A couple weeks ago, the writing class I’m in was doing a study on tension. Naturally, I had to write a AU short story with one of my favorite pairing from my sci-fi WIP– Victor Hunt and Anala Armanti.

This is Shattering Glass, told in Anala’s POV. While housesitting for Victor’s family, she accidentally causes a bit of… trouble.

Content Warnings: Victor’s father is physically abusive (nothing directly happens in the short story, but it is implied.), they use a knife to open a package.

The vase shatters to the floor in a million blue and yellow shards. I stare at the scene, feather duster still in hand. 

Galaxies no. 

I slowly set the duster down on the desk, mind spinning. It was just, like, one vase. The guy couldn’t miss it, he had like a gazillion in this office alone. It’d be fine. 

The door swings open behind me. I glance back, coming face to face with Vic, who is staring at the glass with a look on his face that says everything will not be fine. 

“What happened?” He breathes, shifting into the room and glancing at me. 

“I was dusting… okay, I got a little distracted, but we can fix this—I’ll clean it up and he’ll never know the difference–” 

“My father always knows the difference.” His gaze drops to the glass again, fingers drumming a nervous pattern against his leg. “That vase cost him a fortune, he’ll notice.” 

Galaxies no. 

“Okay, then I’ll make it up to him.” I say, dropping to my knees, scooping up a couple of the larger glass pieces. “We’ll find the artist and get a new one–” 

“I don’t think you understand how art works. It was custom.” 

“–so we get a new custom vase. And if he doesn’t like it, I’ll pay him the difference.” I wave a hand, then pop back to my feet, brushing off a few golden shards from the base piece of the vase, revealing a signature etched into the bottom. “See, now we can find the artist and it’ll be fine.” 

Vic doesn’t respond. I glance at him, blinking in surprise as I spot the panic sparking through his eyes. “It’ll be okay.” I say softly, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder.  

“He’ll blame me.” He whispers, his gaze flicking to mine. I bit my lip, my gaze drifting to the bruise on his arm from the last time, when he’d accidentally misplaced one of his father’s files. Just one file, and his father went berserk… 

I shoot him a slight smile, pulling him towards the door. “He won’t blame you, because he’s not gonna find out. I’m gonna fix this, and you’re gonna be fine.” 

He doesn’t answer. But he follows as we march towards the door, signature and determination in hand. 

1 hour of searching the city for the artist, haggling over prices and finally settling on the oh-so-low price of 400 credits for a pretty similar looking vase later, I dragged Vic back into the house, with the vase—wrapped in five layers of protective paper—tucked under my arm and a trashbag in my hand. 

“He’ll be home any minute now.” Vic whispered, gripping my other hand.  

“Perfect timing. We’ll be ready for him.” I chirp, ducking into the office and setting the vase on the desk. “Hand me your knife.” 

He tugs the switchblade from his pocket, tossing it to me and glancing back at the door. “I’ll… go let you know when he gets here.” 

“M’kay.” I nod, cutting open the paper and bits of tape, then carefully lifting the vase from the desk and setting it onto the formerly empty pedestal. The vase glittered in the sunlight—blue and yellow and gold, just like the old one. The only really noticeable difference was the hints of red lacing with the gold. But it’d be fine. 

It had to be fine. For Vic’s sake. 

I shove the knife into my pocket, scooping up the packaging mess and shoving it into the bag, then grabbing a broom and sweeping the shards into the dustpan. 

“He’s pulling up!” Vic calls from the other room. The faintest hint of panic coloring his tone.  

“We’re all ready!” I call, dumping the mess into the trashbag and running over to the kitchen. Determining to take Vic out for some ice cream or something after all this stress, I toss the broom into the closet and shove the trashbag into the bin just as the door swings open. 

“Mr. Hunt!” I chirp, whirling around and flashing a bright smile as I sweep into the living room.  

The man nods once at me, briefcase in hand as his sharp eyes flick across my face. “I presume everything went well?” 

I nod, shrugging. “Of course.” 

Please, please don’t notice. Or at least blame me for it. 

Your son doesn’t deserve the pain you inflict on him. 

He nods again, striding through the room towards his office. “Very well. I’ll send your payment tonight, as promised.” 

“Stellar. By the way, I did a little dusting around your office. Kept everything in place, though.” I say, smiling as I follow him. Vic trails after me, his face a practiced mask of neutrality.  

Mr. Hunt shoots me a wry smile as he pushes open the door to his office. “Got bored, hm?” 

I laugh, the noise sounding too forced in my ears. “Never boring here, Mr. Hunt. Your home is beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” He steps over to his desk, settling down into his chair. His gaze floats about the room. And I can’t tell if his gaze lingers on the vase, sitting pretty on its pedestal—an imposter—for a moment too long, or if it’s just my imagination. 

His gaze snaps to Vic, sharp and curious, for half a second. And then his expression melts into a neutral smile, just like his son’s, as he looks at me. “I’ll be seeing you next week, yes?” 

“Sounds like a plan. See you then!” I smile, waving and backing towards the door and grabbing onto Vic’s arm as I step out of his office. Vic backs up with me, his hand cold as it grips mine, his eyes flashing with gratefulness as his gaze meets mine, for half a second of we managed to do this– 

Mr. Hunt clears his throat. We stop, looking up at him.  

His gaze is on Vic. Steady with a frosty air. Knowing and saying things only they can hear. Vic looks down a moment later, letting out a short breath. Releasing my hand. Drumming his fingers against his leg in a nervous pattern, again. 

“See you then.” Mr. Hunt hums.