to place him on it. Miserable, too? Was his skin lighting up at every touch, chest aching with insatiable longing? Or was he entirely unaffected, smug and superior? Looking up at him from the ground, Ford could almost believe that. He looked unassailable with the light from the ballroom flowing around his head like a halo. Maybe he even knew what sort of effect that caress would have on Ford — maybe he was doing this on purpose. The thought occurred to Ford without any sort of anger or malice towards Macnair. How could he resent Macnair for teasing him, seducing him? He might as well be angry at an owl for swooping down to seize a mouse. It wasn't a cruel act — only its nature.

Ford got to his feet hesitantly, putting weight slowly on his newly-healed ankle to test that it was going to hold. It was a little tender, but no longer painful. The admonishment to avoid dancing seemed like sound advice, and Ford intended to follow it. He didn't know what else he was going to do the whole night except desperately try not to keep track of where Macnair was at every given moment, but — one bridge at a time.

"Thank you," he said, softly and sincerely. He almost didn't want to meet Macnair's eyes but forced his gaze up for just a moment, with a sad sort of half-smile on his lips. "You didn't have to do that."

---

Every muscle in his body stilled as Greengrass rose to his feet, and for the first time that night Valerian felt the urge to flee. He'd felt a similar urge before, when Greengrass had seen his boggart, or when Greengrass had built up their last conversation that Valerian knew was leading to the end of their affair. This urge was different, though—he was afraid of what he'd see in Greengrass' eyes. Indifference, or maybe pity. Maybe more terrifying of all was the prospect of seeing his own expression of sadness and longing mirrored, because what could he do with that?

In the end the thank you was even more painful than the sad half-smile that followed, because it was so soft and tender and Valerian couldn't be sure if he'd said it like that to convey a general sincerity or if it came with a deeper meaning that he was a afraid to read into. Valerian found that he couldn't tear his gaze away, couldn't move his arms, couldn't say anything at all in return; all he could do was think of course I had to do and then wonder why he felt that way when all the evidence pointed to the contrary.

"I know," he finally said, feeling as though minutes had passed when it couldn't have been more than ten, maybe fifteen seconds.

---