to tell the truth
He went to a drawer and pulled out an old sweatshirt, something he usually wore when he was planning his post-Halloween relaxation in his study. It had been a gift from Kurt, and proudly proclaimed him part of the Sleepy Hollow Equestrian Club, complete with the silhouette of a Headless Horseman.
“Here, Grace,” he said, handing it over.
“Thanks,” she said, looking between him and Clea and blushing redder than any rose. “I'm just going to get this on, maybe rinse the blood from my mouth.”
He'd need to fix that, later. When he had his own head straight.
As soon as the door to his bathroom closed, Clea perched on the arm of his chair and studied him.
“She seems sweet,” she said, finally, as if she hadn't been watching her ass as Grace scurried away. He'd remember that, if only because that damn dream from last night was now playing in his head.
“She's a hurricane in heels,” he shot back, fondness in his voice. “In other, less unfortunately timed circumstances, I'd think you'd like each other. Though it's probably best she doesn't have your knack for making your opinions on uninvited guests known.”
“Ah, is Captain Rogers still sore about the incident when he...” Clea drifted off, trying to hide a smile.
“You teleported him to Brooklyn,” Stephen shook his head. He was surprised that none of the other Avengers had heard the story. If they had, they would have called Stephen out on downplaying his relationship with Clea.
“It was midnight and nothing was on fire,” she said, propping her elbow on her thigh and leaning forward. She had a cat's ability for uncomfortable seeming ways to sit, he remembered. “You were terrible at trying to insist that people have basic decency when it came to asking you for help.”
Stephen reflected on that. “Given the duties of my position, I cannot turn away someone coming for help.”
“Delegation exists, Stephen,” she teased. “As does the fact that you do need time to relax. Being ever-ready is a good way to be defeated by the time an emergency actually does occur.”
“Ah, but with the super-hero types, the most harmless things can suddenly turn into apocalyptic events,” he pointed out, settling back onto the bed, taking a moment to regain his balance. At least it seemed like the changes had stopped for now. “I do owe you an apology, for how I acted then.”
Clea started at that. “I wasn't sure you knew how to apologize.”
“Very funny,” he said, narrowing his eyes. Grace hadn't come out of the bathroom- either blood had gotten in her hair or she was trying to give them space. “I can apologize, I just... don't, most of the time. But I was an ass.”
“You were,” she said, slowly. “You hurt me deeply.”
“I did,” he agreed. “I was... afraid.”
He owed her this truth, if nothing else.
“Afraid?” Clea's tone was shockingly hard to read- she'd been so good at wearing her heart on her sleeve, her attempts at hiding her emotions read even more clearly.
“I... was a terrible person, before my accident,” he said, pinching his nose. Grace was probably listening in, and he really couldn't blame her for it. “Selfish, uncaring, greedy... ambition and pride and very little else.” He sighed. “It drove people away- I lost my fiance, because I was too self-absorbed to listen to her.”
“You aren't that man anymore, though,” Clea said, tilting her head. “I've been told that people can change for the better. Worlds can change, even.”
He couldn't stop the smile at that- he remembered telling her that, when she'd worked herself into a shadow and he'd helped her bind up a nasty slash she'd been too tired to block. “It's true. But I also am always going to be on the lookout for being that person again. And occasionally... I overreact.”
Clea still looked puzzled, and he continued, ignoring how much he'd been content to swallow down these words forever.
“I had realized that... there had been discussion, among some of the people with you...” he took a deep breath. “They assumed you were going to ask me to stay with you.”
Her eyes went very wide, and she bit her lip.
“I would have said yes,” he continued, trying not to claw his hands into the comforter. It would be annoying later if he clawed it up. “I would have tossed aside every responsibility I had. It would have been a deeply selfish action on my part, and it might have...”
“You were afraid it would make you back into that man,” she said slowly, “that you'd be right back there.”
“You deserved better,” he said, feeling faintly miserable. “And I wasn't able to prevent it.” He crossed his legs, trying not to look at the evidence of the curse. “I've since learned that swerving to reflexive self-denial is merely the other side of the same coin.”
“You were very hurtful,” Clea said, after a long pause.
“That was the intent,” he admitted. “I wanted you to hate me.”
She gave a little laugh. “It takes more than harsh words to do that. Especially,” she added, and he could see a familiar and joy-inducing set of sparks on her. “As some mysterious stranger made a point of rescuing captured rebels.”
He was blushing, he knew it. “Well, you see...”
Her laugh this time was bright and loud, and made the awkwardness worth it. “Now, let's see what can be done about this mess.”
Grace peeked out around the bathroom door, trying not to look between them. “All good?”
He nodded, trying to figure out what to tell her. “All good.”
~
Clea went to examine the puzzle box, and he placed a hand on Grace's shoulder to hold her back.
“She's your ex?” Grace said, slumping.
“She is,” he said, leaning against the wall.
“And you still have feelings for her?” Grace sounded small. Not angry, just... defeated. He wondered a bit at the vulnerability there- she must have had bad experiences with people finding out she was baobhan sith, but fae princesses didn't usually work in the mortal world, even if they weren't the heir.
“For both of you,” he said, figuring honesty seemed to be working so far this afternoon.
She studied him for a long moment, shadows playing over her face. Her ears were flat against her skull, and her one hand was bunched in the sweatshirt. “What's your plan, then?”
“Breaking the curse,” he said, shrugging. “Other than that... I still need to see what happens.”
There was still something fragile in the way she held herself, and he needed to explain everything, only it didn't quite make sense to himself, and he allowed himself the one thing he could do to make the important thing clear to her.
He pulled her close, somehow managing to turn so he was bracing her against the wall. She'd never put her heels back on, and with her legs wrapped around his hips her toes didn't touch the ground.
“Are you...” she started, before he kissed her, trying to show her exactly how little he intended to let her go. Not when she made a shockingly delicate, breathy noise when he nipped at her neck, the way her breathing stuttered.
“No matter what,” he said, that growl back in his voice, and given her little gasp at that, it helped, “I am not letting you go. Sweet siren,” he said, digging into the generous curve of her ass, making her buck against him. “you are mine, and have been since you nearly murdered me with a shovel.”
“I did not nearly murder you with a shovel,” she hissed, but her nails were gently raking his scalp, and he leaned into the touch. “I didn't even hold it.”
“Semantics,” he said, not letting her go even though he knew Clea would wonder why they'd stopped.
Though her coming in... he'd noticed the way Clea'd looked at her. It might actually get his mad little desire out in the open, sweet wicked Grace on her knees and him worshipping Clea with his mouth...
...and then sense crashed into him, and he gave Grace a last kiss before helping her down.
She seemed dazed, a pleased part of his mind noted, even as she tried to straighten her skirt.
“Right, you... um,” she blinked, and sounded slightly strangled. “I'm not entirely certain- was that you or the curse?”
“Both?” he said, pushing his hair back. “I have a habit of over-complicating things when I try to discuss emotions.”
She nodded. “So you decided on the direct approach, got it.” She straightened a small stand with an old pile of books she must have kicked at. “But you haven't told Clea this yet.”
“Not yet,” he said. “We haven't spoken in five years, and... I ended it badly.”
“Did you want this as a v-shaped relationship or all three?” she asked, strolling towards the study.
He blinked, and looked at her.
“I'm not immune to the fact that she's hotter than the surface of the sun,” Grace's grin was wicked. “I do have to complement your taste in women. And the Courts are... not the way humans are about sex.” She raised an eyebrow. “Also, we had less Puritans setting laws.”
“Right,” he said. “Let's see how it goes.”
He couldn't ignore the pulse of excitement at her words as they entered the room.
Clea looked them over, and he didn't miss the faint blush on her face. “I can tell you that this is made here.”
“Mortal make,” Grace said, leaning over the desk to see it better. “Bronze is pretty well known as a fae tool, but the spellwork engraved isn't fae.”
Clea nodded. “I suspect it was human hands working with power granted from Dormammu, which means it is at least a few years old.” She winced. “It should be.”
“It would be...” Stephen calculated the dates. “Alistair received it four years ago, from what we can tell.” And Dormammu had been properly bound about a year after his fight with Clea. “Please tell me this curse isn't to hollow me out as a shell for him to escape.”
“It doesn't match his form,” Clea said, doubtfully. “To be honest, Stephen, the timing is the only reason to think that. And I don't believe he really thought he could lose.”
Stephen nodded, “That's good.”
“And it certainly doesn't match your behavior,” Clea murmured, and he suspected he'd not been meant to hear that. Unfortunately, it seemed the curse had improved his hearing and Grace's was better than normal.
“I wonder,” Grace said slowly, looking at the ribbons. “Why make you a shell, and waste the compulsion spells, when it can make you his transformed puppet?”
Clea went white as her hair. “That does match his motives. So he sent it out, and once the curse took hold, you would be compelled to release him and serve as his...”
“Pet monster,” Stephen said. “He'd set me to hunting all of you down.” A chill ran down his spine, even if he'd suspected the plan had been to make an example of him.
“I'm really, really glad I accidentally broke that compulsion now,” Grace said, wincing.
“But that leaves the question,” Clea said, staring at the box as if it would provide her an answer if she willed it hard enough, “what has happened to you, Stephen? And where does it end?”