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| Details |
| Author: | inkie |
| Summary: | Ben and Ismene celebrate their first anniversary (approximate), and make a promise to make a promise. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Chain: Bizzy
The window of the little Shattrath apartment is open, gauzy curtains hanging lazily on the breeze. The dim interior, lit only by that window, is spartan and as neat as the proverbial pin: Ben’s workboots are arranged tidily by the door, his canvas work jacket hanging on a peg. In the sitting room, a blanket is folded crisply over the back of each armchair, and a pair of books has been stacked carefully square on the end table between them. In the corner, Ben’s armor gleams on its stand.
There is no sign, however, of Ben.
On the kitchen counter, a bud vase holds a single glittering-ethereal netherbloom blossom. Beside it is a covered glass dish.
The door bursts open and almost rebounds into the woman in the doorway. “Ben?” Ismene calls, her voice bright with excitement and hope. She drops her bags to the floor (one of which squawks in dismay), swinging back a foot to kick the door closed correctly before taking another two steps in. “Ben?” she says again, quieter.
She looks around the room, taking note of the bits that suggest her husband has been home recently, and smiles at the blossom.
There is a knock on the door. It is both too soft and too low down to be Ben. Also he probably wouldn’t knock at his own front door.
And yet, Mizzy spins toward the door. “Ben!” She yanks it open. Seeing no one that’s 6’4” in the doorway, her expression dims to bummerness and she looks down.
A tiny draenei child — all things being relative, she could be in her sixties or something, IDK — is waiting there. Shyly, she holds up another netherbloom flower. “Telaar,” she whispers. Not because whispering is called for; just from big-eyed bashfulness. “Nagrand, Telaar.” She shakes the flower at Mizzy a little, a timid imperative.
Briefly, Mizzy considers adopting her and not only because she can crouch down to be on eye level with the little girl. Being tall is fun. She reaches out to take the flower and asks, “Did a very big man tell you to give me this?”
The child looks relieved when her flower offering is accepted, a smile breaking through the cloud of shyness. She tilts her head and considers Mizzy’s relative size, and after a moment nods again hesitantly. “Yeis. Behn. Telaar.” She steps back and points a thin arm toward the gryphon master on the terrace above Lower City.
“Thank you,” Ismene says politely. “You’re very kind.”
Sorry kid, that’s all you get, she’s got a Behn to find. Because there’s also a Shiny Covered Thing with another flower and should she investigate it before Behn? But what if it’s a surprise when she comes back with Behn? What if Behn expects her to bring it with her? Mizzy’s brain goes to a test pattern, then comes back. She walks over to just… peek a little. Just a peek. A little one. A peek under the silver thing.
Lifting the lid of the dish reveals… a single slice of cake. It stands aligned with the outer edge of the plate in a way that suggests it was not placed there as a solitary centerpiece but that there was, in fact, a whole cake at some point and the remainder of it is sliced and gone. The solitary remaining slice identifies the cake as a dense, sticky-toffee gingerbread confection of some kind, faintly apple-scented. Propped next to the cake slice in the dish is a note:
She laughs and spins in a circle, holding the note to her chest. Skipping is in evidence as she lets an angry cat and a disgruntled sprite darter out of her bag. She grabs another bag and heads out the oh no wait she almost forgot her toffee gingerbread sticky apple concoction which she grabs and then heads out the door. A shrill whistle repeated twice summons down a small white gryphon.
“Cirrus!” she says, almost sort of hugging him but then the sticky gingerbread concoction of apple toffee will spill. “Telaar, please,” she says, scrambling on board.
His beak clacks and he launches skyward, where he stays until Telaar is beneath them because that is how travel works. He disdains the gryphon perch and lands like the ground has insulted him.
Still holding her cake in one hand, though there’s noticeably less cake than when she started, Mizzy turns in a circle and ignores the various Draenei. “Ben!” she yells.
A nearby figure hops down from the wall on which he was perched and ambles toward her, unhurried and grinning. Everything about him — from the way he is dressed and shaved and combed to the way he’s got his hands jammed in his pockets and a basket hanging from the crook of one arm — reflects back across the intervening year the picture of the young man who crossed the Stormwind bridge on an autumn afternoon to walk out with Ismene for a picnic in Elwynn forest.
He halts before her, still grinning, and looks her up and down. “You are prettier’n a sky, Mizmainy Hazan.” With a slightly-ironic flourish, he draws another netherbloom flower from the picnic basket and offers it to her.
As soon as she spots him, Ismene sighs and relaxes. It’s Ben. He’s here. The weather is now perfect, her mussed green linen dress is made artfully tousled, the slight breeze that ruffles through his hair does exactly what she would do in its place. She smiles, because how can she not? It’s Ben. He’s here.
She takes the flower, dropping into a curtsey as she does. “Why thank you, Ben Hazan,” she says. “Are you taking me on a picnic, then? I do hope you plan on being just as impertinent as you were the last time we picnicked alone.” Ismene tips her head, looking up at him through the corners of her eyes. She sounds chastising, but yeah, no, she definitely left out the negative.
“Miss,” he says, solemn and puppy-eyed. “I promise I can be way more impertinent than that. That was pretty much my best manners.” He looks past her to the gryphon. “I hope Cirrus has a little more flight in him, because we are not quite done yet. Though it’s a real short hop this time, I promise.”
“Oh, you know him. Hop on Stratus and take off, and Cirrus will fly just to prove he can keep up with a bigger gryphon,” Mizzy says. She starts to loop her arm through Ben’s but one holds two flowers and one holds the remains of a confection toffee gingerapple sticky bread cake remnant. She scoots around to his other side so she can use the arm with flowers to loop, then smiles up at him, dilemma solved.
Ben stoops to kiss her lightly, then straightens and grins. “This way, ma’am,” he tells her, and leads her toward Cirrus.
As they approach the snow-white gryphon, Ben tips his head up and whistles sharply through his teeth. A moment later, a black-headed gryphon hurtles like a stone from the landing platform above. He spreads his wings at the last possible moment to settle into a dignified landing beside the white one, then twists his head to preen nonchalantly.
“Fucken showoff,” Ben observes. Stratus does not deny this.
At Cirrus’s side, Ben offers Mizzy a hand up onto the gryphon’s back. “Okay,” he says, and ruffles Cirrus’s neck plumage affectionately. “Short trip. Just follow us.”
The journey on which he and Stratus lead them is a short one indeed: barely out of Telaar but steeply upward, they alight at the edge of one of the floating sky-islands northeast of the town. This one is large enough to hold a crooked shade tree, beneath the boughs of which is arranged a picnic blanket and a stack of three boxes. To the north and far below, the little streams and distant lake glitter; to the west, the crystal mountain of Oshu’gun glows rosily in the sunset light.
Ismene slides off her mount and offers him the last bite of sticky cake as a treat. Turns out giant predator eagle-lions have a sweet tooth; he nips it gently from her palm and settles down as if he approves of the prospect.
Ismene certainly does. “Ben, it’s beautiful.” She stands at the edge, unconcerned about the possibility of slipping or having it crumble out from under her. She turns to Ben, smiling at him, then wanders over to the blanket. “I hope you put this here or else someone is going to be dreadfully put-out,” she says, sinking down to sit, arranging her soft skirt around her neatly.
“I reckon it would be unlucky to steal your first anniversary from somebody else,” Ben observes, and joins her on the blanket, setting the basket between them. “An’ the most beautiful thing up here is you.” Damn, son, smooth.
He flips open the basket lid and looks at Mizzy expectantly. “Now, ma’am. Picnic first or presents first?”
“Well,” she says, thoughtful, “we don’t do very well at finishing picnics, I’ve noticed. So I suggest presents first. After all, look where an apple locket and an embroidered shirt got us!” She lifts a hand to touch the locket at her neck, warm bronze against pale skin.
Ben watches that gesture perhaps a little longer than is seemly. He clears his throat and smiles at her again, flashing his chipped tooth, then leans over and selects the first of the boxes. He presents it to her gravely. It is a large-ish, flattish rectangular box: you know, like a dress box, maybe.
“Oh, it’s a pony!” Mizzy says, reaching for it and grinning at him. She does not have a chipped tooth to flash. She lets the box rest in her lap and turns to fetch a smaller box from her bag. It’s a small cube-shaped box, prettily wrapped. She holds it out to him. “This isn’t a pony,” she explains, just in case there might be some confusion.
“Damn,” says Ben. He lifts the box to his ear as if to shake it and then hesitates, with a questioning look. Safe to shake: Y/N?
Mizzy’s smile turns pained. Probably safe but uh boy. To distract herself, she opens her box (this is not a salacious metaphor).
Ben takes the hint and opts not to shake. He lowers the box to his lap and watches Mizzy open hers, expectantly and with a little bit of trepidation.
Inside, folded neatly, is a cloud-soft blue woolen dress with mother-of-pearl buttons, a high-collared lace inset at the throat, and lace trim on the sleeves, like so:
Ben studies her expression. “It is a business dress,” he explains, uncertainly. “On account of the one that got blood on it? I took that one, the blood one. Mrs. Barnsby gave it to me, and I took it down to Aunt Nir’s dressmaker in Stormwind for the sizin’ and all.”
She slides her hands across the fabric and lifts it out. Her mouth forms a little ‘o’, her eyes big with delight. “It’s a business dress!” she says. She scrambles to her feet and holds the dress against her, looking down the length of it.. “Oh, it’s perfect! Look how serious and professional I’ll seem in it.”
Well, she may look more businesslike if she doesn’t swish the skirts like she is at the moment, but let’s not point that out to her.
Ben’s answering smile is almost bashful, his eyes warm with pride. “You are the most professional lady. You remember the first time we walked out to the Elwynn orchard an’ you give me all that good advice? You have been clever as hell from the very start and marryin’ you was the cleverest thing I ever done.”
Ears red, he drops his gaze to the box he’s holding. “Do I… should I open this? Cos you got two more if you want ‘em.”
Ismene clutches the dress a little tighter and looks down at the two other boxes. She is alarmed. “Those are presents? For me? Those aren’t food or plates or napkins or something for the food?” Oh no Ben say they are food. Her brown eyes are huge and brimming with anxiety. “Because I only got you one present, I didn’t know you were getting me three though I suppose is that some Westfall tradition that you get three presents on your first anniversary that I didn’t know about because I can go get you two more presents, it’s just a moment away though of course I’ll have to think of what to get you…” Distressed, she heads for Cirrus.
“Mizzy! Mizmainy, kitten-cat.” Ben scrambles to his feet, still clutching his own present in one hand, and catches at her elbow with the other. “No, no, c’mon, it is okay. I promise, okay? There is… if you like, one of ‘em is kind of part of the one I already give you, because I am bad at makin’ decisions and was not sure what you would like, is all. Okay? The other is… for us, kind of? For the house, I mean. And I ain’t keepin’ count, Ismene. There ain’t a score or somethin’. We are married, so it is kind of like– a present for one of us is for both of us anyhow, yeah? Because…” He looks plaintively at her. Because.
Nope, she’s still not immune to his brown eyes. She smiles anew, just a little. “Because we’re married,” she finishes. “For a year now.” The tension leaves her shoulders, and she tips her head to the side. “I think the dress is just for me, though. You’d look silly in it, and it wouldn’t fit anyway.”
She gestures to the two. “Which one is the one you got that is part of this one? Then that’ll be like one and you can open yours, then we can open the one that’s for the house. Though you already know what’s in it, so I’ll be the only one surprised.”
“Oh,” he says, a little slyly. “The dress is kind of for me. Cos I get to look at you in it.”
He steps back and turns away to go to the other two boxes beneath the tree, and picks up the next. It’s a dress box, identical to the first; he holds it out. “This one I just saw when I was at the dressmaker, an’ I thought– I mean, I hope you will like it?” Anxious puppy eyes again.
Her smile gets bigger. Those eyes! She just stares into them for a moment, then gives herself a little shake and folds the business dress carefully, setting it back in its box and folding the tissue paper over it. She takes the box from him and opens it, already loving it. Maybe it’s a dress. Maybe it’s a box of tarantulas. She will love it.
It is (for better or for worse) not tarantulas. It is another dress. This one is not a business dress: it is a sleeveless green silk sheath with a waterfall hem, draped with a long-sleeved layer of sheer embroidered tulle.
“There was one like it in the window,” Ben explains earnestly. “When I went to get the business one. It was pink. I thought it would be pretty as hell on you but maybe better in green? Because you like green?” You do like green? says his expression. “If you don’t like it — the color, I mean — I could get it done in the pink, or blue, or whatever. Or, I mean, if you don’t like it at all… I mean, that is fine. I just liked it. For… I dunno. A party or somethin’?”
Ismene stops smiling. Her jaw drops just a finger’s width. “Oh,” she says, as much an exhale as anything. Carefully, she lifts the dress out and lets the box drop. As the dress unfolds to reveal its full length, her eyes widen. “Oh Ben,” she says, staring at the dress. Carefully, she strokes the gauze of one sleeve, rubbing it between thumb and fingers. “It’s beautiful. I love the green, it–”
She stops in mid-thought and holds it out at arm’s length, frowning abruptly. Her expression flicks just as quickly to scandalized amusement and she clutches the dress against herself. “Bennarin Hazan, that neckline is so low…”
Ben manages to look almost convincingly astonished by this revelation. “Huh. Is it? I guess it is.” He squints at it thoughtfully. “I s’pose we will have to get you some chemises lower-cut too, then.”
Look at his innocent face. Practically a halo. What a pure, paladin soul.
She’s not buying it. Well, she sort of is since she married it. “I see you’ve been around your aunt too long,” she says. She must not disapprove of it, since she holds out the dress again and sighs in pleasure. “It’s so lovely,” she says. “I can’t wait to wear it. We’ll have to go someplace special.” She eyes the neckline again. “Perhaps someplace with just the two of us.”
Then she gives him a little nod. “Go on. Open it. It’s not nearly so nice as a business dress and a pretty frock, but…” Now she looks worried. Oh dear.
“It is a present from you, to mark that we been married a year. I am gonna love it,” he assures her, this time earnestly earnest. He bends his attention to the small box he holds.
Inside the box is another box of deep Stormwind blue velvet. Inside that box, nestled in a formed bed of the same velvet, is a watch.
The front is glass, covering a silver watch face etched with dark numbers for the hours and minutes, above them are marked five-second increments. In the center, the month is displayed at the top, and the day at the bottom. Gold etching makes these clearer, and the gold hands stand out nicely against the silver. The back of the watch shows a scene of (naturally) an apple harvest.
If he follows Mizzy’s prompts to take the watch out of the casing, hidden behind the watch is a miniature portrait of the Lady Hazan. The back of the watch shows its tiny gears, the warm gold metal, and the tiny gemstones that hold some of the fastenings in place.
Ben is silent for a long time. He stands, head bent, with the watch cradled carefully in his palm. He smooths his thumb over the glass front of the case, watching the action of the hands within. He turns it over gently and smooths his thumb over the back, the miniature orchard scene. He opens it again — so, so delicately — to lift the watch out and stare at the little portrait. He studies the gears and the gemstones, then stares at the portrait some more.
At length, he lifts his head again. His gaze is almost stricken. “Mizz–” he says, and clears his throat. “Ismene. This is… I mean. This is… damn. This is the best thing I ever had. I never–” He looks down at it again, at the portrait inside the case.
Hopeful, she steps toward him. “You like it? The gnomish smith said it’s very sturdy in the case. He said you can take it into battle, as long as of course you don’t block any gunshots with it or anything.” She stares at him, noting his every expression, and melting helplessly into one of the adoring smiles that are his alone.
“I wanted one,” he says quietly. “I wanted a watch. A gnome watch. But this is– Ismene.” He fits it back together — slowly, carefully, feeling the precise click of each component in its place — and looks up at her again. He folds the watch up in his fist and presses it against his heart. “It is… Mizz, I do not know what to say. This is… amazin’. Just– it’s amazin’.”
She holds the green dress draped over her arms. “Say thank you. Say you love me. Say you’re still happy you married me.” She’s still smiling, adoring, dorky. Adorking. “You tell me all the time but I never get tired of hearing it. Because I love you, and I’m still happy I married you.”
He does not say any of those things — not immediately. What he does is step in and take her by the hips — a little awkwardly, his right hand still folded around the watch — and stoop to kiss her.
It is a surprisingly savage kiss, a hot, hungry crush, an insistent claim. He kisses her until they’re both breathless, and then lifts his head to gaze down at her, wild-eyed and urgent. “I love the hell out of you, Mizmainy Hazan, and I still never have figured out how I got so lucky you married me.”
“I feel the exact same way,” she says softly. “If you want, I’ll list all your wonderful traits again and do it every morning until you understand how perfect you are.” She pauses. “You know. Since you won’t marry me every day.” Her nose wrinkles as she grins.
Ben steps back and sinks to one knee, just at the edge of the picnic blanket. He looks up at her Very Solemnly, still clutching the watch in one hand. “Ismene Tiffin Callis Hazan, do you want to marry me again tomorrow?” He pauses, and the sudden spark of a smile kindles in his gaze. “You can wear your new green dress.”
Ismene Tiffin Callis Hazan slips one hand out from under said dress, and presses it to her heart. Her eyes shine behind teardrops. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, every day. Every year. Every time you ask, always yes.”
Ben exhales, and smiles up at her. “Would’ve been awkward if you said no, I guess.”
He rises to his feet and takes her gently by the elbows, gazing down at her. “How about, since we are not gettin’ married every day, we get married every year instead? For the anniversary.”
Big brown doe eyes look up at him, though she doesn’t raise her face. “What if one year you say no?”
Ben looks flat-out flabbergasted. “Missus,” he says. “I would not. Never. It will be my honor and my privilege if you will marry me every year.” He lays the hand with the watch in it solemnly over his heart. Like, solemnly-solemnly, not puppy-eyes solemnly.
She reaches up and sets her hand over his, smiling at him. “Bennarin,” she says, “I don’t think we’re going to get to the picnic part this year either."