A/N:
🌟✨ Happy Diwali, Everyone! ✨🌟
Wishing you all a very Happy Diwali! 💖
May your days be filled with light, laughter, and good fortune 🌸🪔
Thank you so much for your amazing support — you all make this journey brighter than any festival lights! 🎇💫
Stay safe, enjoy the sweets 🍬, and let's keep shining together! 🌈🔥
⏳ P.S. Less than 20 hours remain for the Patreon fanfic voting!
Only votes on the Patreon poll count — so if you haven't voted yet, now's the time! 🗳️✨
____X____
The cab ride from Heathrow was long enough for me to start questioning reality—and short enough for Ravel to start regretting her existence.
London stretched endlessly outside the window: a mosaic of rain-slick streets, red buses, and stone buildings that looked like they hadn't aged since the industrial revolution.
The sky hovered somewhere between gray and grayer, like even the weather couldn't make up its mind.
I leaned against the window, watching droplets chase each other down the glass.
"Hmm… looks exactly like how every movie depicts it."
I mused aloud.
"Gloomy, poetic, and just depressing enough to make you write bad poetry."
Ravel, sitting primly beside me, didn't even look up.
"Maybe if you spent less time talking, you'd appreciate it more."
I turned toward her, feigning a wounded gasp.
"My dear maid, are you suggesting silence from your master?"
"I'm suggesting peace for my sanity."
The cab driver chuckled softly, eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
"You two newlyweds?"
Ravel nearly choked.
"Wha—?! No! Absolutely not!"
I shrugged casually.
"Depends. Does a contract forged in mutual suffering count? Because that sounds an awful lot like marriage already."
"It does not!"
The driver chuckled.
"Could've fooled me, mate. You argue like an old couple."
Ravel groaned and looked out the window, cheeks turning faintly pink.
I, of course, basked in my victory.
When the cab finally pulled up to the hotel, I whistled low.
It was one of those elegant, old-English places with ivy climbing up red-brick walls and lanterns glowing by the entrance.
The kind of place that screamed, 'We overcharge because we can.'
We stepped inside our hotel, and warm air filled with the faint scent of coffee and polished wood and stone greeted us.
The receptionist smiled brightly.
"Welcome to The Savoy. One deluxe suite, correct?"
Before I could reply, Ravel froze.
"One… suite?"
I blinked.
"Huh. Guess I booked that while half-asleep."
To be fair, I only decided to bring her after realizing I'd need someone to handle my chores abroad.
Her head snapped toward me.
"Half-asleep?! You—"
She took a deep breath, forcing a calm smile for the receptionist.
"Yes. That's correct."
Her voice was the auditory equivalent of a blade wrapped in silk.
The room was spacious, classy, and —unfortunately — centered around one large bed.
Ravel stood at the doorway like she was staring into a battlefield.
"There's only one bed."
She said flatly.
"Good observation," I said.
"Maybe that's why we have two eyes."
She gave me a look that could melt steel.
"I'm taking the bed."
She said immediately.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You're the one who messed up the booking. You can sleep on the floor."
I crossed my arms.
"You do realize I'm your master, right?"
"And I'm your maid," she said sweetly, "which means I handle your comfort after you handle mine."
Touché.
"…Fine. But I'm charging emotional damages."
She rolled her eyes and began unpacking.
Every movement was graceful, precise — the kind of perfection that came from noble upbringing, not servitude.
Meanwhile, I lounged on the couch, scrolling through my phone.
"Master," she said after a moment, "you're not going to help?"
"I'm supervising."
"Supervisors supervise with their eyes open."
"I'm supervising spiritually."
She muttered something under her breath that I'm fairly certain violated maid etiquette.
When she finished, she brushed off her hands.
"All done. Shall I order dinner?"
"Order? No, no, no. We're in London!"
I said, jumping up.
"We're not eating hotel food like boring rich people. We're exploring."
She frowned.
"Exploring… in this weather?"
Outside, the drizzle had evolved into a full-blown mist, the streetlamps hazy halos in the fog.
"Exactly!"
I grinned.
"It's called atmosphere."
"It's called pneumonia."
She deadpanned.
A few minutes later, we were out on the cobblestone streets — she in her maid uniform, holding a small umbrella, and me walking beside her, hands in pockets.
I could feel people staring.
Londoners probably thought we were filming some weird drama.
"Remind me again," Ravel murmured, "why must I wear this in public?"
"Brand image," I said confidently.
"If I look important, my maid should match the aesthetic."
She gave me a long, slow look.
"You're walking in sneakers and a hoodie."
"Exactly. It's called contrast. High art."
She exhaled through her nose — the sound of a soul giving up on reason.
We wandered through the bustling streets, past glowing pubs, souvenir shops, and street performers.
Somewhere nearby, someone played the violin under a bridge.
The melody mingled with the fog, hauntingly beautiful.
It was… kind of beautiful, actually.
I glanced sideways.
Ravel was watching the city lights reflect in puddles, the usual sharpness in her eyes softened by wonder.
It almost made me forget she'd probably kill me if I said anything cheesy.
"Hey, Ravel," I said lightly.
She didn't look at me.
"What?"
"You're smiling."
"I'm not."
"You totally are."
"I said I'm not!"
"Then why is your face doing that thing where it's not frowning?"
"Master," she said in a dangerously calm tone, "I will throw this umbrella into the Thames and leave you to the rain."
"…Touché again. But there is no rain."
We eventually ducked into a cozy little café tucked between two old bookstores.
Warm lights, the smell of roasted coffee, faint jazz in the background—it was the kind of place that made time slow down.
The waitress led us to a window seat.
I ordered fish and chips because — let's face it — it's basically the law here.
Although I know that there are a whole lot of luxury items on the menu other than this, but call it my way of showing respect to the tradition here by eating this first thing in England.
Ravel ordered black tea and something light, probably out of spite.
When the food came, I immediately attacked mine.
"This is actually great," I said, mouth half-full.
Ravel sipped her tea with perfect grace.
"I suppose it's… acceptable."
"So, you like it."
"I didn't say that."
"But you didn't say you don't."
She gave me the slowest, most exhausted glare known to mankind.
"Are you always this infuriating, or is it just a special occasion?"
"Oh, it's a lifestyle."
By the time we left, the fog had lessened, leaving behind glistening streets and a cool, damp breeze.
The night lights reflected off the Thames like a thousand scattered stars.
Big Ben stood faintly visible in the distance, golden and timeless.
Ravel's gaze lingered there for a long moment.
"…It's beautiful," she said softly.
"See? Told you exploring was better than room service."
"Even a broken clock can be right twice a day."
I chuckled.
"So I'm right once already?"
She didn't answer, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward — almost a smile.
By the time we got back to the hotel, the fatigue from travel finally hit.
Ravel immediately started organizing tomorrow's clothes while I collapsed onto the couch, already plotting how to steal a corner of the bed later.
"Hey," I said lazily, watching her move about, "you did well today."
She froze for a moment, caught off guard.
Then, quietly, she said, "…Good night, Master."
She switched off the lights and slipped under the blanket, turning around towards me.
The mist covered the windows— foggy, silent, soothing.
I leaned back, closing my eyes.
"Yeah," I murmured to myself.
"Maybe this trip won't be so boring after all."
........................................................................................................................................................
Don't forget to vote on the poll to decide on the next fanfic, alongside only on Patreon!
Patreon link: patreon.com/zevionasgorath