Come, and take choice

Okay, so like the second chapter of All Good Things, this was supposed to be another OMAKE to start with, nice and short; I just couldn't stop typing, and the result was this. No Rean/Alisa in this one, so if you came here for more of that... uh, sorry!

Fair warning; there are some real world literary references and quotes below (On the Road, The Little Prince, Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda), so if they take you out of the story then I apologize. Suffice to say, I don't own any of them; they all belong to their respective estates. The title's taken from Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus ("Come, and take choice of all my library").

... What can I say? Writing these two in a bookstore got me in a literary mood.

It's a little hard not to be impressed when she walks into the store and takes it in for the first time. There are volume-lined shelves are far as the eye can see, with what seems like equally as many clerks eager and willing to assist the customers that flow in and out, like a river around a stone.

Celine, being Celine, sees things somewhat differently.

"Too many cooks in the kitchen," the familiar quips quietly, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible by Emma's feet, and the brunette isn't sure who's more surprised when instead of taking offense Machias chuckles dryly and shakes his head, conceding the point.

"Numerous as they may be, having such a large staff does make sense. This is Heimdallr's largest bookstore, and the amount of traffic that it gets during busy days is staggering."

"I can only imagine," Emma murmurs, gaze darting from shelf to shelf. "I don't even know where to start!"

It might be her imagination, but she swears he smirks a little before he answers. "There's a fair bit to see. You should browse around for a little while and get an idea of what they carry."

Emma mock frowns at that, reaching out. "I hope you meant 'we', Machias. Don't tell me you're getting bored of my company already?"

"… That's not what I meant and you know it," he grumbles, and she doesn't bother hiding her victorious grin when he slips his hand into hers and squeezes.

The spaces between their fingers fit just like she remembers, and the thought isn't nearly as bittersweet as it once was.

She's combed through multiple shelves, flipped through multiple volumes, and finally come to the conclusion that this store is everything the one in Trista wants to be when it grows up.

There's something on virtually every topic under the sun, with fair prices and a solid back stock of current releases, and Emma has a feeling that she could spend hours here and never get bored… which is why she finds the slight expression of disinterest Machias carries a little suspicious.

"Okay, out with it," Emma tells him, sidling up to sneak a peek at the novel he's reading (I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another until I drop. This is the night, what it does to you).

He looks back at her, a portrait of innocence that straddles the surprisingly fine line between theater and life, and she wants to engrave the image into her memory – facetious as it may be – because it's something she's never seen before and she doubts he'd ever have the stomach to reproduce it.

"Out with what?"

"Something tells me that amazing as this store is, this isn't all you had in mind," Emma answers, and she finds the prospect excites her, because this place was fantastic enough; what more was missing?

"It is amazing," Machias agrees, setting the book back on the shelf with a reverence that Emma both recognizes and shares. "It's well run and organized, and there's no better place to purchase contemporary work."

She hears what isn't being said immediately, and her interest is piqued further. So is Celine's, for that matter.

"So, this was just so she had grounds to compare when you took her to the real place, huh?" Celine whispers, darting her eyes to make sure no one's within earshot. "Smooth. I'm kinda impressed, actually. Didn't think you had it in you."

He flicks a glance at the familiar, and rolls his eyes when she sticks out her tongue. "A compliment from a talking cat is still a compliment, I suppose."

"Hehe. Well, I think we've been kept in suspense long enough; shall we?"

Machias holds out his hand and smiles; he needs to do it more often, because he looks so much younger when he does.

When the gunman opens the creaky door and Emma follows him into the entrance way, the witch finds herself having to squint as her eyes adjust to the darker interior; the previous store had been bright and spacious, whereas this one was… not.

She hears Celine make an impressed noise, and when her vision's adjusted she takes her first look around and oh my word -

Emma faintly hears the sound of the – owner? – greeting Machias affably, along with the green haired man returning the favor in kind, but all that is secondary to the books that fill the small space to bursting, the shelves nearly overwhelmed with paperbacks and hardcovers, and more than that; there are stacks on the ground, on random chairs that ceased to be used as such long ago, and there were boxes stuffed with parchment and notebooks next to them and it's absolutely perfect.

"According to dad," Machias tells her quietly, respect tingeing every syllable, "this store was where a generation of those discontent with the way things were gathered in peace, so that they could exchange information, ideas – and of course, a tale or two."

She believes him. There's a palpable presence about this place, almost like an aura, which the larger establishment in Heimdallr simply lacked, and she imagines that everything is here; the stories of the joyful, the cautions of the cynic, the laments of the dispossessed and disenfranchised, the hymns of the holy and the cries of the broken.

It's overwhelming in the best way possible, as history always is, and Emma's mind can't help but envision those who wandered this floor years ago; she's curious as to what they sought in their writing (change, perhaps) and what they found in the end (a state of grace, Aidios willing).

"Most of said tales are still around, mind you," the man behind the counter cracks, waving his hand at nothing in particular. "Once upon a time, the prose was at the front, with poetry going along the sides and the back reserved for non-fiction and academia, but now… well, you have eyes."

Emma nods before she turns to Machias, laughing a little. "Well, this place does have one thing in common with the last one; I still have no idea where to begin."

He crosses his arms, considering. "Fiction, first?"

She smiles. "Lovely."

"I'm surprised you like this place so much," and Machias looks down from his book to see Celine idly pawing at his pant cuff, looking amused. "I mean, you're normally so stuffy about things being neat that I'd have figured a war zone like this would give you a heart attack."

The gunman scoffs before adjusting his glasses. "I'd hardly call having appropriate standards for organization being 'stuffy over things being neat'."

Unsurprisingly, Celine scoffs right back. "Six of one, half dozen of the other as far as I'm concerned."

"Duly noted," Machias mutters, before sighing. "It's probably because it's always been like this, I think. This was how it was normally; if anything, the piles just got bigger as I grew up. It's the only place I can think of where a state of chaos is more suitable than order."

The feline looks around and nods sagely, much to his surprise. "Actually, you're kinda right. There are so many books here that I can't imagine them fitting all on normal shelves; I guess this works."

The day had come where he and the familiar had agreed on something. Would wonders never cease?

It must show on his face somehow, because the cat immediately flicks her tail dismissively at him. "Don't get too used to it or anything. Even broken clocks are right twice a day."

Machias can't resist rolling his eyes. "Ah, there's the Celine I know and… know."

Celine smirks a little before gesturing to the nearby kneeling brunette, looking for all the world like she was lost in a wonderland. "We should probably go and check on Emma and make sure that we won't need to drag her out of here when the time comes. C'mon, loverboy."

He really, really wants to say something to that, but before he can find his bearings the familiar's already started sauntering off towards Emma, and all Machias can do is follow, trying to remain dignified in defeat.

(It's not as if she's wrong, anyhow).

"Find something that caught your interest, I take it?"

Emma looks up at Machias and positively beams, the witch holding a slim tome that couldn't have been more than a hundred pages; a light read at most, but sometimes those were the best kinds.

"One of many things, actually," she answers, all too aware of the pile of books by her feet and equally aware that it's going to be much bigger before she's done. "Between the folklore collections, the short story anthologies and the novels, I'm going to have bedtime reading until I'm old and gray! Carrying everything back home might be a bit of an issue, though."

Machias shrugs philosophically. "A small price to pay." He kneels next to her and tries to get a look at the spine of what's she's currently holding, but his eyes can't quite get a hold of the faded font in the dim light. "What's got your attention there?"

"Oh, this?"

She looks down and can't resist the nostalgic smile that crosses her face, the words within the yellowed pages bringing her back to simpler times; times before Awakeners and Knights, times when Vita was still her precious older sister and she knew nothing of duty or deceit.

"It's one of my favorites from when I was a child. My grandmother used to read it to me until I was old enough to read it myself – truth be told, I've heard it so many times I think I still have it committed to memory!"

He quietly chuckles, the sound warm and resonant. "That's quite the endorsement. What's your favorite part?"

She doesn't answer for a few moments, her eyes shut in concentration, before –

"Farewell."

He blinks.

"Farewell, said the fox. Here is my secret," Emma recites quietly, and unbeknownst to her Machias freezes in comprehension, his gaze widening behind delicate lenses. "It is very simple: one sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential – "

"– is invisible to the eye."

Her next words die a little death on her lips.

"What is essential is invisible to the eye," he repeats, sounding as gentle as she's ever heard him, and Emma's reminded that they are forever responsible for what they have tamed.

Unbidden, the gunman continues. "Sis used to read that to me too, believe it or not. Well, to be more specific, I think my parents read it to her first when she was younger, and then she kept the tradition alive afterward. She always asked me why I insisted on that story every time, and I would tell her that it was because she did such a good job at telling it, but if I was being honest… I think it was because it was the closest that I would ever get to hearing a story from my mother."

He's babbling, she realizes with something that comes remarkably close to giddiness. He's babbling about himself and his family and Emma hopes against hope that he'll keep talking and never stop, because she loves the idea of Machias with so much to share that he almost trips over his words, she loves the idea that he's no longer closed off and unwilling to open up, and she loves –

Well, she loves him, really.

When Machias sees her staring wordlessly, however, his brain finally catches up with his mouth and clamps it shut mid-sentence, his face turning a dull shade of red that came surprisingly close to matching the tie he was wearing.

"I-I mean," he begins, and Emma expects a barrage of denial and backpedaling; she's seen this pattern before.

Instead, he swallows hard and steels himself, matching Emma's warm gaze with one of his own, and she watches and rejoices as the once familiar doubt fades into nothing before he smiles at her, shaky and sheepish but not at all afraid.

"… It's one of my favorites too," Machias admits in a whisper, his head bowed.

She sets the book down, slipping forward to close the distance, and the light touch of her lips warms him down to his very soul; benediction of the most sacred kind.

"Shameless," Celine mumbles under her breath, hiding behind a shelf while pretending to ignore the proceedings. "But then again, I guess romance is where you find it."

They don't stay in the poetry section for long; while Machias has a certain appreciation for the art form, as does she, the brunette is clearly aching to go back to the prose and see if there was anything she missed the first time around (though that doesn't stop her from picking up a decades old sonnet compilation that doubled as a satirical critique of Heimdallr's political structure).

He tells her that he'll meet her there, and when Emma speeds off in a blur followed by a visibly amused Celine, he turns and scans the crowded shelves on a whim, looking, looking, looking…

Ah.

It's no real surprise that neither one of them wants to go through the academic texts; Machias has had his fill of journals and reference materials from class, and Emma's far too distracted by her new acquisitions to even think about adding more.

Instead, they clear off two chairs and spend the rest of the afternoon reading, and Celine curls up into a ball between them, more than content to lie there and nap.

"Wake me when it's time to go," the familiar tells them with a yawn, and Emma reaches down to scratch her ears absentmindedly in reply. It surprises her a little (maybe a lot, honestly) when the gunman follows suit, though judging from the content purr he's doing a rather good job at it.

It's a cute sight, and the giggle that escapes her is not missed by Machias.

"Not a word," he mutters, blushing again as he returns to his book, though he still squeezes back when her hand seeks his.

As they leave the store, Emma turns to call a jovial farewell to the owner, and the older man cheerfully responds in kind.

Her attention is only off him for a few moments, but it's all he needs. A fold of a page, the flick of a wrist, and the book is in her bag with no one being the wiser.

The platform at Heimdallr is almost deserted; most people try to avoid taking the overnight trains in the middle of the workweek if they can help it, and today is no exception.

Emma's thankful for the small blessing. While she's positive this parting isn't going to be devastating, it's not exactly going to be easy, either.

"I-I'm sorry that we can't stay for – "

"Don't be," Machias tells her, shaking his head. "You have your own matters to concern yourself with, just like I do. The fact you were here at all was…"

He doesn't bother finishing, but the brunette understands well enough.

"… I'm glad you liked the store. Well, both of them actually, but the second one was more of a priority," he continues in a rush, and Emma feels her lips quirk up in a playful grin. Of course she had liked it. How could she not?

"Hehe. I'm just as glad you took me there, you know." She pauses for a moment, one hand toying with her sleeve while her gaze drops to her feet before turning back upward. "Thank you," Emma says as solemnly as she can, and it feels obscenely inadequate because two words can't possibly articulate how she feels right now.

"… You're welcome?" Machias replies back, a little amused and bewildered all at once, the weight of her reaction taking him off guard. "It's an excellent establishment to be sure, but I'm not convinced it warrants – "

"I enjoyed it, you know. Seeing a place that helped you grow into who you are today, I mean," Emma confesses, her cheeks turning pink, and they only darken further when his green eyes widen. "Along with hearing the stories, of course."

"I'm sure I would have liked your sister. Your mother too," she thinks but doesn't say, because some conversations are best left for the future, away from train platforms and goodbyes, and without the pauses in between words filled with a hundred other things left unspoken between them.

"Stories are good," the gunman agrees, and Emma knows in her heart that the smile he wears belongs only to her. "Maybe I can hear some of yours, next time."

Emma smiles back. "The Hexen have a long and complex history – I'm sure I'll be able to come up with something."

Celine snickers. "And even if she can't, I've got a few good ones."

The witch closes her eyes in exasperation, and this time she's blushing out of embarrassment. "Thank you for that, Celine."

"Anytime," the familiar quips, rising to her feet and pawing off in the opposite direction.

"Where are you – "

"Letting you two say goodbye properly. Take care of yourself, understand?" Celine orders, the sincerity shining through in spite of the brusqueness, and Machias can only chuckle and nod.

"She can be surprisingly considerate at times, can't she?"

Emma's expression softens. "Absolutely."

Machias takes a deep breath, slow and steady. "You'll be okay heading back?"

"We will," she assures him, letting her hand rest on his forearm. "It'll certainly be a long trip, but that's something we've gotten used to already."

The green haired man raises an eyebrow, teasing. "I can't imagine what you would do to pass the time."

"Oh, I don't know. I'm sure I'll figure out something," she answers, her sapphire eyes gleaming as she looks toward her overstuffed bag.

He laughs when he slips his arms around her waist to draw her in, and she's a little too preoccupied after that to think about anything else.

A melancholy Emma is cataloguing all her purchases as the train rolls on, debating in her head how she's going to make room for them when she gets back when she notices a slim hardcover that doesn't look at all familiar.

"Hmm?"

Celine sleepily looks up from the seat next to her, staring curiously at it before she closes her eyes. "Which one is that again?"

"I… don't know. I can't recall buying this one – or even flipping through it, for that matter." She turns it in her hands, the name barely legible on the spine; she supposed that if you'd known who you were looking for it might have been enough, but for someone unfamiliar with Heimdallr's more obscure authors it may as well have been in a foreign language.

Upon closer inspection, she sees that one of the pages has the corner folded in a crude bookmark, and she turns to it and begins to read.

Celine's alarmed when she awakens minutes later to Emma trying not to cry and failing miserably, but when she urgently asks the brunette if she's okay, the smile she receives through Emma's tears tells the familiar that yes, she's never been more okay in her life, and when the cat runs her gaze over the moisture stained pages at the stanzas left exposed by her hands -

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close."

That night, he dreams of her and she dreams of him. All is right with the world.