Author's Notes: Well, it's been a while (as usual). This is a small oneshot I originally wrote in my notebook. I'm not sure where I was going with it, and it doesn't have much of a plot, but it explores how Bleck and Nastasia may have dealt with things while they were on the search for Timpani - Bleck trying to hide that he's afraid he'll never find her, and Nastasia trying to hide her feelings for him.

The timeline of this story might be a little off, but it takes place a few months after they first met, and a short while before Bleck finally gives up looking for Timpani. They live in the castle together, but the rest of the minions aren't around at this point.

Enjoy!

The Count jerked awake with a gasp, met by nothing but the silence of an empty room.

Just another dream. He let out his breath in a long, slow sigh, deliberately forcing himself, not for the first time in recent days, to push the memory of the nightmare away. Raising his head, he looked around the bedroom. Try as he might, he couldn't convince himself that something, someone, wasn't lurking in the darkness around him. Not with the dream still fresh in his mind and a familiar name in his heart.

Timpani… I swear that I will find you. Even if I have to search for the rest of my days.

He knew sleep wouldn't come, not now, so with a weary sigh he floated out of his bed and reached out a hand – for once not clad in its usual white glove – to the pinewood cane lying beside it. He curled his fingers around the handle in a tight grip, only slightly comforted by its familiarity. He told himself fiercely that he couldn't feel the way his hand was trembling. Focus, he said. I must stay calm. To remember her and everything she is.

He stood beside the bed, shrouded in darkness and seeing nothing. As his eyes strained to adjust, his mind threw at him a mocking question. What if it doesn't make a difference? What if she's gone, really gone, and no amount of searching will ever bring her back?

It was a question he agonised over frequently, but only when he was alone, and only when he had nothing else with which to occupy his thoughts. It was also a question that threatened to drive him to insanity if he spent too much time dwelling on it, so he generally tried to push it to the back of his mind, a feat not always as easy as he wished.

Groaning, he dragged a hand down his face and started to float towards the door. Maybe he would go down to the kitchen and make himself a scalding coffee – anything to stop himself from thinking too much about her, and the consequences if he failed to find her.

Without warning, the door to his room creaked open and a soft amber glow – tiny yet uncomfortably bright to his dark-adjusted eyes – flared into life in the narrow gap.

The Count squinted and turned his face away, but even surprised and half-blind, his vigilance didn't ease back for a moment. Before the intruder had time to do anything, or even to speak, he was flying across the room with an energy ball of purple magic forming in his hands, gathered straight from the dying shadows as they fled the candlelight.

'W-wait!'

It was Nastasia's voice. The Count's eyes widened for an instant – and then he was fighting the pull of his own magic, frantically trying to turn the violent energy backwards and away from his defenceless assistant.

A second later, a crackling report rang out as the ball of magic exploded against the wall, just to the right of Nastasia's head. The last sparks jumped erratically away as the spell died.

When Nastasia didn't move or speak, the Count gathered up his cane and slowly glided over to her.

She was gazing as if spellbound at the place where his energy ball had struck the wall; looking at it, Blumiere could see deep cracks torn in the plaster, visible signs of his paranoia and inability to control himself. Flaws that, in short, had nearly cost him the life of the person he trusted more than almost anyone else.

Guilt simmered in his heart, and he forced it back.

'Nastasia,' he said, his voice much calmer than he felt. It got the young woman's attention, and she looked up at him with wide and uncertain eyes through her tinted spectacles. She was holding a small candle that cast a circle of amber light – the only thing standing between them and the darkness.

Blumiere silently cursed himself for forgetting to pick up his hat after he got out of bed; a brim to pull down and hide his expression would have been some small comfort right now.

'Count.' Nastasia's voice, like his, sounded much more controlled than her outward appearance might suggest. How good they'd both become at hiding their hearts. 'I, um, heard a noise.'

'And you decided to come up and investigate?' He shook his head, gently reprimanding. 'You should be asleep, Nastasia. Let Count Blumiere's worries be his own.'

Inwardly: Why are you speaking in third person, you idiot? No, I don't need to answer that. I already know. It was a habit he slipped into whenever he was feeling especially on edge, or perhaps more accurately, it was to help him forget who he was and what he was trying to do. It was harder, he'd discovered, to worry about something when you're distancing yourself with every word you speak.

Nastasia ducked her head in polite acknowledgement, but he had a feeling she'd sensed his internal conflict. 'Please, Count, don't say that. It's, um, pretty much my job to help you. I want to. Even if, well, it's a little dangerous sometimes…' Her eyes slipped back to the damaged wall, and Blumiere felt himself sighing again.

He had rescued Nastasia, back in the earliest days of his search. Despite being half-numb from shock and desperation at the time, the sight of a helpless bat caught in a hunter's trap had captured his attention in a way that nothing else could. He freed the animal, and later that night, a young woman had appeared before him and pledged her lifelong loyalty to him.

For all the darkness in his heart, darkness brought on from his inability to find his love, Nastasia's loyalty had never shifted. She must have seen the changes in him – changes slow and inexorable – but he knew she never thought any less of him. He sometimes wished he knew why, then decided it didn't matter.

'Everything is fine,' he said. 'There is no reason to worry, Nastasia.'

'Then… why are you still awake?' She abruptly put a hand to her mouth as though aware of how inappropriate the question was. 'Um, sorry. That was out of line.'

Blumiere leaned more heavily on his cane. 'Go back to bed,' he said tiredly. 'There is no need for you to inconvenience yourself with my nighttime musings. It is not of your concern.'

Nastasia shuffled from foot to foot. 'I-I can't do that, Count.'

He let his eyes narrow fractionally. It had become a common occurrence for him to hear her roaming the corridors during the long hours he himself lay awake. In a way, he'd always drawn comfort from knowing that she was awake and there if he needed her. But sometimes he wished she'd stop worrying. Assistant she may have been, but there was no way she could help him with what was ailing him now.

'Very well,' he said after a long, uncomfortable pause. 'I had a dream, and was just contemplating going downstairs for a cup of coffee before returning to sleep. Does that satisfy you?'

Nastasia started to nod, then hesitated, faltering beneath his hard stare. 'And, um, do you still want that coffee?' she inquired.

'What are you implying, Nastasia?' It was a weary sigh, tinged with exasperation.

'Well, I was just thinking, maybe we could go and have a coffee together. Before we go back to bed?' Blumiere was silent, and she rushed on: 'Since as I'm already awake and… and I really want to make sure you're totally OK before I leave you…' She trailed off, fidgeting.

'The Count employs you to be his assistant, Nastasia. Not his caretaker.'

She didn't reply, reduced to staring nervously at a point somewhere to his left. He exhaled slowly. Why did it even matter? Let her have what she wanted, and then they could both go to bed free of any worries.

Perhaps.

'…Come, then,' he finally said, and saw Nastasia's eyes jerk up to his. 'Let us go and see what the kitchen has in stock. Maybe we will all feel better afterwards.'

A relieved smile lit up her face, chasing the fear and worry away, and he marvelled at how rare it was to see a genuine smile on her.

It was probably even rarer to see a genuine smile on him, he thought. And the mysterious, crooked grin he plastered on his face was just another one of his masks, a way to shield his heart from the rest of the world.

How strange the night is, he mused as he gathered up his cape and walked out the door. Nastasia and her little candle followed him. Anything can happen, and the most ordinary occurrences somehow seem more uncanny.

He tightened his hold on his cape and once again wished that he'd remembered his hat as they walked side-by-side through the darkness. Nastasia guessing, if maybe not knowing, about his nightmares and worries had left him feeling exposed, and the lack of something to cover his eyes didn't help. Tonight was not a good night for staying in control. Already he sensed that his masks – all of them – were beginning to slip.

Nastasia was silent beside him, making him even more confused.

They arrived at the castle kitchen in due time. Nastasia set aside her candle to illuminate the room, and then immediately hastened to light another. The Count watched her work for a moment, before turning to the coffee machine and busying himself with making a beverage for two.

For a while, the kitchen was filled with the quiet sounds of two people working with not a word passing between them. Then, when the coffee was finally ready and each of them had a scalding-hot cup to warm their hands, the words came back. Perhaps not surprisingly, it was Nastasia who first summoned her courage to step forwards into the uncertain breach.

'So, uhm, Count… if you don't mind me asking, has anything been bothering you lately? Maybe I'm wrong, but you seem a little… off.'

He took a careful sip, using the edge of his mug to hide his expression.

'I do not think you really need to ask that question, Nastasia.'

Her mouth opened for a split second, then hurriedly closed. She covered her surprise by taking a long, slow drink of coffee. 'Yeah, I guess so,' she said, almost too quietly to be heard.

They both knew what hung unspoken in the air; there was only one think Count Blumiere would ever worry about, ever be afraid of, and funnily enough, it was a topic that both of them were reluctant to discuss, even when alone.

'Y'know… we'll find her, Count. I know we will. It's only a matter of time.'

He didn't reply.

'And if you ever do want to talk about it – the dream, or nightmare, or whatever it was – just know that I'm here, 'K?'

'We both know why that is not a good idea, Nastasia,' he said, keeping his voice soft but unyielding. There was no point in hurting her. She wasn't Timpani – no-one alive could hope to replace the blue-eyed girl who haunted his dreams – but he still cared for her in a different way. 'It would only cause harm to us both, and I will not have you hurt without reason – because of my weakness.'

'But you shouldn't have to suffer alone,' Nastasia protested.

There was fear in her voice – for what? Him?

'Nastasia...' he began, but she cut him off.

'I'm going to help you find her, whatever it takes,' she said. 'I just wish I knew…' she hesitated. 'I wish I knew why you won't talk about her. I could help you more if only I knew. There are so many things about her that I don't know.'

Blumiere sipped his coffee, not caring when it burned him. 'No. I know that you resent her, Nastasia, because you cannot take her place. I won't give you any more reason to do so.'

It was a tactless thing to say, even cruel, and he regretted it the moment it came out of his mouth.

She took a step forwards, then stopped dead and stared up at him. It was hard to read her expression past her tinted glasses.

'I wouldn't resent her,' she exclaimed. 'Maybe in a different time, a different place… but I know how much she means to you! I couldn't take that away. Besides, I'm not…' But she fell silent and he never knew what she had been about to say. He hardly even cared.

'Nastasia…' he ground out, hand gripping his cane so tightly it hurt. Her words had brought up a myriad of memories, sweeping over his mind like a tidal wave. Memories of Timpani and the times they'd spent together, sitting beneath the glittering stars on a cold night, the look on her face when he'd asked her to spend the rest of her life with him. To find a place where they could be happy together.

Where would they be now, he wondered, if not for his father's intervention?

Nastasia froze.

'Um, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said so much.'

The silence between them was tense now, heavy with all the things they couldn't talk about. But stronger than anything else was the memory of his earlier nightmare. It reminded him all too sharply that there was a good chance he might never find Timpani, no matter how long and hard he searched. That she was dead, or gone somewhere he simply couldn't reach.

Nastasia's voice rose softly above his raging thoughts. 'Count…'

What could he tell her? That he was full of a terrible, gut-twisting fear that he might never see the one he loved again? That he was doomed to spend eternity without her? The fear that, in short, had been haunting him since the first moment he realised she was gone?

He couldn't tell her – didn't want to tell her. Perhaps she deserved to know – if anyone could deserve such a thing – and it was true that she had followed him faithfully for months now. But what if it only made her resent Timpani, knowing for sure that she had no chance of taking the blue-eyed girl's place?

More than that, he felt that his search was immensely personal, something to be kept in his mind and not shared with the world.

No, he could never tell Nastasia of his fears.

He put his half-empty coffee mug down on the counter and tried hard to think of anything, anything, besides his dream of tonight – the dream that forever hung in the back of his mind, taunting and terrifying him.

'Go to bed, Nastasia,' he said with an air of finality. 'I am fine.'

He saw out of the corner of his eye how she drew back, shock flitting across her expression. Then something too subtle to put a finger on changed in her, and just like that, she switched from concerned friend to familiar diligent secretary in the time it took for his heart to beat twice.

'Yeah, sure, Count,' she said, a hand going up to adjust her glasses in what looked like a casual salute. 'I'm just gonna check up on the castle defences before I head up to bed, 'K?'

He tipped his head in a nod, accepting her change of personality without remarking on it. He knew that the image of a hardworking assistant Nastasia painted on herself was just a mask, just like his own masks; his plastered-on grin and his habit of speaking in third person. They all had them; some were, perhaps, a bit less obvious than others.

'Goodnight, Count.'

A soft noise and a distortion in the air preceded Nastasia's disappearance. In an instant, the young woman had teleported away, leaving him standing alone in the candlelit kitchen.

All of a sudden, Blumiere almost wished that he'd asked her to stay. Letting out a sigh that he would never have uttered in her presence, he blew out the two candles before teleporting to the dark and quiet of his room. The darkness seemed somehow more oppressive here…

He dropped his cane and fell into the bed, pulling the sheets over his head and trying to convince himself that there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

He would find her. He would.