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Margo loved Eliot. She really did. But sometimes she just couldn’t pass up an opportunity to tease him about all the soft, squishy parts of himself no one else got to see but her.
“So, you going to introduce me to your new husband or what?” She grinned after Eliot finished waxing poetic about some Quentin kid’s “puppy-dog-soft” eyes.
Eliot made an exaggerated pout back at her as he mixed them both another martini. “He’s probably gonna fail."
Quentin didn’t fail the entrance exam, but his cheekbones weren’t “chiseled from marble” and his lips certainly weren’t “more fuckable than Apollo's.” He was cute. Ish. She didn’t think Eliot’s fascination would last long. Quentin was nice to have around though, in his own weird, nerdy way.
—
Of all the times for Eliot to stick to the rules, it had to be during the Trials. They were running the show; they were in charge. They could pair up the wobbly-legged, baby magicians however the fuck they wanted: screw the secrets-magic matching-spell tradition.
“Worried your husband won’t come back in one piece, baby? Afraid little Miss Quinn is going to eat him alive?”
“Hardly,” Eliot snapped back, looking over the chart of first-year pairs that had made it this far. He fiddled a little bit with the post-it that had Quentin’s name on it.
As if she wouldn’t notice.
—
Margo leaned against the entry to the Armory and waited until Eliot looked up from his hands in his lap. She wasn’t sure how many other people could see how much everything was hurting him, but she could.
Quentin probably could, too.
“Your—” she started, then stopped. The joke didn’t feel right anymore, and that just added to the sharp, serrated feeling that kept ripping through her chest if she let herself stop and think for more than five consecutive seconds. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Of course, I am, Bambi.” Eliot nodded and pretended to smile. Even as he said it, his eyes weren’t as bright as they should have been. “It’s not like this is pre-revolution France.”
“Quentin is looking for you,” she offered.
“Tell him I’m in here.”
—
Margo punched him in the arm, and when he didn’t flinch hard enough, she pulled her arm back again, threatening.
“Your husband?” she hissed at him. “Fifty years…Your husband?”
Eliot shrugged and she nearly slapped him across his face.
“It’s nothing, Margo. It’s fine. We don’t need to—”
“Oh, you better believe we’re going to go save your husband. And then I’m gonna kill him. Messiah of the fucking Bunnies, can’t trust either of you to take care of yourselves, can I?” She spun on her heel and marched out of the penthouse kitchen. To start planning. To find Julia. And Alice. Maybe Kady. Whoever.
“Thank you, Bambi,” Eliot whispered, following a few steps behind her.
“Your husband!”
—
Margo had overseen every last meticulous detail personally. She may or may not have used some of her "royal influence'' to get the results she wanted. There might or might not have been a few death threats along the way.
She'd known it would all be worth it, but she felt it as she watched Eliot fuss with his hair in the mirror. Her deep violet dress matched the faint pinstripes in his suit. His carefully folded mauve pocket square was flecked with gold and white to tie in with the lily bouquet in her hand and the floral arch in the throne room.
If anyone made the day a millimeter short of perfect for Eliot, she was going to absolutely destroy them.
“C’mon, El. Your husband is waiting for you.”
Eliot turned around and smiled at her sheepishly. His cheeks started to turn just a little bit pink. It reminded her of the soft, loving, hopeful boy she’d met at their Trials, weeks after meeting Eliot for the first time.
She shook her head at him, crossed the room, and looped her arm through his. “Do not make me cry, bitch. You know I only ruin my makeup for washboard abs or a hot ass.”
Eliot laughed, bright and happy—probably the happiest she'd ever seen him—and kissed her on the forehead.