Archive of Our Own ^beta

To be loved is to be changed.

.

.

.

Nostalgia may or may not be the root of Misty's problems. You'd think it would just be another bad habit of hers — lingering being her most excessive. But she clings to memories: discontinued hard candy, photographs with permanent fingerprints, outgrown swimsuits five summers too old, fallen eyelashes, and everything caught between fuzziness. She hides behind oak trees, admiring the past — praying that the past looks back and calls her by name.

Her sisters consider her pondering a waste of time and find little joy in reaching for the discolored perfume that none of them have touched since their preteens. Sickening sweet scents — notes like cherry blossom, vanilla bean, or cotton candy. Daisy, Lily, and Violet dance forward and age gracefully; Misty staggers behind like a barely hatched ponyta — whose wobbly legs eventually rush ahead with long, assured strides.

With love, in their unique way, her sisters coo and poke at the tenderness she bleeds — delighted that their baby sister will always and forever be the baby. Always the little one, despite years — despite her stretch marks. Maybe they view nostalgia in the same light, as something to look back on: laughter, sweet tears, and pure affection. So, in true Williams girl fashion, the three of them bit back their awes and snickers as Misty choked back sobs. She couldn't help it — what else can one do after watching in horror as your Psyduck accidentally knocks over the Emperor in your set of Hina dolls?

She cringed at the crash — the sound echoing across the room and straight to her heart. Poor Misty failed to save face as Psyduck mourned the mistake. Even though the last thing she wanted was for him to feel guilty, she couldn't fake a smile. He was clumsy, but he was hers! Her sweetheart — her partner who loves her with all his golden might. Psyduck hated disappointing her, even if his expression read as blank and clueless.

Psyduck's bill pressed into her side as she held the doll's chipped right ear, devastated at her luck. The Emperor was her favorite! Out of all of her dolls, he had to be the one to crack.

It's no secret that she was partial to pikachus. A pang ran through her. The memory was fresh and shiny.

A battle under a spring sky. A kimono — coral pink and layered like a strawberry crepe cake. The whipped topping from a parfait. An idol's signature. Shivering at the feeling of accidentally grazing your fingernails against bisque. Psyduck. Pikachu. And Brock. Of course, Ash is there. Ash is always there. Him and that grumpy tone. The unforgettable blush that crawled up his ears as she pleaded, all misty-eyed.

She lifted the Emperor and held it close to her — like a parent would a child. She squinted at the details. The hand-painted brushstrokes. The intricate stitches on the silk fabric. Traditional Kantonian embroidery. How even old were these dolls?

Misty looked in the corner of her office. The stand was dusty, but the dolls were pristine and cherished every Princess Festival.

To her, the dolls were a token from the early days of that first journey. To her sisters, another set of hand-me-downs.

Hands fumbling — she tried piecing the broken halves back together but couldn't line them up correctly. She had detailer tools and adhesive in her art supplies but didn't dare risk ruining a hand-crafted cultural doll with some smelly superglue used for fishing lures.

It only took her two hours of browsing online to find a vintage toy shop in Ecruteak City that sells dolls and accessories and offers repairs. It took fifteen minutes to bike to the train station. It was only three additional hours on the actual train. She got in at night, but thankfully, Ecruteak City was her best friend's hometown. Misty came bearing bags of Cerulean Cove coffee under her arms, grateful for four welcoming smiles and freshly whisked matcha.

My home is your home — a belief cemented in their friendship early on. Unfortunately, there was no star-crossed reunion with Sakura this time with her being in Unova and all. It wasn't the same as being together, but they still have video. As Misty expected, Sakura gasped in horror at the retelling and didn't even question Misty's reaction. If Sakura and Misty are talking, they are talking. How they quickly validate each other could make an outsider's head spin. Not everyone gets it.

Naturally, Sakura insisted that Misty name-drop her family to the shopkeepers if they denied her an appointment. Not calling ahead had to be a flux on her end. All she thought about was mending her doll. Tomorrow could be a disappointment. She went to bed a little nervous — wondering about the worst possible outcome.

Luckily, the following day, she stands at the stained-glass doors bright and early, and at the sound of a wind chime, the shopkeeper answers the door and rushes her inside. A deep smell of wood and plaster hits her nose.

The shopkeeper is an older gentleman. But even with his bent back and tiny frame, he looked like a giant compared to the army of dolls surrounding him. Ushering Misty to the front counter, he slips on a pair of gloves and puts on what looks to be specialty eye frames.

"Let me take a look at the damage, dear."

She cracks her knuckles restlessly as he examines the doll. It's impressive — how swiftly he honed in with a gleam in his eye. He gives off the aura of a true craftsman — his hand steady as he feels the sharp edges at the break. He reminded her of Professor Oak — that unwavering passion that fuels his entire being and inspires him to skip across his research lab like an overzealous schoolboy. He finally speaks, "This truly is a beautifully crafted doll. I can see why you cherish it."

She curls her lips upward, a little prideful. "I've had it since I was ten," Mist explains, recounting the battling scenes and cheering audience.

"Though it is a one-of-a-kind piece, the original artisan used standard materials. I have a stain-free adhesive that might work here. It won't be a seamless job by any means, considering the placement of the crack. Natural materials are a bit more finicky."

Misty sighs in relief. Thankfully, she listened to her gut and left her supplies out of the equation. "Thank goodness," she exhales, then turns to bow. "I understand if it isn't perfect. I'll accept whatever you can manage — nothing is the same forever, anyway."

The shopkeeper replies with a wrinkled smile. "Give me a few minutes. Why don't you look around the shop while I get the form to fill out your contact information? Might find something special."

Now at ease, she immediately beelines towards the sea of painted faces, bouncing on the soles of her feet. It was like jumping into an old storybook. Each doll was like a different character — from heroes to villains to funky little companions. Misty takes stock of the doll clothes and the dyed fabrics — silk, taffeta, chiffon, hemp, fur, satin, and velvet. With curious eyes, she kneels closer to admire the arrangement of redwood pokemon figures. Each one is recognizable despite the fading paint. Misty gasps when her eyes dart to an egg-shaped figurine sitting in the corner of the shelf — the tiniest of them all. It's a togepi, but it was missing a spike.

She smiles, reminiscing about early morning chirps and freshly brewed Earl Gray. Holding the figurine in her hand, she whispers, "Someone must've really loved you."

As soon as she jumps up and turns around to ask for a price, her face smacks against someone's back — a vibrant magenta mane tickling Misty's nose

"Ah!"

Misty hits the ground with a loud thump.

Her senses adjust as she finally looks up, and with the appearance of the woman before her and the taste of hairspray stuck to her tongue, Misty quickly realizes that out of potential bad outcomes, this is one she should've prepared for —

"—Watch it, brat!"

After all, she has had practice going against Jessie of Team Rocket.

Sometimes, Misty's life was laughable.

"You watch it!" She shoots up and swears, her fists flying in the air. "Ever heard of personal space? You were right on top of me, Jessie!"

Jessie squints at Misty like a pest ripe for exterminating. "Rather uncouth of you to yell in a store.

Misty gawks — opens up her mouth wide, then quickly shuts it. She grinds her teeth and lowers her tone, "I didn't yell ."

Jessie snorts at her — adjusting her leather handbag and tapping her high heels against the rickety wooden floorboards. "I suppose you were always the little savage of your group. That hasn't changed."

Misty ignores her insult and takes a minute to think. When was the last time she even encountered Team Rocket? Let alone only one of them? Those three were virtually inseparable — Misty often joked that they shared one collective brain cell, but who is to say they don't? They acted that way.

But Jessie was here alone. Weirdly, she is without her usual uniform. No disguise. No sneaking around. She shows up as is. To any stranger, Jessie appears to be a bold, stylish woman spending her free time shopping—confidence radiating with those straight shoulders and chin up at a royal tilt. But Misty is no stranger to Jessie. With Team Rocket, there are always antics. Her hands itch — hovering over a pokeball — till she notices a doll gently tucked under Jessie's arms.

Misty fidgets. "You are…actually shopping."

Jessie snaps her head. "Now, why is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, thief is in your job description."

"That's work; this play!" Jessie's cobalt eyes shine with excitement. "I deserve this — you don't know the overtime we put in this week."

"Overtime?" Misty echoes, questioning what those three do other than cause people headaches. "You get overtime for failing to steal pokemon?"

"We're union. Can't say that about the League." Jessie grins proudly as she practically slaps an official Kanto Trade Union Confederation badge in Misty's face.

Misty blanks.

"What's with the face, girl?"

"I'm trying to decide whether to kick you out or ignore you," she replies, massaging her temple.

"Hey! What right do you have? I'm a paying customer!"

Misty lowers her voice, crossing her arms. "And a career criminal."

She senses Jessie didn't take nice to her words by the way she tightened her hold on her purse. "Look, I'm shopping. That's all. Let's take it outside if you have a problem with that."

Misty bristles at the idea — giving Jessie a heated stare-down. Jessie's eyes narrow into a glare. Their eyes clash — their energies shift. It didn't take them more than five minutes to resort to the old routine.

Rocket v. Twerp. On sight. 

"A battle? Gladly."

In synchronized unison, the two of them steadfastly towards the front door — crackles of lightning sparking between them. Jessie shoves Misty to the side to reach for the handle first —— her grin falling flat at the first tug. "Huh?" She blinks. She tugs at the door again. It fails to open. She grips and pulls back hard this time — the door barely shifts. "Stupid thing is locked!"

"You don't say," Misty deadpans.

"Don't be smart," Jessie bites back. "Now, where the Hell is that old man? Go look for him!"

Misty huffs at Jessie's aggression but doesn't question her. She knows James and Meowth would do the same. Her head pokes behind the counter but only finds endless supplies and toy parts. Spotting what seems to be the shopkeeper's office, she knocks but to no avail. She couldn't hear anything from the other side.

Well, this was unpleasant.

"That old fart!"

"What now, Jessie?"

Jessie crumbles up a piece of paper and throws the ball at Misty's forehead. "Read this."

Misty winces and yelps, sending Jessie a tired look as she picks up the note. She reads out: "Gone out for lunch. Be back soon."

So the owner locked them in here. Who even makes a mistake like that?

Misty inhales deeply, trying to calm her approaching anger. No wonder it was so quiet out front — the old man was closing up shop! Not only was she stuck, but to be stuck with Jessie of all people? Misty rubs her lids with the ball of her palm out of frustration, exhaling a heavy breath. She didn't even get an estimate on her doll before he left — there was no way she felt comfortable leaving it now. "This bites," she admits, sucking at her teeth. A bright flash emits from her bag — and on cue, her psyduck appears, perfectly plucky and golden. Maybe still feeling a little guilty about the mess that started with him.

Taking note of Misty's flaring frustration, he hustles towards her knees and flings his feathered arms around them. "Psy-y?" Psyduck looks up — visibly confused but present. Anything for her, always for her.

She melts at his call to action. "You're quick when you want to be," Misty greets him, patting his head. "It's alright," she reassures, "we're just in a sticky situation right now. Thank you for being here with me, though."

Psyduck beams — quick to march behind Misty as she loops back to the front. Her gut was right to not leave Jessie unsupervised for too long. She discovers a focused Jessie fiddling at the keyhole — pressing what looked to be an X-acto knife into the slot. Misty squints at Jessie, unable to stop her from shoving the blade with a heavy smack and splitting it in two. Rolling her eyes at the failed attempt, Jessie tosses the blade behind her. "Ugh, a bust. Wobbufett, now hand me those tweezers."

The normal-type salutes Jessie with a goofy grin. "Wobbu-fett!"

"Thanks—" Misty's stomp causes Jessie to jolt.

"Those better not be the shopkeeper's tools," she huffs. Misty crosses her arms over her chest — puffing her cheeks in disappointment like some suburban mother chastising her teenage daughter for getting an unwanted piercing.

Jessie whistles, kicking the toolkit to the side, leaving Wobbufett to pick it up and quickly hide the evidence. Psyduck greets him and attempts to help — waddling behind Wobbufett. Did those two always get along?

Jessie waves Misty off with perfectly manicured cherry-red nails. "At least I'm trying to get us out of here. You should be grateful I didn't blow this bitch up with a Sludge Bomb!"

Misty can't even fake a shocked expression. She shrugs, "Blowing shit up is a talent of yours. Mainly blowing yourself up, but it may be the only thing you excel in."

"Blah. Blah . You're jealous. Blah! And untalented." Jessie drags her under eye down. “Bleh!!”

Her head begins to pulse — brain tingling and exhaustion settling in. Was she in Hell? And was dealing with Team Rocket always so tiring? Was Hell being perpetually ten and surrounded by loudmouths wearing polyester blends? She's experiencing an involuntary flashback right now — zaps of thunder followed by the smell of gunpowder and burnt hair filtering into her memories.

Lips pressed together in a harsh line, Misty shifts into her boss voice — a tone she only brings out when the kids in her swimming class get a little too rowdy. "We aren't going to mess with the door, Jessie. The last thing we need is to leave this poor man defenseless with a broken lock."

"So?" Jessie clicks her tongue and whips around. "He left us for dead!"

"Oh, Legends. You're so dramatic."

Jessie dusts off her skirt and brushes her hair back. "Meowth would have us out of here by now."

"Where are James and Meowth?" Misty finally asks.

Jessie's right eye twitches, casting Misty a sideways glance, immediately picking up on the implication. "Despite what you may believe, we do have lives outside of each other, twerp. You don't hear me asking about your party of losers."

"I guess. I'm pretty sure you guys used to share a toothbrush back in the day, so…"

"It was a hairbrush —! And so what if we did? You wouldn't know the struggle if it bit you in the forehead, forehead ."

Misty slaps her hand across her fringe — her jaw shuts in a loud clamp. Her cheeks turn pink at Jessie's dig. "Forehead?!"

Maybe Misty would feel less sensitive if Lily didn't just point out how she cut her bangs too short, and now it looked like she was rocking a fivehead — all shiny and comical, looking like a polished egg.

"And if you must know, I'm having a me day. James and Meowth know better than to slow me down on one of my days."

Misty simmers down and pauses, blinking at Jessie, appearing surprised, going all wide-eyed and sweet-like. "Well, that sounds nice."

Jessie raises a brow at how mild she sounded. "What does?"

"That you're having a day to yourself," she answers earnestly. "I would be frantic if I didn't put a day aside for myself occasionally."

"Right!" Jessie's quick to agree. "Spending time with yourself is important for a woman. You need to be able to disconnect and think — maybe treat yourself to a massage!"

A shared dreamy expression crosses their faces at the fantasy of a spa day. To smell nothing but an elixir of essential oils and to feel someone knead out your neck knots like dough for milk bread.

Misty practically cries at the idea of getting a massage.

"If the geezer isn't returning soon, I'm sitting down." Stretching her arms above her head in a standing backend, Jessie's neck cranes at an angle — earning a good crack. Come here, Wobbufett."

"Wobb!" He waddles after his trainer.

Scoping out the store and wasting no time, Jessie settles at the tea table in the corner of the room, lying across the floor pillows like a lounging monarch. It's a charming display: an antique cherry wood tea table, two ivory tea sets (one miniature, one standard), embroidered linens, fresh wildflowers, and dolls set up for what looks to be a tea party.

Misty directs her attention to her phone, its battery low at a disturbing level. And there is the issue of having little to no signal. It might be best to save some battery if the shop owner doesn't return in time. Her thoughts wander — pin pointing to the image of the Emperor's cracked face. She frowns.

If the shopkeeper is absent-minded enough to leave two customers trapped inside while on his break, is there a chance he is as careless with something as cherished as her doll? She didn't want to think ill of the man. He kept his store clean and pretty — it was like being washed by magic the minute you stepped through those front doors.

Jessie repeatedly slams her hand on the table, snaps Misty out of her internal imploding fog, and ushers her toward the present. "Don't just stand there, come sit. No reason to get all worked up… "

Misty stops her pouting, and after a moment of hesitation, she squats down on a floor pillow — acting close to exasperated. Psyduck follows suit and sits right next to Wobbufett. Jessie yawns lazily.

Crossing her legs, Misty admires the side of the table — and discovers a carving telling the story of a boy being born from a giant pecha berry — The Tale of Momotaro. She doesn't remember their names but makes out the shapes of the boy's traveling legendaries. Even the set of ogre faces is incredibly intricate. She copies one of their expressions — the scowling one.

She then turns to Jessie. "Looks familiar."

The older woman snorts. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Didn't realize you modeled."

Jessie looks like she just heard the word "model" and doesn't care to pay attention to the context. "Of course, I've dabbled."

"Right.

"It's hard juggling all my hobbies and talents. Not that you would understand anything about that. What is it you do again? Lifeguard?"

Misty raises a brow. "Try gym leader."

"Must be nice to have a job where all you do is wear a swimsuit and sit by the pool all day."

"Yes, Jessie, my job is just swimsuit and pool."

Jessie points a finger at Misty. "Try being a Rocket for a day."

"I'd rather chew on glass."

"Suit yourself." Jessie quirks her lip. "Not that I really give a shit, but why are you even here? Just to shop?"

"Well, it's not exactly a me day. I came to get one of my dolls fixed."

"A doll?"

Misty took the opportunity to take a little dig. "One of the winnings from when I bet your ass at the Princess Day festival competition."

"You mean when you cheated. Ugh! To be so careless with such a pretty doll!"

"It was an accident! Besides, are you even supposed to be in Johto?"

"Your boyfriend and Pikachu are visiting his nerdy sidekick in Vermillion City. We aren't planning anything till he is back on the road."

"Okay, first of all, Ash is not my boyfriend ," Misty disagrees, with emphasis — her cheeks glowing peachy, "— second, you know damn well his name is Gou, and he isn't some sidekick. He is a friend — a foreign concept for you, I'm sure."

Jessie leans on her wobbufett, and he takes his job as her pillow entirely too seriously. "Please, don't waste your breath talking to someone who is not listening.”

She'd forgotten how aggravating it was trying to make sense of a Rocket's mentality. From her perspective, they live in another reality — they aren't bad people for it. Not as bad as their counterparts, at least. Jessie, James, and Meowth had nothing on the Team Rocket members who excelled in their field — from the traffickers to the enforcers. Admittedly, what did she even really know about Team Rocket? When she hears that name, she thinks of Jessie and her boys — an unexpected trio put on Earth to find each other just to create chaos for anyone forced into their trajectory.

Ash's Team Rocket, the relentless and comically ambitious, was one thing. They are a manageable thing even. But what about the criminal syndicate with agents in every region — agents with kill counts that find no issue in the exploitation of innocent creatures for profit?

Jessie has a mean streak and a tough exterior — a wild woman who holds nothing back — yet she enjoys shopping for pretty little dolls.

Misty lifts one of the dolls from the table — a smiling princess in a rosette dress with coiffed golden curls running down her back. Legends, they shrunk Daisy.

"To be honest with you," Misty begins, twirling the gold strands around her index finger, "it doesn't make sense to me why someone like you would choose to come look at dolls on her day off. Wouldn't you rather be at a department store or something? What about that massage you mentioned?"

"Going to a department store without James is asking for a grown man to cry at my feet. He'd never get over it. And for the record — I am a woman of multitudes. Unlike the privileged," she directs at Misty, "I never had my own doll set — so what if I want to come look at them? They're the pinnacle of beauty and fantasy!"

Misty fails to defend herself.

Jessie isn’t wrong. Though most of them were hand-me-downs, they were still gifts. Proof that she belonged to someone — a daughter, a sister, a friend. She was theirs. Even if she wasn't the first to come to mind, she was thought of in some capacity. She knew she was loved — even if the doll's limbs were loose and their faces marked from play. Love was there.

And Jessie? She belongs to James and Meowth. And James and Meowth belong to Jessie. A bond like that was difficult to name — truly like nothing else Misty's ever encountered. What she had was different. She had her boys, and they had her, but they don't live for each other in the way those three did.

All Jessie, James, and Meowth had were each other.

Misty and the boys? They had the world.

Feeling a sense of familiarity, Misty prods Jessie," Why the nurse?"

Jessie twists the doll's white dress between her fingers — a simple cotton fabric. All the sourness behind her vibrant eyes simmers to admiration. "Because once upon a time, I wanted to be a nurse. A pokemon nurse."

"Like a real nurse?" She winces at the idea of Jessie's bedside manner, picturing Jessie administering a shot to an ill Psyduck. "I thought you wanted to be a model."

"Model. Actress. Nurse. Teacher. Mother. Princess. Prince. Journalist. Student. Coordinator. Idol. Admin." Jessie's red-lipped smile stays curved despite the faraway look in her sapphire eyes. It's like watching the little girl buried underneath crack through — losing the red and venom. There was no chip on her shoulder — only hope. Jessie pauses before she confesses, "I wanted to do everything. I wanted to be everything. Maybe that's why I like looking at these pretty things so much. They are what they appear to be. Nothing more, nothing less. They don't care to be anything but that. It's so simple for pretty little things."

Misty knows the feeling too well. Jessie's words are spot on — dolls of different and different origins surround them. From one-of-a-kind porcelain faces to outdated plastic molds manufactured by the thousands. All unique. All with a purpose.

They represent a dream. They show what someone could hope to become. Misty wonders if somewhere in here is an indestructible doll with a mermaid tail and hair cut unevenly by a scissor-crazed little girl.

Misty turns to Jessie. There may not be a mermaid, but she is glad Jessie found her little nurse. Truthfully, Misty would have picked something else out for her. A queen, maybe? In a puffy ruby gown made of velvet — a bejeweled crown on top of the head. Some doll entirely too expensive for the average allowance. But again, maybe she was wrong. Jessie is not easily definable.

Misty doesn't share her thoughts on the matter.

Instead, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a small box of pastries. Brock taught her to always keep food on you — never know when you or someone else needs it.

She offers Jessie and Wobbuffet the assortment, "Pick."

The partners pick a fruit tart and a round red bean cake. Jessie offers a quiet thanks while her partner claps his arms and cheers. Misty splits a chocolate croissant with Psyduck, who eats half of it in one gulp.

They settle. It's strange — and reminiscent of times when the band of heroes and villains agreed to a truce. Desperate times, they spent sharing supplies and meals and keeping watch at night.

Misty does share one thing. As she wipes chocolate from her mouth, she admits shamelessly, "I think I want to be everything, too. To be the best I can be."

Jessie hums, "Well, aren't we greedy?" A subtle smile graces her face.

"Maybe a little bit."

"I see right through you, twerp."

This time, Misty laughs at her lazy attempt to get under her skin." I know you know my name is Misty, Jessie."

"Alright, Misty ," she sings with a haughty tone, "why don't you hand me one of those cakes?"

So she does.

It's unexpected how easily they transition from heavy silence to a conversation about what recently annoyed them. That topic swiftly became a conversation about what they were currently obsessing over. And then they talked about love. Love, love, love, and the trials they face. They even share stories about their adventures. They happen to share an array of similarities. They are also painfully different. Yapping about so much at once — no different than elderly ladies gossiping on the bus or at the market.

Finally, a bell rings. An elderly voice calls out, and on cue, Jessie springs out the front door right past him, offering a weak goodbye. Wobbufett gives Psyduck his final salute but, in an instant, rightfully chases after his trainer. Jessie doesn’t even stop to ask about the doll she chose. 

After the dust settles, the shopkeeper finally rings her up, offering apologies and the firm promise of expediting the work for her doll. Misty thanks him kindly. And with a plan to return soon, she gives a farewell.

In spirit, she walks through the brisk autumn day with much to ponder, feeling the same as when you stare too long at a mirror: centering on every blackhead, searching for new wrinkles, applying balms, and plucking at stubborn hair.

One could call it feeling overly exposed, but to her surprise, Misty left feeling seen.

. . .

"Jess, package for ya," Meowth calls out as he slices the tape on the box with his claw. His paws comb through the rest of their mail — lots of bills and decoded messages from colleagues.

Beyond the pink tissue paper, she plucks out the anonymous gift and stares at it in awe. Tiny loafers. A white cotton utility dress. A nurse's cap with a red cross stitched in the middle. A sensitive smile.

Jessie lets out a wet yelp and holds the smiling figure close — as if she were ten again and desperate not to let those wild dreams of hers slip through her fingertips. James comes beside her, pressing a gentle hand to her face. Brushing away the loose hair strands tickling her nose, he gives her a comforting smile — a smile she finds safety in. "That's quite a pretty doll, Jessie."

It is pretty. And very cool. And now it's hers — gripping it with so much of herself the doll is left with claw marks. It's still lovely despite the wrinkled cotton. Holding her doll was a reminder —- it was like facing that discarded part of yourself you thought you let go of years ago. A fragmented piece of who you wished to be — or maybe it's who you were all along.

Full of childlike wonder, Jessie ignores Meowth's questions and orders her companions to sit down, be serious, and watch her as she orchestrates a twelve-part series all about her heroine nurse.

. . .

The Emperor returned to his rightful place at his Empress’ side. No longer lonely, he has his friends. His once perfect form was now fragmented pieces glued back together. He is different and does not look the way he looks in her memories. Still, she places him on his rightful throne and loves him without reservation. 

The Emperor will never look the way he once did. It is too late.

And the girl can never go back there — returning is not an option. Those days are long gone now.

There is nothing anyone can do; nothing stays the same and everything that was once precious is meant to evolve in some way. Even if the evolution is subtle, even if the crack is barely noticeable. 

Change is inevitable. As is love. He has changed, but he is still her favorite. 

.

.

.