ooc this is gonna be a human au? if that's chill w you? also i think this'll be before bast's death!!

Hazel sat outside Margaery's room for a long, long time, fiddling with her pendant and tracing over the now-dry constellations that glowed on the cement floor. Pele had done a truly wonderful job of mapping out the stars; had Hazel just gone at it, it would be...a mess.

Much like the state her friends were in. Her mentor, specifically.

Margaery's pregnancy was no easy feat, she knew. Vampiric pregnancies never were. (Not that Hazel would know, specifically...she was just guessing, given what she'd seen.) But there was something about Margy's recent nose-dive into the ground that seemed severe and almost like the worse-case scenario of Depression. Hazel had never seen the regal woman so lifeless and limp.

Hazel knew that something had gone down between Margy and Bastille. There was nothing else that could have produced such a sad scene. Whether Bastille had done something to her physically or mentally was still out, but Hazel knew one thing for sure: she was going to lay into that boy for whatever the hell he'd said to Margaery, no matter how pathetic he was. She might apologize and help him after, or later, but definitely not before.

She had been meaning to talk to Margy for a couple days now. She had her reason and her questions, so what was she waiting for? The girl had been sitting outside the door for a good forty-five minutes, contemplating, considering. Hazel could talk, and she could make promises and speak soothing words, but it only took her so far. What happened when that didn't work? When other means of comfort were needed, and Hazel wouldn't have the balls to step up to bat? She couldn't touch people. The thought of fingers and pressure and warmth were all supposed to be cravings (and she did crave it. She had craved it since the night of her first flashback). People were supposed to long for the touch of another human. And you know what? Maybe she did. Maybe she did want that contact, somewhere, deep under layers of fear that were cemented in place by her childhood. But that was her roadblock: being unable to overcome the flashes of pain and terror that singed her eyelids every time someone laid a hand on her.

So Hazel had her difficulties. So what? It wasn't like anybody had the free time to fix them for her. Hazel hated the idea of walking up to someone and laying out her history, then looking at them with pleading eyes that said take this as an excuse. Also, fix it for me. Fix me. Everyone had their own schedules, their own agendas. But Hazel was finding it harder and harder to hold on to the thought that she alone could overcome this stupid fear. And maybe...she was thinking of finally opening up to someone about it. Someone who could help her.

Swiping a thumb underneath the golden bandana still tied around her forearm, where the skin was still soft from lack of exposure, Hazel shivered as her thumb pad grazed the jagged, bumpy scar that marred the inside of her arm. She could do this. She could hug Margaery if she needed it. She could do this.

Running slightly shaky hands through a messy thatch of curls, Hazel pushed herself to her feet, and quietly knocked. "Margy?" She asked, slowly turning the handle but not entering or pushing the door open. "Sit per me venire?" Hoping the Latin might calm or soothe the woman in some way, Hazel waited on baited breath for her answer.

(Sit per me venire? - May I come in?)

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

It was no secret that Margy’s vampirism scared Hazel. And she wasn’t ashamed of that fear, either. Hazel was dead certain Margaery could kill her with a look if she wanted. And yet, she harbored the same sort of attitude towards Margy that she did towards Bastille: they might be pretty damn powerful, but as long as she had a reason to believe she could actively help, she would approach them at their worst and do her best.

“I came to see how you’re doing,” Hazel admitted, finding that beating around the bush would only create problems. “I wanted to know if there is anything I can do to help you.” She said softly, walking towards her bed. She snagged a hairbrush off a nearby flat surface and sat behind Margy, taking a deep breath at the electricity and heat that radiated between them. Gingerly, she reached up, and began working the brush through the knots and frizz in the woman’s hair, taking care to be gentle.

“We’re all worried about you, Margy.” Hazel said. “But...you seem more off than what the babies might cause. Did something happen?” She asked quietly, eyes not leaving the methodical strokes of the brush.

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

Hazel busied herself with her task, running her fingers through the long strands of Margaery’s hair. She’d always admired the mousy brown of Margy’s hair; it looked like it belonged in a photo shoot, set against a white backdrop in NYC. Hazel wished for hair like that, instead of the frizzy, curly mess she had to deal with.

As Margy finally spoke, Hazel’s grip tightened around the handle of the brush. There was her confirmation — her check mark in the one blank box that she’d left her pen hovering over for days, now. Anger kickstarted low in her chest, quickly coming to a boil in her veins. So now not only did Bastille not give two shits about what he was doing to himself, but he didn’t seem to care about what he said and did to others. It was all good fun until someone else got caught in the crossfire, wasn’t it?

Hazel let Margy finish, gritting her teeth and trying not to tug on the woman’s hair too harshly. Deus, she was going to shove Bastille into his bookshelf the next time she saw him. He’d deserve it this time. He’d deserve every inch of what Hazel was going to give him, because this sort of subject was just...something you didn’t mess with. You left it alone, no matter what.

Smoldering, Hazel swallowed against the bitterness, silently setting down her plan for mutilating the Seraph later in favor of focusing on the present. It took a moment longer than usual to feel the burn of liquid anger in her veins fade, like that wave was more powerful than the others. But Hazel didn’t notice — just breathed in and out, in and out. Just to level off her racing heart.

“I don’t know why you should believe anything he says,” Hazel said after a moment of silence. “He doesn’t know you, Margy. He doesn’t know the first thing about you.” She frowned, reaching up to collect a small portion of brown hair to begin braiding. “Bastille may be able to read people and twist words, but he can’t tell you who you are. None of us can. Everything that makes up your character is up to you, and only you. It took me way too long to figure that out — twelve years too long. And in the time I spent at that house, living as something Mother told me I was, I realized the only thing I could do was embody only what she told me. It wasn’t me. I didn’t have my own personality. But by the time I ran...I was already covered in scars.” Hazel sighed quietly, some of the fight seeping out of her shoulders.

Biting her lip with a newfound sort of nervousness, Hazel rolled up one leg of her overall shorts, revealing pale, ugly scars that peppered the insides of her thigh. Some were thin and long, shaped like a shooting star or the path of a kitchen knife. Others were the results of burns and fingernail scrapes. She let out a small breath.

Hazel tried to ignore how her hands shook as she looked back up at Margaery, eyes haunted and a little desperate. “Please don’t let yourself get covered in scars, Margy.” She said quietly. “It’s not worth it.”

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

Hazel pushed her pants leg back down, eyes glued to the scars the denim couldn’t cover. Most days she had a false sort of confidence that allowed her to ignore those scars; to pretend they didn’t exist. Other days she couldn’t bear to look at them, knowing that they were stuck with her forever and that they might even drive some people away. She drew a slow breath in, pushing the thought away.

“I know I can’t fix the way you feel sometimes, though I wish I could.” She admitted to Margy, fiddling with the hairbrush. “I just want you to know that you’re being unfair to yourself if you believe in something told to you by someone who hardly knows you.” She shrugged, returning to fiddling with Margy’s hair. She found that it was...a nice distraction. So Hazel began braiding small sections of the brown curls, letting the methodical rhythm of over, under, over, under pull her out of her head.

“You’re a really amazing person, Margaery,” She said softly, fondly. “You make me think of what a mother is supposed to be. Sweet and caring and protective and protective. That’s fine if you don’t want to believe me, but know that all people have their flaws — and that doesn’t make them bad people.” Hazel adjusted her grip on Margy’s hair. “I think it’s what makes them human.”

Wow, that sounded...kind of cheesy. Hazel grimaced at herself. She was about to tell Margaery to ignore it, but Margy was already turning around, tears on her cheeks and concern in her eyes. Hazel froze, because that...that wasn’t really the reaction she was hoping her words would have. “Hey, hey — don’t cry, it’s alright.” She murmured, reaching for Margy but stopping just before her fingers brushed against the woman’s pale, ashen skin. The contrast between the two colors was stark and Hazel, ever the one to marvel at the little things, let her eye linger on it before she refocused.

“I — you’re welcome.” Hazel was now just a bit confused, but happy to help. Then Margy was asking if she could hug her, and Hazel froze up again, golden eyes wide as a chill ran down her spine. The only hug she had received was from Bastille, and that was to snap her out of a panic attack. In fact, that wasn’t what had even calmed her down, it was the smoke and pine scent that clung to his skin. Could she handle it if she let Margy hug her?

“Uh,” She squeaked out, panic a little evident in her eyes. At this point, she wasn’t even thinking about Margy’s vampirism anymore. She could only feel the heat radiating off the other and think about how all consuming and searingly hot it was. “...sure, Margy.” She all but whispered.

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★