Work Text:
“I remember you.”
Schpood stood behind the counter, the spices wafting from the kitchen as he put three pieces of chicken in the box. Technically, he should've put only one. And not all of them should've been drumsticks, but anything for her smile. The ambassador from the desert smiled as prettily as a desert rose.
“I didn't order this.” She says, a faint blush on her cheeks. Ambassador Jophiel cleared her throat as she noticed eyes watching them. His coworkers.
“It's on the house.” Schpood insisted, clumsily dropping the box of fried chicken beside her glass of iced tea and scurrying back to the kitchen. Heart pounding, hands cold.
‘I did it. Oh, Ish, I did it.’
Turning around he was met by his boss with a stern frown on his face.
“If its always on the house, Schpood, eventually there'll be no house.”
Schpood chuckled, trying to charm his way out of it and half succeeding.
“Fine, take it out of my paycheck.”
“Good, cause give her another 'on the house' and I will ban her.”
“You can't! She comes here every week!” Schpood protested, hastily putting on his apron to log back into his shift.
“Glory to Westhelm. Please tell me I didn't butcher the pronunciation and is now hated by the masses?” The Queen of Tricolor joked as she walked towards the Emperor, who gawked at her from his throne before 'stupidly' as his consul would say, stumbling down the stairs to meet her.
“No, you're perfect. I mean, it was perfect.”
Lady Seraphim cleared her throat, lazily tilting her head to gesture to the delegation of Tricolor and the court of Westhelm watching.
In the blink of an eye, the Emperor resumed his regality. Standing tall, only a head shorter than his queen, and proud as he extended a hand to reach for hers and kiss her knuckles.
As she had undoubtedly practiced Westhelm's words, he too brushed up quite a bit on Tricolor greeting. Dry and cracked lips dared to kiss the hand of the divine.
The Vice President escaped his guards once again. Over the distance, he saw people screaming. Some running. However chaotic it was, it seemed fun. So Schpood ran on over.
There was a guard, smeared in blood. His broken bone spearing out of his flesh, leg torn and broken. A woman leaned over him, trying to stop the bleeding. And she captivated him more than the suffering man.
The tips of her hair soaked in cherry red, the taste of iron in the air. Her hands soaked in the warm fluid of life. He watched her comfort him, sharp eyes of crystal blue cold and yet caring. He died. Schpood stood there, stunned to see the composed doctor wipe tears before they dripped.
“Well done.” He wanted to bite his tongue, ‘Great. Now you're a heartless prick.’
The doctor, whose name was Briarrose stitched on her uniform, turned to him.
“Ah, Rose. You did your-”
“Forgive me, sir. I have other patients.” She quipped, and Schpood knew then and there he had blown his first impression.
What followed were incessant visits to the Ministry of Health, from the desire to correct his embarrassment to eventually,
“Again? What happened this time?” Dr. Briarrose chastised as she stitched up the gash on his forehead.
“Skiing.” Schpood grinned. “You know what they say, you only live once.” The doctor rolled her eyes, snipping the threat. “Yes, and you are one accident away from breaking your neck.” She paused, “..sir.” She had treated the Vice President so long eventually she began to forget who he was.
“I thought we were past the sir thingy.”
“Are we?”
Grinning, as if the fresh cuts on his face were a trophy instead, Schpood pulled two tickets from his pocket.
“Come with me? Concert tickets.”
Dr. Briarrose couldn't help the snort that left her. “Sorry. You go to concerts?”
“After I crash funerals.”
She shook her head and tossed him a prescription to painkillers. “Ah, shaking off the dead. In a concert. How fashionable.”
“Will you come?”
“Is that an order?”
“Rose, come on. It's a date.”
She snatched the tickets from his hands and studied them. “Back stage passes? Wow, your display of power knows no bounds. Is the crashing a funeral part of the agenda?”
“Sure, why not? So, a date?”
“A date then.”
It was a typical story. A nurse and a soldier. A doctor and a Vice President. Within six months, Imperia had its Second Lady. Though when or where they married, no record survived the great purge.