Chapter Text
“Feyre, can you come down to the shop? It will only take a moment.”
Any time Ressina called, Feyre dropped everything. It wasn’t officially a part of her duties as an employee of the gallery, but she was so grateful to her for allowing Feyre to display her art that she would do anything she asked- including armed robbery, but probably not murder. Probably.
At the gallery, she found Ressina deep in conversation with a man- an absurdly handsome man, at that- and instantly Feyre felt self-conscious. She had assumed that Ressina had just needed help lifting a painting, or packing art for delivery. Feyre hadn’t changed into her normal gallery outfit and was instead wearing her painting clothes: A men’s button down, jeans that were too large and exclusively being held up with a belt, and fake Birkenstocks. Everything was from the bargain bins at the charity shop and all absolutely covered in paint. As she was herself.
As such, she was horrified when she realized that Ressina was bringing the stupidly handsome man over to her.
Everything about him was perfect, from his perfect face (fine boned, with eyes that almost seemed violet in the studio light), his perfect hair (artfully tousled), perfect clothes (black wool coat, perfectly tailored black suit, black button down), and perfect shoes (polished enough that she was able to see her reflection in them). And gods help her, when he saw her his entire countenance lit up.
“Mr. Knight, I would like to introduce you to Feyre Archeron, the artist we were speaking about.” Ressina introduced them with a proud smile.
“Please call me Rhys.” He took both of her hands in his, not even seeming to care that she was definitely getting paint on him. His eyes were even more captivating up close, especially with the way he was looking at her like she was a revelation, like he was a mere acolyte seeing proof of his god for the first time. “You are my favorite artist; it is such an honor to meet you.”
And Feyre- gods help her- laughed in his face. Ressina buried her head in her hands, and his expression shuttered. It made her heart twist for some reason, watching the open expression disappear behind a mask. It wasn’t enough to claw back her stupid mouth from making it worse.
“I’m sorry,” she said between gasps, hands on her knees. “Does that ever actually work?”
“I assure you, this isn’t a come-on.” He stepped back, putting his hands in his pockets. She missed the warmth already. “You are my favorite artist.”
“No, I’m not.” She scoffed, unable to help herself. He was charming, but she wasn’t a fool. “I’m no one’s favorite artist. This is my first gallery showing: I’ve only been here for a week, and I haven’t sold a single piece. So, forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
“None of that changes the fact that you’re my favorite artist.” His eyes blazed, his intensity stirring something in her. “Tarquin over at Summer Publishing has one of your paintings on the wall of his executive meeting room. I fell in love with the piece two years ago when he first had it installed, and I have gone to great lengths to try and acquire the painting from him. I’ve offered him millions of dollars, a stake in my company, a seat on my board of directors, and he has refused all my offers.” Shit. He was serious, actually serious. A drip of anxiety was slipping down her spine. Had she misjudged him so profoundly?
“He says the piece is too important to him. So instead, I came up with reason after reason to have meetings with him. He should write you a thank you note, as you’ve made him quite a lot of money. All so I could have an excuse to see your painting. Last year, he was fed up and told me that I could just come to visit it whenever I wished. Now I have a standing lunch date- every Wednesday, I drive across town and take my lunch break in his meeting room so I can spend an hour with your work.
“This morning, he texted me that his artist had a gallery opening. I cancelled all my meetings for the day and came down here to beg Ressina for a personal tour of your work. When I say that you are my favorite artist, I mean that.” His stare was burning fire, and Feyre rather hoped the ground would swallow her whole.
“I’m sorry,” She replied, she felt horrible and small. She probably had offended him so greatly that he’d never care about her work again. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m not used to people taking my art seriously. Tarquin is a dear friend, and I’ll never be able to repay him for what he has done for me. I’m so happy to hear that he values that painting as much as I do. If you’re still interested, I’ll happily give you a tour of my work.”
Thankfully, he accepted. She ushered him from one painting to another, surprised by how seriously he was taking the work. He asked pertinent questions about inspiration, her technique, her thoughts on art movements as a whole. She only had eight pieces in the gallery, but they spent three hours just talking about her work. She’d never had anyone pay such close attention to her art.
When they finished the tour, he said breezily, “I’ll take them all.”
Feyre started laughing again. Instead of his expression closing off like it had earlier, his eyes danced merrily, almost like silver stars swirling in the night sky. He stepped closer, his scent washing over her like citrus and the sea. “I’m starting to think you like laughing at me, Miss Archeron.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t laugh at you if you stopped making crazy statements.” She smiled.
“Why is it crazy?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “I love your art and would like to own these pieces. They are for sale, are they not?”
“They are,” Feyre admitted. “However, my contract states that I have to have at least three works in the gallery at all times.”
“I’m sure I could work something out with Ressina.” He said with a smirk. So sure, so arrogant. It should have pissed her off, but she couldn’t find it in her.
“I’m sure you could, but I would prefer if you let me keep the three pieces for sale. I don’t want to have to rush to put out new work and would like for someone other than ‘my biggest fan’ to discover my art.” She put air quotes around biggest fan, and Rhys’s smirk turned into a genuinely amused grin.
“I’m willing to abide by that, on one condition.” His indolent slouch and irreverent smile disappeared. “I have a business proposition for you, and I hope you’ll hear me out.
“I’m interested in supporting your art in more of a long-term sense. I hope you’ll do me the honor of letting me become a patron of yours: I will financially support your work so you can focus on your art career without having to worry about bills. In addition to my financial support, I can also help you get into more galleries and into charity auctions. I want to help you reach your full potential, so that the next time someone tells you that they’re a fan of your work, they don’t receive such a rude response.”
It was obvious that the final comment was a cheeky jab, not a serious offense. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest. Was this going to be the end of her financial trouble? If he really helped her reach a broader audience, it wouldn’t even matter if he stopped supporting her someday- she might truly be able to support herself exclusively with her art.
“I’ll agree on two conditions.” She said, not even needing to think about it. “The first is that I will still work with the gallery. I enjoy my work here immensely and don’t want to lose it. The second is that you can’t buy all of my work- I’m willing to give you first refusal for most pieces, but I want to be a famous artist, not a rich man’s pet.”
“You will be no one’s pet.” He said vehemently, taking her hands again. Her stomach swooped, the intensity in his gaze dripping liquid to her core. “I want you to reach the heights of the art world; I want everyone to know your name. I have no interest in hoarding all of your work for myself.”
“Then I believe we have a deal,” Feyre couldn’t deny the joy coursing through her body like bubbles. They hadn’t discussed how much he would be giving her, but even a small amount would help her get on her feet. And if he could really get her more sales? Maybe her life really was about to turn around.
“Perfect,” his smile was happy and unrestrained. “I’ll have my lawyers send over a contract so we can iron out the details. In the meantime, may I please beg for a tour of your studio? I’m desperate for a peek of what you’re working on.”
She felt nervous leading him into her studio. It was certainly well beneath his standards of living, but if she was going to accept his proposal of sponsoring her, she figured it would be rude to refuse. She still couldn’t help but be self-conscious, as her studio felt like her soul bared. It was the first place in so long that was all her own, a place where she was safe.
It was cluttered; the majority of the space was taken up by her easel and a large table that held paint, brushes, and various detritus that accumulated as she worked. There were canvases both completed and bare lined up on the floors, leaning against the wall. Rhys honed in on the completed stack.
“May I look at these?” He asked, fingers gently brushing over the tops of the canvas. Feyre gave her assent and he began looking through them, taking a long time examining each one. He stopped, staring at one painting, perfectly still.
“This one.” he said, not even removing his eyes from it to speak to her. “How much for it?”
“It’s not for sale.”
Rhys groaned. “You and Tarquin are going to be the death of me. There’s nothing I could give you for it?”
The painting was too personal to be sold- it was her dream for her childhood: a homey cabin in the woods, light spilling from the widows and a fire in the hearth. She tried to pour out feelings of love and safety into the painting. It was beautiful- it looked like a wonderful place to thrive and grow.
Walking over, she took the painting from him and flipped it over, showing that she had painted the back of the canvas as well. On the reverse side was her actual home growing up: the squalid little shack she shared with her sisters and father. Dark, dank, and forlorn. It looked like a miserable hovel, a place practically uninhabitable. She turned the painting back to the happy side. “Dream,” she flipped it to the back. “Reality. “
“You’re a dreamer,” Rhys said, his voice full of some emotion she couldn’t name. “I knew you were, I could tell from the piece Tarquin has. That one was like a dream too.”
“It was,” she smiled, wistful. “A dream of one of the happiest times of my childhood.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “So why did you sell him the painting?”
“I didn’t. He commissioned the piece; it’s not his fault I poured my soul into it. That’s why I’m glad he treasures it so much.” To be perfectly honest, she missed the painting she had made for Tarquin. It was much too big to even fit in her studio and she could never regret the money she made off of it, but she still wished she could look at it whenever she wanted.
Rhys looked pensive as he thought about their conversation, so much so that she didn’t realize what he was about to do until it was too late. He had his hand on her closet door and was pulling it open.
“No!” She cried, but it was too late. They could both see what was inside it. A pillow and sleeping bag, a box of clothes, a hot plate, and two bags of food that had the logo of the local food pantry on it. Everything one would need if they were secretly living in their workspace. She didn’t try to deny it, there was no denying it.
“Please don’t tell my landlord.” She begged, grabbing his shirt sleeve in supplication. “I’m not allowed to live here legally; it would put me out on the streets. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“I won’t tell your landlord.” He spoke quietly, eyes glued to the measly collection of everything she owned, a look in his eyes far too complicated for her to be able to parse. “But- I hope I’m not overstepping- you can’t keep living in the closet.”
“I don’t sleep in the closet!” Her voice shook, hands wringing. “I make up a bed on the floor of the studio- it’s not as bad as it looks!”
“It looks bad.” He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her small world. “Look. I travel a lot for work, I’m rarely home. I have a giant apartment that is never used. I even pay to have a maid come clean twice a month and there’s nothing to clean because I practically don’t even live there anymore. Please, is there any way I could convince you to stay with me? Just until you find your own place. I’m your patron, I can’t stand by and let you sleep on the floor.”
“Is this a weird sex thing?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. It wouldn’t be the first time a rich man had decided to use her for sex.
“No, it’s not a weird sex thing.” Rhys sighed, finally looking away from the closet. “It would be like house-sitting. I have a space that’s rarely used, you need somewhere to stay. It would be a perfect arrangement.”
She didn’t buy it. “You just met me and now you want to move me into your house…”
“I just can’t abide you sleeping on the floor when I have the ability help. At least let me show you the place.” He ran his fingers over the back of her elbow, like he could convince her with soft touch and pretty words.
“You’re positive it’s not a weird sex thing?” Feyre reiterated, still on guard.
“What is with your conviction that I’m just doing this to have sex with you?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation writ large.
“I don’t know, you’re a rich older man, who wants to swoop in and make all my problems go away. Why wouldn’t it be a weird sex thing?” The truth is, she honestly thought she might not mind if it was. He really was the most beautiful man she’d ever met.
He’d seemed perfect from the glance she’d gotten before they were introduced, but after spending so many conversations close, she had started to pick up on little things that made him impossibly more attractive to her. The silver stitching on his all-black suit, matching the streaks of silver in his perfect black hair. The faintest hint of smile lines around his eyes, his delicious cologne, smelling of citrus and the sea. If they had met in a bar, she would have been eager for a tumble into bed with him, but that wouldn’t be wise if they were going to start a professional relationship. She knew better.
“I promise I’m not doing all of this just to get you into my bed.” He raised his right hand like he was swearing an oath before a court of law. There were no cracks in his manner that might show that he was just placating her. “Can I convince you to see my house or not?”
“Fine,” she agreed with a sigh, grabbing her coat.
The drive to his apartment was silent as she picked at her cuticles. She couldn’t help but worry. Rhys seemed different from Tamlin, with his insistence on making her famous, not keeping her to himself. But this felt like a repeat of past mistakes- she was contemplating moving in much too quickly with a rich man who had his own motivations. Hadn’t she learnt from the last time?
She didn’t think Rhys would be mad if she turned down the offer, but she was still wary- she had sworn that she would never put herself in such a vulnerable position again. But then again… it could be just until she found her own place, until his money started coming in, and the floor was uncomfortable. The lack of windows did make her panic.
Her heart swooped when his car pulled up to the apartment building. With its full glass exterior, etched windows, and doorman at the door, greeting Rhys with a “Mr. Knight.” It was worlds away from the dank apartment she lived in before Tamlin.
The apartment's lobby was practically palatial: it was all gold accents, in art deco style. Gorgeous, but intimidating. As they got in the elevator, Feyre shot a final, wary look at the doorman. “You’re not going to Rosemary’s Baby me, right?”
“You’re really stuck on the sex thing.” He said with an indolent grin, using a key fob to select the top floor. He leant closer, purring in her ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I would wonder why you can’t seem to get sex out of your mind.”
She scoffed, but didn’t shift away. “In Rosemary’s Baby, she has sex with the devil, that has nothing to do with you.”
“I can be pretty devilish.” He grinned, placing a hand on her lower back. “But no, I’m not here to sacrifice you to any cults or let demons have their wicked way with you.” He looked like he wanted to finish that sentence with “I’m the only one who will have their way with you,” but he showed restraint, for which she was grateful.
The apartment was incredible. It had floor to ceiling windows with a sweeping view of the Sidra and the Rainbow. The living room looked cozy with a great stone gas fireplace, overflowing bookshelves, and an array of leather couches and comfy-looking armchairs. There was a large dining table, though it was much less grand than Tamlin’s. She really needed to stop the comparisons, but she couldn’t help comparing this beautiful home with the only other beautiful place she’d ever known.
Rhys took her through the kitchen, which was just as beautiful with dark blue cabinets with brass handles and black marble counters that glittered like stars. There was even a lovely little kitchen table, which he informed her was where he took most of his meals. He told her that he loved to cook, and chose to do so whenever he was home. That was surprising, he was surely rich enough to afford a chef to cater to his every whim- with his fussy appearance, it was a shock that he deigned to do something so messy.
“Let me show you where you would stay,” he said, leading her forward with a hand on the small of her back. The touch sent a coil of warmth up her spine, and she was grateful for the fact that he was walking behind her and couldn’t see her blush.
The room he brought her to was gorgeous, it featured a giant four poster bed with a thick duvet and cloud-like pillows. The walls were painted a soft lavender, with a deep blue rug on the wooden floorboards. It had a dresser and bookshelf, and the windows ran from floor to ceiling. The view was breathtaking. She had a feeling she would never wake feeling trapped in such an open room.
It had an adjoining bathroom- an incredible luxury since her studio didn’t have a bathroom at all- currently she was stuck using the one down the street at the gas station. It had a rainfall shower, tiled in dark blue, and a giant bathtub that Feyre immediately wanted to sink into.
“I thought the room next door might be a perfect studio space,” he said, leading her from the bedroom. “It’s currently unfurnished as I couldn’t decide whether to turn it into another guest room or a library. I hope you'll agree- it faces the west, so you will see sunsets over the Sidra. Sometimes I come into the room just to watch the sun sink and the stars come out.”
He was right, the room would make a perfect studio: the light shining through the floor to ceiling windows turned the room golden. Currently she was painting by flickering fluorescent lights. It was more than large enough for her easels, canvases, and the giant table she worked from.
“I was thinking we could move in a couch for you to rest on while sketching.” He gave her a shy smile. “Or perhaps you’d allow me to be in the same room with you while you work in the evenings?”
She didn’t answer, too caught up in the view. Her fingers itched for a paint brush. “I’ll stay, but it’s only until I can find my own place. And you have to keep your hands to yourself.” She addressed the windows, not wanting to pull away from them for even a moment.
“Scout’s honor.” At the happiness in his voice, she turned around. The smile on his face was radiant and boyish. The view of the river left her mind, and suddenly she wanted to paint him, with the way stars seemed to swirl in his too-blue eyes as he smiled. She was fucked. Totally, completely fucked.
Rhysand had offered to help her move her things, but she had demurred. Not wanting to overwhelm her, he’d decided to go into the office for a few hours. This turned out to be far more for her benefit than his, considering his thoughts were never far from her. Truly, this was not what he had planned. He had only planned to give her money to support her work, but two catastrophic things happened in short succession.
First- and he wasn't proud of this- he had seen her in person. Obviously he had wanted to meet her, that was the entire point of showing up at the gallery. What he hadn’t expected was that she would be the most glorious creature he’d ever seen in his life. Young, so very young- much, much too young- with the most beautiful blue eyes and gorgeous freckles. Golden brown curls spilling out of her bun. He had even felt frustration over the fact that she was wearing another man’s shirt, wanting to strip it from her and give her one of his own to wear. It was primal, and incredibly fucking stupid.
She was covered in paint: it was all over her clothes, her hands, on her face, and in her hair. It stirred in him the strangest desire to take care of her. He wanted to take her into the shower and wipe all the paint off. Hold her face with his hand, scrubbing carefully with a washcloth, shushing her if the scrubbing became too much, kiss each freckle as the paint was removed.
He was already so fucked. Then she laughed at him.
Her laugh was glorious, filling him with light from head to toe. In any other context, it would be the most wonderful sound he had ever heard. But he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had laughed at him, aside from family. Everyone was too scared of getting on his bad side, lest he destroy their little world.
The second thing that sealed his fate was seeing her sleeping bag in the closet. He felt that moment in his gut. Seeing that his artist- the woman capable of seeing inside his very soul- was sleeping on the ground, eating food from the food pantry, without even access to a bathroom- giving her money wasn’t enough, he needed to provide for her. He needed to fix things so she would never be in such a dire situation again.
At his core, Rhysand Knight was many things. Selfish, spoiled, and vain; brilliant, charming, and strong. But deeper than that, he was a collector of strays. He always had been: every person he loved, he had found on the ground and brought in from the cold. Even if she wasn't his artist, he never would have been able to leave her to sleep on the floor.
He offered her his penthouse, saying that he was rarely there, which was true. The penthouse was for his guests, or when he was so tired from work that he didn’t feel like driving home to the townhouse. He could have given it to her, let her live there alone and return to his original plan of supporting her work from afar, knowing little of her. But he was at his core a selfish man. So he lied, and told her that he lived there, but traveled for work.
Now that he had met her, he needed any excuse to spend time with her. He craved her smile, her laugh. He wanted to know who she was with the weight of the world lifted off of her shoulders. He wanted to come home after a long day at the office and find her asleep on his couch, wake her with a kiss to her hair, and have her smile sleepily at him. There was not a word for how deeply fucked he was.
After hours at the office where he did very little except think about the beautiful artist moving into his home, he decided it was late enough to go home and make dinner. If he made dinner, not only could he impress her, but she would feel beholden to eat with him. It was selfish and manipulative, but she did need to eat. She was so skinny, he could see it even in her baggy painting clothes.
He had never found grocery shopping to be a particularly enjoyable activity, but he delighted in finding the best vegetables, agonizing over which cuts of meat would be the most succulent. He filled his cart, planning meals for the next few days, breakfast and dinner so he could set to fattening her up. He had told her he was always traveling for work, so he would need to be careful how often he was home, but when he was home he would cook for her.
She was in her room when he arrived home, but no matter, he wouldn’t trouble her. She’s probably busy unpacking, he thought with a cheery little spark running through him. Two hours later, he admired his work. Coq a vin with roasted potatoes, a large leafy salad, and a bottle of red, already decanted. She would be impressed, he was positive.
“Feyre darling,” he called through her door, which she had left cracked open. “I made dinner, will you come join me?”
Her door opened, and he was struck again with how beautiful she looked. “You don’t have to… you don’t have to do that. I can feed myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” he smiled, not letting her discomfort bother him. “However, it’s so hard to cook for one. The food’s just going to go to waste, and I spent so much time on it.”
“You spent time on it?” She asked, her hip resting on the door frame. He had never been jealous of a door before, but what he wouldn’t give to feel her leaning against him like that. “I know you said you like to cook, but I thought a fancy rich guy like you would have a personal chef.”
He shrugged. “I don’t like extraneous people in my home. Like I said, I have a maid come twice a month to do what cleaning I don’t have time for, but other than that, it’s just me. It helps that I love to cook.”
“I’m extraneous people,” she pointed out with a raised brow.
“You are not. You are my roommate.” He gave her his most charming grin, putting his hands in his pockets. “Now will you come to dinner?”
Dinner made her uncomfortable, he could tell. She ate well enough, but only spoke when he asked her a direct question, and kept her gaze on her plate. Still, he persisted. By the end of the meal he had gotten her to smile three times, so he was considering it a success.
Feyre woke early the next morning. Waking was strange, the entire previous day felt like some sort of bizarre dream. Yesterday she met Rhysand and today she was waking up in his house, as his roommate. She had sworn that she would never get involved so quickly with another rich man, and yet here she was. She always was too impulsive for her own good.
Just until I can get my own place, she assured herself.
She slipped next door with her sketchbook and her CD player, settling on the floor of her new studio. Stevie Nicks crooned in her ear as she sketched and considered how everything had changed in just the past 24 hours. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. It was crazy, sure. But maybe it wasn’t bad.
I’ve been afraid of changing, because I built my life around you, Stevie sang in her ear.
When she had left Tamlin, she had been firm in her decision that he would no longer rule her life, but was she letting her fear of him control her just as thoroughly as he had controlled it when they were together? She had been hiding in her basement studio, fearful he would find her. She was possibly going to sabotage Rhys’s kindness simply because she was afraid that he was similar to Tamlin. When she had left, she wanted to shake off the dust of her old life, but now she realized that she had just carried it with her into her new life.
She had built her life around Tamlin’s love, and then built her life around her fear of him. Was that halting the growth she had been so desperate for? She had read once that if you grew up with an angry man in your house, there would always be an angry man in your house: you would find him even if he was not there. Was that all she was doing now? Inventing an angry, controlling man where there was none?
She was startled from her reverie by Rhys knocking at her door.
“Sorry to bother, but I brought you breakfast.” He was radiant in the morning light. He hadn’t fixed his hair yet, so it was tousled and lovely. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up, revealing tattoos. The omelet he carried smelled delicious.
“Thank you.” She desperately hoped that she didn’t look like a mess. She hadn’t looked in the mirror before coming into the studio, though she suspected she looked quite disastrous. She could only pray that she didn't have crusted drool or something equally embarrassing on her face. It was unfair that he looked so carelessly beautiful in the mornings. Too pretty for his own good.
“I’ve left my phone number on the fridge, feel free to call if you need help with anything. If you need to rent a truck to bring your furniture, just send the information to me and I’ll get it paid for.” He smiled, handing her the omelette. “Otherwise, I’ll be home a bit after six, and I’ll fix dinner.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Feyre tried to insist. Dinner last night had been painful enough; she had been so nervous that she was going to say something wrong and get thrown out on her ear. He was so much older than her, surely she seemed like a silly little child to him. She was desperate not to annoy him in any way, and eating together every evening would provide endless moments for her to frustrate him.
“It’s my job as your patron to take care of you.” He said solemnly, hand pressed to his breast, like he was giving her an eternal vow.
“I’m pretty sure Isabella Gardner never made John Singer Sargent dinner.” She said with a raised brow.
“That isn’t my job, that’s my privilege as your roommate.” He smiled, radiant. “You wouldn’t deprive me of my hobbies, would you? It’s very important that old men like myself keep their minds active.”
“You’re not that old, grandpa. But if it will keep you from getting dementia, I suppose I’ll allow it.” She rolled her eyes, and he left with a wink. She wondered how old he actually was. She guessed mid to late 40s. She had never admitted it, but she always did like older men.
When Rhys came home that evening, he was surprised to find Feyre on the couch with her sketchbook while M*A*S*H played on the TV. For a vain moment, he wondered if she had it on because it was the sort of thing she thought a man his age would watch. If so, it would be misguided- while he was technically alive when it was airing, it was a close thing.
“This isn’t what I expected you to enjoy,” he said, sitting on the couch next to her.
“What?” she smiled, looking at him with a sly sideways glance. “You expect someone my age to only watch Friends and Gilmore Girls?”
“Yes, actually,” he said, sheepishly.
“Sorry to disappoint. My dad is disabled and was unable to work for the majority of my life.” She said, continuing to sketch. “The only quality time we had together was spent watching TV. M*A*S*H, Gunsmoke, I Love Lucy, and anything shown on Turner Classics. It’s all comforting to me, though M*A*S*H more than the others. I understand it’s weird to say that a show protesting the Vietnam War is my comfort show, but it is.”
He sat watching for a few minutes, before she slid her gaze to him. “I can restart the episode if you want, it’s a good one.”
It was a good one, he thought as she restarted it. In it, The army increases the amount of time surgeons need to serve before they’re allowed to go home. Hawkeye, the surgeon closest to getting shipped home is desolate- he rails against how much he hates the 4077 and how sick he is of seeing army green everywhere, and how just once he wants to be surrounded by a rosy color, like red.
When he finds out peace talks are happening, he steals a Jeep and drives all the way to Panmunjom, lies his way into the meetings, and begs for an end to the war. He’s escorted out, told to return to his duty station and get back to work. Hawkeye returns to the 4077 defeated, but receives a hero’s welcome from his friends and finds that they’ve thrown a red party for him. Everyone dyed their hair and clothes red, filled the mess tent with red balloons and streamers.
It’s nice, seeing the lengths his friends go to for him. Even though the war continues and Hawkeye can’t go home, he realizes how much his friends love him.
When the credits roll, Feyre spoke. “Do you think you ever actually come home from war?”
It’s a charged question and he takes a moment to think about his answer. “Yes, I think so. You may come home changed, different from who you were before, but slowly you’ll start to recognize yourself in the mirror again. It just takes time.” He knows from experience, but he doesn’t say that to her.
She just hummed, returning to her drawing as the next episode started to play.