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(:)(A)(:)

What's in a Name

by AbsentAngel

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The first time she sees him, her home is on fire.

Flames are clawing up the walls, smoke blacking the ceiling. She coughs into the sleeve of her lace trimmed nightgown and tries to stifle her sobs long enough to scream for her mother. She is only ten years old, and the only thing she remembers from the fire safety course last year is to stop, drop, and roll. She's not on fire, but after a few moments of running aimlessly around her room and choking on smoke, she sinks to the ground anyway. It is easier to breathe down there. The room is filling with smoke and through the cackling and popping of the flames she can just barely make out the sound of the frantic voices of the staff on the other side of the wall.

Again, she screams for help but the smoke gags her. The air is so hot that she feels her lungs blister with every breath she takes. Most of her room has been engulfed, and the ceiling is starting to rain down blackened sheets of drywall—hitting the floor like a bomb. She knows she should move but she doesn't know where to go. Her bedroom door was long since engulfed by the greedy flames, and the only window is blocked - her pink velvet curtains have long since turned into two towering pillars of heat and flames. There isn't nearly enough room for her to get through. On her hands and knees she crawls under her bed, because it seems to be the only safe place left.

Her face shines with a mixture of sweat and tears as she presses her cheek against the wood floor. She gasps for breath, lungs burning for oxygen. The edges of her vision are starting to go black and she forces herself to take larger gulps of ash-laden air. When she calls out again her voice is dry and cracks with every syllable. Still, she forces the words out in a coughing wheeze. "Please! I don't—want to die!" More tears slip down her cheeks, she can almost feel them evaporating on her flushed skin. The voices on the other side of the wall have faded, and all she hears now is the hissing and popping as the fire consumes.

Her eyes, already burning from the heat and smoke, begin to feel heavy and she feels the overwhelming urge to sleep. Slowly, she blinks, and when her eyes reopen she sees something that wasn't there before. By the curtains she sees a man.

She should be suspicious of the fact that the smoldering heat and open flames seem to have no effect on him—but she isn't. With every last bit of strength, she tries to drag herself toward him. She only makes it to the foot of the bed. He doesn't see her, she knows he doesn't, because he is humming and eating the flames licking up her curtains. "Help," she pleas, but it is only a weak hiss of air passing her chapped lips.

His dark eyes snap to hers, an alarmed expression parting his lips, before her world fades to black.

A week later she wakes up surrounded by clean white floors and starched linens. There is a mask strapped to her face and wires taped to her skin, and dazedly realizes she is in a hospital. She expects her mother to be there, but it is Ms. Spetto that comes rushing to her bedside; tears following the deep wrinkles around her mouth as her time worn hands gently cup Lucy's cheeks. Her lips move around the same words, over and over again. By the fourth time she repeats it, Lucy is able to wade through the fog of painkillers enough to understand.

"I'm so sorry."

Lucy is ten years old, and the day she wakes up—relieved to be alive—is the day she finds out her mother is dead.

X

The second time she sees him it is at Burning Man.

She is twenty-one and so out of her league, but a classmate convinced her to come along. She is angry and determined to rebel against her father in every way possible so she does. It takes her a day and five semi-permanent coloring kits to get her hair ready. Cana (her classmate) helps her dye some of the blonde strands into rainbow colored streaks. Lucy admits that she's concerned about the turn out at first, but now that she has the colored strands weaved into two French braids she is more than happy with her decision.

Everyone seems so bright and full of color, so full of life. She is lost in a sea of costumed bodies, sky high sculptures, cleverly modified "cars", friendly smiles, and booze. Lots of booze. The sun is mercilessly hot, and she knows that her shoulders will likely be burned even through her sunscreen (and the thick layer of dust she had accumulated from her traditional virgin roll in the dirt upon her arrival). It is nothing like she has ever experienced, and she is glad that Cana convinced her to come.

Her friend disappeared hours ago—Lucy assumes she is probably back in the tent doing she-doesn't-even-want-to-know-what with her boyfriend. She takes a drag of her beer and shivers when she finds it is still cold. The bikini top and shorts she is wearing do little to keep her warm, but she knows that once she joins the throng of dancers she will probably be wishing for the cold.

Night descends and people are lit up with any and every possible glow-in-the-dark accessory imaginable. The large sculptures dotting the desert are aglow with a mixture of Christmas lights and LEDs, but the one in front of her is a cacophony of large billowing flames that—if not for the smoke and heat—would almost look like clouds. Adrenaline pumps through her veins, quickening her pulse as she is torn between fear and awe and the towering flames. She has made sure to find a spot upwind to avoid the smoke, but she can still feel her breathing beginning to tighten. Her asthma doesn't flare up often, but when it does smoke is usually the culprit; fitting since it was the burning air and toxic smoke she inhaled when she was ten that gave her the condition in the first place. She reaches for the inhaler she stacked in her front pocket—just to be safe.

Then she sees him.

He is everything she remembers and everything she has forgotten. He sits on the crude arm of the sculpture, grabbing handfuls of flames and slurping it up as if it were soup. She can't hear anything over the music, but his leg swings idly to the beat and, somehow, she can almost hear him humming along.

Lucy goes still—frozen in a sea of moving bodies. A man next to her asks if she's ok, but she barely registers it. By the time she does, he's already laughing her off has having a good trip. She watches as he disappears into the crowd, hoping that when she looks the fire eating man will have disappeared.

He hasn't.

He's staring right at her, with those eyes she remembers most. The same startled expression parting his mouth; fire painting him in orange, red light.

Her inhaler drops. Lucy runs. Maybe she is on a bad trip—maybe someone put something in her drink—but she doesn't care. Even if it isn't real, it's real to her. She doesn't want to stare at the face that has haunted her for more than a decade. The face she has told no one about, because even as a ten year old she knew better than to believe in strange men that eat fire like it's a meal.

Adrenaline is making her pulse race and her mind foggy. She should have ran back to her tent—Cana's boyfriend being there or not—but instead she finds herself surrounded by cold, empty desert with the fire (and other people) at her back. The air she gulps down is cold, but she knows the goosebumps dotting her exposed skin are from far, far more than just the temperature. There are a hundred of things she should be worried about—snakes, coyotes, real men that might see her as an easy target—but all she can think of is dark eyes and flames and the wheezing in her chest.

She forces herself to stand upright, dutifully recalling her doctor's instructions should she have an attack without her inhaler, and tries to calm her racing heart and reign in her short, gasping breaths. It's just her mind playing tricks, she tells herself. Just childhood trauma coming back to haunt her. It was a big fire, she should have known it would trigger a reaction. Really, what had she expected? Only, each inhale of cold, dry air seems to only make the pain in her chest coil tighter; every breath shorter.

Suddenly the fire-eater is the least of her concerns. She has to turn around—has to find the spare inhaler she has stashed in her duffle bag. If she doesn't—if she passes out, here, in the dark corner of desert—she won't live to see the sunrise.

She turns, squeaking out a scream when she finds a face not a foot away from her's. A face that, even in the darkness, she recognizes.

He tilts his head, brow furrowing as he watches her gasp. His hand wraps around her neck, too light to bruise but too firm for her to escape. Fear prompts her to claw at his hand, fighting against his hold, but then something strange happens.

The coil in her chest loosens, the whistle in her breathing stops. She can breathe.

Lucy's heartbeat thunders in her ears, but as his hand retreats her breathing slows, deep and measured and so blessedly normal it's shocking. She stumbles backward, tripping and falling on her bottom, but she is too numb to do anything else but stare. She doesn't know what he did but she knows it saved her life, and she isn't sure how she should process that. "How?" she asks, the word cutting through the silence.

He crouches down, head tilted and eyes curious. "You can see me?"

Lucy swallows, trembling. She doesn't dare repeat her question. "Am I not supposed to?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, he gives a small, perplexed shrug. "I don't know. No one has before."

"That's a lie," she murmurs, before she can think better of it. But he doesn't seem offended. "I saw you. You were eating the curtains."

He recoils, disgusted. "Gross! Who the hell would eat curtains?!"

"They were on fire," she says, confidence growing the longer she sits there. He hasn't hurt her—he's never hurt her—and she gets the feeling that he never will. Why would he bother saving her otherwise? Her vision has begun to adjust to the dark, and he seems much less scary now that he's more than a shadow. The pink hair helps too. "I was a little girl, and I saw you."

"Yeah," he murmurs, seeming torn between awe and complete confusion. The way he looks at her is disconcerting… like he doesn't know what she is, even though she's the one that should be perplexed. "How'd you do that?"

Her shoulders lift into a weak shrug. Beneath her the ground is still relatively warm from soaking up the sun's heat all day, but even that is rapidly leaving, and she shivers—teeth on the verge of chattering now that some of the adrenaline has waned. "I didn't do anything," she grumbles, sitting up and rubbing her arms with her palms. "You were just, there, and I saw you."

Glancing at her hands, he frowns. "Why are you doing that?"

"What?"

"That thing with your hands. And the shaky thing."

"Because I'm cold? It's cold out here."

"It is?" He looks around, as if temperature is something that can be seen instead of felt. "Huh. Guess I didn't notice." His feet lift, crossing underneath him, and it's as if gravity has ceased to exist. Perhaps, for him, it never has. In the dark, his eyes burn inhumanly bright. "What's your name?"

A warning trill traces her spine. Lucy doesn't remember all of her mother's teachings, but she remembers this: names have power. Back then it was merely a rule for storybooks; realms with magic and fae instead of electricity and cars. Still, her mother's voice rings, clear as day, that one can never be too careful. "What's yours?"

His grin is wide, almost approving, as he laces his fingers behind his head. "You know, you really are the only one that can see me. Do you see other things too?"

Lucy stares at him, a sudden swell of emotion stirring in her chest. "I thought I imagined you," she says, barely above a whisper. "No one could tell me how I got out of the house. You... you did that, didn't you? You saved me?"

He shifts, looking uncomfortable. Mouth parting, he's on the verge of offering an answer when his body tenses—eyes snapping to the dying flames yards away. He frowns, looking genuinely disappointed. "Well, damn. Guess this is goodbye."

Lucy shakes her head, "Wait! You didn't answer—"

He flips something toward her: a coin, gold and glinting despite the darkness. Out of instinct, she catches it. The metal is inhumanly warm and unnaturally bright, and it momentarily shocks her into silence. When she looks up he is sending her a dimpled grin.

"Call me!"

Then, between one blink and the next, he's gone; and Lucy wonders how she could possibly call when she doesn't even know who or what he is.

X

The third time she sees him, her shoulders and cheeks are still burnt from the Nevada sun, but she is at least in the privacy of her own home.

Her father has always thrown money at problems to make them go away, and Lucy is no exception. It is easier for him to shower her with gifts through the mail than to shower her with time, and though it still sends a shot of bitterness through her heart she has learned to at least appreciate the practicality of his seemingly endless pocketbook. The cozy two-story Tudor style home he bought her, just around the corner from her college campus, is particularly well loved.

The wallpaper is old—some of it even original—and peeling in some places, and the oak floors speak back to her with every step, but she loves the warmth it provides; so unlike the cold, polished marble homes of her youth.

There are multiple fireplaces. Lucy has never used them, but she considers them thoughtfully now; despite it being the heat of summer. She rubs the coin between her fingers restlessly.

She lights a match—hesitating long enough to feel the heat brush her fingertips—before flicking it into the fireplace. The crumpled balls of paper take a moment to catch, but once it does the fire flares to life; the flames licking at the bricks. But nothing changes and she frowns—disappointed.

In her front pocket, the golden coin hums; emitting a heat she can feel even through the denim of her jeans. She pulls it out, stares at her reflection in the polished surface, and wonders. Her eyes flick to the fireplace, considering, and tosses the coin into the flames.

She stares, waiting for something (anything) to happen. After a few long seconds she begins to think nothing will, but then—between one blink and the next—he's there, bouncing on the pads of his bare feet and a dimpled grin stretched ear to ear.

"Bout time! What took you so long?"

Lucy sits, practically falling into her favorite wingback chair, and stares up at him in disbelief. "I... can't believe that worked."

He links his hands over his head, stretching. Lucy tries not to notice the way his muscles flex beneath his open vest. Perhaps it was a mistake calling on him during the day. Between the harsh shadows the Burning Man fire cast and the desert darkness, she had failed to realize how inhumanly handsome he is.

A pink eyebrow raises questioningly. "Well, why wouldn't it?"

Lucy flushes. She prays to whatever the hell god is listening that he didn't notice her staring and forces herself to focus on the conversation instead of his pecs. "Why would it?!"

He opens his mouth, but whatever answer he was preparing to give her is cut off by the dimming flames in the hearth. "Don't let it die!" he yelps, bordering on panic. "Throw something in there! Quick! If the fire dies, the door shuts!"

Hastily, she looks around for something to toss in but it wasn't like she was prepared for any of this. She doesn't buy firewood—why would she when this is the first time she's ever dared to use her fireplace—and the crumpled pieces of paper she had lit were just junk mail. "I don't have anything else!"

He growls, an inhuman sound for an inhuman man, and points to the stack of books on her side table. "There!"

Lucy blanches. "That's my history textbook!"

"Who cares!? They got most of it wrong anyway!" he snaps. The last of the flames is retreating into the embers. "Hurry!"

It is a testament to her stress level that her sanity lapsed enough to throw her three-hundred dollar textbook to its fiery grave. She watches, gaping, as it catches—a whooshing pillar of ink fed flames.

Delighted, her guest tastes a sample and makes a face. "Geeze, did no one teach you how to build a fire? You kinda suck at this."

Lucy's face hardens. "I try to avoid it."

"Why would you so that?! Fire is awesome! It cooks stuff and keeps people warm—"

"It killed my mother."

His smile falls. "Oh."

Silence presses down on them, so awkward it's stifling. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she gathers her courage to ask the question that's haunted her for years. "You were there," Lucy whispers, her heart aching. "Why didn't you save her too?"

He rubs the back of his neck, unable to meet her gaze, but there is an apology in his voice. "I can't interact with people of this plane—I don't really exist here."

Lucy shakes her head. "But you saved me."

Frowning, he crosses his arms over his chest. "Well yeah. Wasn't going to leave ya there."

She can't tell if he's being oblivious or stubborn, but her frustration rises regardless. "But I'm from this plane."

He raises an eyebrow. "Are you?"

"Of course I am!"

He doesn't argue, but his stare is pointed. Knowing. When he shrugs it feels placating. "Ok."

Lucy feels like it's anything but, and when the fire starts to die she doesn't feed it.

X

She doesn't see him for another three months.

Honestly, she hadn't planned on calling on him at all, but it's Christmas Eve and all her friends have fled the campus and returned home for the holidays. Christmas is a holiday she hasn't fully celebrated since her mother died. She remembers that the Heartfilia mansion used to be so lit up with lights and garlands it would glow from the street. Ms. Spetto liked to joke that it could probably be seen from the moon.

The fresh scent of pine and the magic of the holiday left with her mother, though, and her father has never so much as put a wreath up since. When Lucy was in the dorms she would try to add a bit of cheer, but it always paled in comparison to the grandness of her childhood memories. When she received the keys to her home, Lucy vowed to go all out come Christmas.

Garlands drape over the fireplace mantels and twine between the railings of the staircase. The Douglas fir she had to physically wrestle into submission sits—slightly leaning—in the corner of the living room, lit up in row upon row of white lights and branches heavy with the glass ornaments she found at the superstore around the corner. The fire is crackling merrily in the fireplace, and a mug of hot cocoa warms her palms.

It is all picture perfect—something straight off a holiday card.

It feels hollow. Forced.

Lonely.

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, quelling its quivering. She doesn't want to spend her Christmas alone; not again.

From the fireplace mantle, partially hidden behind the heavy garland, the gold coin winks at her. She stares at it until her cocoa grows cold; torn between the desire to fill the emptiness in her heart and being sensible enough to know better than to invite a strange being into her home (again) for no other reason than to have some company.

Lucy considers herself to be logical, for the most part, but right now she's tired of putting responsibility first. Right now, she wants to take a page out of Cana's book and just say fuck it.

She stands, making a beeline to the dining room and fishing out a bottle of Kahlua from the back of the alcohol cabinet. Dumping a generous amount into her (now cold) hot chocolate, she doesn't even bother to stir before taking a several gulps. It slides down her throat, smooth and warm, before settling in her stomach. It feels like courage, or perhaps it's simply recklessness. Either way, she takes the smooth faced coin from the mantle and tosses it into the fire before she can talk herself out of it.

He takes longer this time—a good three blinks—but when he arrives there is a holly crown weaved into his hair and a pink flush to his cheeks. His clothes are different from all the times before; finer. High collared and made from a golden material that reflects the flickering light of the fire. "Hey," he breathes, an excited (relieved?) smile pulling at his lips. "I didn't think you'd call."

For a moment she can only gape at him; struck by how otherworldly—how Fae—he looks. "Um, I, well. I just thought... you know, it's Christmas?" She pales, realization dawning as fast as her embarrassment. "Oh, but, you wouldn't celebrate Christmas. Would you?"

The chuckle he gives is light, and blessedly unoffended. "Nah, can't say I do." He gestures to his clothing. "But we go all out for the Winter Solstice. So similar deal, right? With the whole eat, drink, and be merry and whatnot?"

Despite the alcohol making her thoughts fuzzy, Lucy has enough presence of mind to know better than to invite a conversation of religion with a near stranger (let alone a mythical being) so she nods. "Uh, yeah. I guess so." Then it clicks, and she feels her face heat. "Oh, you were—did I interrupt the, uh, merrymaking?"

He waves a hand. "Don't worry about it. I was getting sick of seeing Ice Prick's smug face anyway. He's always an extra pain in the ass this time of year."

She blinks, but decides she really doesn't want to know. "Oh. Well then, um, would you like some hot cocoa?"

His answering smile is boundless; bright with an enthusiasm that Lucy knows is worthy of far more than what she's offered.

X

For the remainder of winter break, Lucy lights a fire in the living room hearth every evening.

She never enjoys it alone.

X

Cana looks at her strangely when she returns from break, eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"

Lucy frowns, sitting in the seat beside her. The coffee shop is busy, but the line is mostly frantic to-go orders of students who hit the snooze one too many times. The sitting area is practically empty saved for two or three others. "I missed you too? How's your dad?"

"Drunk," Cana says without a beat, her lips thinning. "Seriously, though. What'd you do? Your aura is freaking me out."

Lucy doesn't typically put too much faith in the idea of psychics, but Cana's has a history of being uncannily right about things she doesn't have any business knowing. Also, she's sorta made friends with a fae over Winter Break so who is she to judge? "What are you talking about?"

Cana rests her chin in her palm, a painted fingernail tapping thoughtfully against her cheek. "You're... bright."

Raising an eyebrow, Lucy tried to interpret Cana's baffled expression. "And that's...bad?"

The brunette snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. Her eyes continue to stare over the rim. "It's fucking weird. I can't read anything off you. It's like staring straight at a lightbulb."

Lucy doesn't have an explanation—she's not even sure she even understands—so offers a shrug and a sheepish smile. "Sorry?"

Cana hums, shaking her head. "It's pretty," she consoles, eyes tracing something Lucy can't see. "But it's fucking weird."

X

"Why can I see you?" Lucy asks, staring up at the ceiling. The wood planks are unforgiving on her joints, but the warmth of the fire (and perhaps that glass of wine) has made her too sleepy to care. Monopoly money and plastic houses are scattered over her coffee table, a few of the paper bills littering the floor.

Her guest pauses in his inspection of the thimble, brow raised. "Why does anyone see anything?"

She huffs, eyelids heavy and words mumbled. "Why do you keep answering questions with more questions?"

His grin is crooked but soft. "Because I won't lie to you."

She hums sleepily, lids drifting shut. It feels good to rest her eyes. "You can tell me anything."

They both know it's the truth. Sometime in the last six months he has become one of her closest friend, her most trusted confidant. At least a couple nights a week, she calls on him. They play board games and watch movies—one night Lucy taught him how to bake chocolate chip cookies. He still hasn't told her his name. Lucy hasn't told him hers either.

The chuckle he gives is as warm as the fire at her back; his voice a promise. "Someday I will."

Lucy is asleep before she can answer.

X

On the anniversary of her mother's death, Lucy lights a candle.

She tries to sniff back the tears, but they press against the backs of her eyes—building in pressure until they spill over her lids. The tiny flame dances, moved by her uneven breaths. It hurts. Ten years later and it still hurts.

Legs weak, she sinks to the floor, hand over her aching chest as silent sobs wrack her body.

A hand rests against her back. Lucy doesn't look to see who it belongs to— it's too warm to be anyone but his. She curls into herself, unsure if she feels irritated by him coming uninvited (the candle, she thinks, it must have been the candle) or relieved that she doesn't have to fall apart alone.

"I didn't call you," she tells him, voice cracking. The coin is in her front pocket, hidden and far from the open flame.

A callused knuckle brushes a tear from her eyes before it can fall. "Yeah," he murmurs, "you did."

She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her sweater. She still doesn't understand, and she hates when he gives her these vague responses, but she's in too much pain to fight for an answer. "But how'd you open the door? The coin—"

He offers a brittle smile. "There's more than one way to pick a lock."

His arms wrap around her, pulling her close until the heat of him surrounds her. It feels so good to be held—to be touched— something in her breaks and she releases a low, keening sob. His hold tightens, a hand reaching up to caress her hair. Lucy can feel his lips brush against her forehead, his words whispering across her skin. "I'm sorry I couldn't save her."

Her fingers grasp his clothing, and she inhales his spiced scent in between gasping breaths. She's sorry too.

X

Wake up.

A kiss of warmth at her lips, magic in her lungs. Hands shake her. Rough. Begging.

Breathe. Come on, breathe.

Lucy opens her eyes with a gasp, ragged and raw. Pavement digs uncomfortably into her shoulder blades, and her chest aches with every inhale. Her vision is blurred, but she can make out his pink hair through the fog. One side of her face feels hot, and she rolls her head to the side to investigate.

Her home is on fire.

At first she thinks she's only reliving her childhood nightmare, but the familiar man—fae—hovering over her grips her upper arms with a strength that is bruising. "You idiot," he hisses. There are tears clinging, unspilled, at the corners of his eyes. "Why the hell didn't you leave the ashes in the fireplace?!"

Lucy blinks, trying to clear the blurriness at the edge of her vision. "Ashes?" she echoes. She had cleaned those up, swept them into her trash can. The hearth was filthy from all his visits. "But they were cold." She knows—she checked. It had been hours from when the fire died and his visit ended.

She can hear the piercing echo of sirens and knows they are for her.

His hands move, callused palms cupping her cheeks; so gently they tremble. "Idiot," he repeats, softer this time. Almost an endearment. The piercing echo of sirens reach her ears, Lucy knows they are for her. He leans down till their foreheads touch, his breath warm against her lips. "Those ashes almost killed you," he whispers, voice rough. "If you didn't leave my coin downstairs—" he cuts off, cringing. "You weren't breathing. When I pulled you out. You weren't breathing."

Lights, red and white, flash over her front yard. Someone with heavy steps and full fire gear runs toward her; shouting something Lucy can't bother to make out. She's too focused on the fear, the relief, in her friend's dark eyes.

The fireman is kneeling beside her know, opposite of the fae that saved her. His fingers check her pulse as he speaks to her (Miss are you alright? Can you hear me? Does anything hurt?)

Lucy doesn't answer, doesn't even glance his way. To do so would mean breaking eye contact with her best friend, and right now his presence is offering her more comfort than any human could. "What's your name?" she rasps, reaching for him.

"Natsu," he answers, taking her hand in his. His fingers, callused and warm, trace her cheek, and Lucy knows that what he's given her is far more than just a name. "It's Natsu."

She wants to thank him—for saving her, for his trust—but she's being picked up, pulled away from him, and set in a stretcher. A mask is strapped over her face, IVs taped to her arm, and she fights to hold onto his hand. "No," she mutters weakly, "No, I want to stay with him. Stop..."

They keep speaking to her, encouraging and emphatic, but they don't listen to her requests. She struggles, gloved hands push her down, but then Natsu is there beside her—reaching between the bodies surrounding her to grasp her hand. "It's ok," he says. "It's ok. Don't fight them."

She holds his hand with a white-knuckled grip, relieved that he doesn't let her go as they load her into the ambulance. The paramedic puts a stethoscope to her chest, listening to her pulse, as the doors close. Beside him, Natsu kneels beside her, thumb stroking over her knuckles. "I'll stay with you for as far as I can," he promises. Lucy nods, but her eyes are starting to feel heavy.

He makes it four blocks, before a pained grimace overtakes his features. His lips part, probably trying to warn her, but he isn't quick enough. He disappears, torn away from her by the boundaries of his magic, but when her fingers close she finds that he didn't leave her empty handed. Sitting, comforting and warm, in her palm is a familiar gold coin.

Lucy closes her fingers around it, tests the taste of his name on her lips, and falls into sleep.

X

They discharge her after two days. The doctors tell her it's a small miracle she escaped without any damage to her lungs, but Lucy knows better.

She's breathing better than she has in the last decade—since before she survived the fire that took her mother. Natsu has given her more than his name, more than his kiss. When their lips touched, something in her awoke. She can feel it, even now, lazily curling around her soul—sleepy and languid; a cat in front of a warm hearth. It's new but she knows, instinctively, that it is hers.

Long ago, her mother used to spin her stories of the Fae and their blood—how the magic often slept, hidden, in plain sight for generations before awakening.

Lucy knows why she can see Natsu; knows why he was able to save her.

She goes home; what's left of it. Beyond the yellow caution taped perimeter is a charred skeleton of what used to be her house. Most of the walls have buckled, little more than piles of blackened brick and ash. Of all four fireplaces her home once boasted, only the one in the living room is recognizable. The stack is short, but after a bit of digging Lucy is able to find the hearth.

With soot blackened hands, she fishes her discharge papers from the plastic, hospital issued bag she was sent with and diligently crumbles each page until the hearth is full of her makeshift kindling and—gleaming on top—his coin. It won't burn for long, she knows, but as she brings a lighter (her only purchase between the hospital and home) to the paper, she hopes it will be enough.

The moment the paper catches, she can feel his presence behind her—a subtle shift in the air, the spiced scent of magic. She faces him, heart fluttering in her chest.

His fingers brush over her eyelids, a soft smile curling his mouth. "You're awake," he murmurs, awe darkening his gaze. "You can see."

"Yes," she murmurs, holding his palm to her cheek. The calluses lining his fingers brush against her skin, warm and welcome, and she sighs—leaning into his touch. "I can see."

His grin is interrupted by a shudder—so minute she would have never known if she weren't holding his hand—and his eyes flick over to the fireplace. Lucy doesn't need to look to know they are running out of time.

Quickly, before the fire goes out completely, she kisses him. Chaste, but branded with the heat of a promise. "Lucy," she whispers against his lips. "My name is Lucy."

Natsu sucks in a quick, startled breath and stares down at her as if she is something amazing. Slowly, his lips curl and his cheeks dimple—eyes lighting up. "Lucy," he echoes—savoring each syllable as if they are the finest gift she could give him. Lucy suspects they might be.

He brushes a stray hair away from her face with a tenderness that makes her pulse flutter and her eyes close. When he kisses her, it is soft and unhurried despite the dying fire behind her. It feels like coming home. Her fingers grip his vest in what she knows is a vain effort to keep him beside her.

When he pulls away she opens her eyes, and finds the world different. There is stardust tangled in Natsu's hair; magic in his smile. Where her blackened hearth once stood is a bridge made purely of light and something so other it makes her heart ache with the desire to touch it. "I thought it was a door?" she murmurs, entranced.

Natsu's forehead rests against hers, his lips so close she can feel the force of his smile. "It was. Fire is my doorway, the coin I gave you is my key. But you, Luce... Don't you see? You're the bridge." He kisses her temple. "You're the best of both worlds."

He steps away from her, hand held out in invitation. Framed by the bridge's ethereal light, he looks every bit like a Fae from her childhood storybooks. "Come with me?"

When Lucy takes his hand their fingers lace.

AN: For NaLu Week 2020 Bonus Day: AU. :)