The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 25 - Little Mice

You decide not to tell Brahms what you heard the night before;  and your fears about intruders or ghosts or things that go bump in the night.   You get him home, he's still a little sore over his scar, and you see no reason to offload what you increasingly feel is just paranoia and a creaky old house.   And you definitely don't want to tell him you went and left the back door unlocked for two days!

The keyhole surgery means that Brahms's wound will be healed in a week or two.   But he's to rest  and take it easy.  So you determine to make sure he does just that.  The weather's changed too.  Typical of British weather,  it's gone from a balmy seventy degrees to a chilly fifty degrees literally overnight.  It's almost the end of October and Indian summer has disappeared for good.  

A week later you're both sitting in the kitchen, drinking hot chocolate, when out of the blue he says, "It's my birthday next week."

You look up at him with raised brows.  "Really?  What date?"

"The 31st."

"Halloween?"  You smile across at him.   "Why aren't I surprised?"

He stares back at you solemnly.  "What do you mean?"

You're not sure how to explain to him that  All Hallow's Eve has always felt  magical  to you.  That it doesn't mean trick or treat.  It never has.  It means something much deeper; of things weird and unexplained, dangerous and wild.  Just like him.  To you he's as elemental as the wind, or fire, or storms.   He's dangerous and heady and fierce and fascinating.   That he came into the world on All Hallow's Eve just seems to add to his eccentricity.  Only you can't tell him that.  He might be insulted.   

"It's a time of the year linked to the...otherworldly," you reply lamely. "Pagan, isn't it?   I mean, it goes way back to times when people worshipped earth spirits and...well..."

He doesn't blink once as you stumble over your reply.

"It's not that I think you're pagan, Brahms.   I mean, you have the Celtic colouring.  Dark hair, green eyes.  Perhaps you have Irish ancestry?"

He nods slowly.

"You do?  Mother's side?"

He shakes his head.

Not wanting to mention his dead father, you cast around desperately in your mind to keep the conversation on an even keel.   "Anyway...um...yeah.  All Hallow's Eve.  A great time to be born.  I wish it was me.   I'm just boring old (Y/Birthdate)"

At last he  says, "What has being born on Halloween to do with anything?"

In desperation, you spread both hands then blurt, "You're a Scorpio!"

His eyes narrow, the dark curls bobbing gently as he tilts his head.   He's wearing a skinny sweater with three buttons at the throat, all undone, tight black jeans; that quizzical expression.  You sit there wondering why sometimes he's so amenable, and other times he's the most inscrutable man in the world.

"Do you believe in star signs?" you ask him.   "That people are a certain personality type dependent on their birthdays?  I mean, I'm typical of mine.  Well, my dad always swore I was.  Scorpio's are...well..."  You kind of deflate like a popped balloon. "I'm sorry, Brahms.   I don't even know what I'm trying to say."

You watch him smile slowly.   In the dying afternoon sun, his eyes sparkle.  When he speaks, his voice is soft and intimate with an edge to it.    You're reminded of when he had you cornered in the cellars, so terrified of him you thought you'd die.   That day he'd reached out and told  you,  I'll be good...I will.   His voice snares you again.  " A Scorpio is intense in love but often dismisses the tender side of the emotions, as though reluctant to show how weak they can be. Part of this intensity is an incapability to forgive an injury, or a betrayal.  A typical Scorpio trait."

Your eyes move upwards as you watch him stand.   He walks to your side, gazing down at your upturned face.  "We may seem fatalistic to those who don't understand us.  We observe life as a series of small deaths that need to be conquered."

Now, he's bending those long legs, squatting  down until the oakmoss irises are on a level with yours.  His gaze drops to your mouth, lingers there, then slides back up to your own eyes.  As always you feel pinioned; like a butterfly stuck to a killing board.   "And if I'm angry enough, at you, at others, at the world; I'll be the silent one that you can look at forever, and never  see my thoughts."

Brahms reaches out and strokes a strand of hair from your forehead.   His fingertips are warm, his touch sets your heart beating a little faster.  That unpredictability; the almost coiled spring energy he always has, leaves you speechless.

"A Scorpio yearns for the love of his life, someone to die with, or die for.   A Scorpio can be  possessive and jealous,  aggressive and vengeful.  But  only if you hurt them.  They'll show you  compassion and emotional understanding and undying love, if you're good to them.  If they trust you."

He traces his fingers along the line of your jaw.   You try not to swallow.  Not to show him the edge of your trepidation.   "But you?" he says softly.   "You I'll never hurt.   Never fear me, Y/N."

His hand finds the back of your neck.  Gently, he pulls you to him; to the firm warmth of his mouth.   You run your fingers through the thick curls, your palms resting against the side of his face where the muscles in his jaw work as he kisses you.   Any fears you had, scamper away like little mice.

Author's Note:  The Photo above is James Russell with the Scorpio sigil in his eyes.  I think Brahms is a Scorpio, so I made him one.    James Russell is actually a Pisces.

Oh, and if your birthday is 31st October....well, that's just double the passion.