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Days pass me by in a frenzied daze.
The horror of the caves could have happened years or mere hours ago and I wouldn't be able to discern the difference. All memory of it - the gore, the sickness, the triumph - blurs and warps together in the fumes of my own exhaustion, debilitating pain and ever-present worry.
With whatever blockage the pitiful end of the behemoth lifted, my calls for help finally got answered: Sparta's urgent shrieks echoing against the stone carved walls. Even with all my knowledge, how exactly he's managed to get us out of that decayed tomb is beyond my ability to understand: all I recall is the vague notion of being carried, Thorn clutched tight in my grasp; coming out of the vague fugue state only to Miss Sassoon's shriek of alarm and long enough to demand we all depart for the mansion at once.
Within its walls, snarling at other hands appearing in periphery ready to pull him away and deaf to all protests and urgings, I started the long process of tending to him - endless chain of tinctures and concoctions, salves and fresh bandages while he floated unawares. Only once he was all swaddled up like a babe and out of imminent danger I quenched my own thirst, finally succumbing to vague nothingness I consider sleep.
Barely rested, every piece of me screaming in agony, I got torn out of that very limbo some indeterminable time later, fear and nausea alike clogging up my throat until a hand gently pushed me back into what I blearily recognized as pillows, a sweet smile and even sweeter reassurance of safety - for the both of us.
"Daisy is with him now." Miss Sassoon had said, just as tired but seemingly intact, killing any of my budding protests dead - but not the thoughts already swirling in a spiral.
There had been no time to waste anyhow.
No, not with the revelations so violently uncovered: the ploy of the ball might have not worked out favorably for the enemy and the loss of that foul monstrosity would certainly come as a hard blow, but I know better than to believe it the only weapon in an arsenal of a man so callous as Strauss. I've underestimated him once - a feat I shall not be repeating again. Sacrificing most of my own recovery time might seem like a steep price but it is a necessity rather than an option, for plans need to be made anew and more research to be done.
Even more so with what lurks on the other end… a deal with a devil I hardly know anything about that I walked myself into due to my own short-sightedness.
It eats away at me anyhow, the haste of jumping back into battle without any respite: my body a giant aching map of our ordeal, fatigue etching deep purplish canyons under my eyes and deepening the lines of my face until I look way past my age. My clothing, such trustworthy armor against the world outside ill-fitting and uncomfortable in ways I fail to explain even to myself; the usual masks slipping in bouts of unbidden anger and irritation.
No, not just that. It would be easier if it was just that. It isn't ire or anguish that render me so unsteady, nor familiar fear of times past and uncertain future ahead. No, it's…
I haven't a heart in decades.
Now it lies asleep a mere floor above my head, strong and vulnerable at the same time, and on display for all to see.
And I seem to know peace only when I'm with it.
With him.
It's infuriating. Positively maddening. Bringing me to the edge of despair and yet without doubt I follow the slope of stairs and corridors again and again, past the protests of my useless, mangled limb to catch even the softest melody of his breathing, his beating heart a comforting metronome.
His recovery is quick, quicker than should be possible for a mere man - but Wayne Sawyer is anything but that, is he not? Marks of intrusion spilled over his flesh fade away leaving naught but whole skin and muscle, not even a pale taupe blemish as a reminder. I know my craft well - but not so well to leave him as intact as he appears to be. The fact both pleases me… and leaves me somewhat envious, I suppose. I carry the scars of that night for the both of us it seems, accompanied by oh so heavy chains ready to wrap me up and fix me in place.
The humiliation of the damned contraption stored somewhere in the corner of the office looms with every spasm of muscle in my leg and stab in my knee, breaking my focus over and over until the tome I've uselessly tried to engage with flies away from my hands and into some indeterminable direction; the flutter of yellowed pages like that of wings. The haze of opium lingers in the air, cloying and lazy; thrums within my veins like sweetest poison and yet the expected relief does not come as easily as I would expect it to.
If I take any more I might as well not wake up at all.
At present another, more basic sort of hunger gnaws at me, marching through my insides; so far only a mere afterthought now becoming more insistent by the minute, fiercely refusing the continued rebuttal.
Finally, unable to control my own trembling fingers any longer, I stand: a stifled shout leaving my lips as the accursed leg gives out under my own weight yet again. With herculean effort I pick myself up, jaw set to the point of pain, the beak of the crow adorning my cane cutting into the flesh of my hand. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my chest, eyelids fluttering to dispose of sudden wetness clinging to my eyelashes.
Gods, if anyone were to see me right now…
It's odd, sharing the cold vastness of these halls with other living beings. Mrs Ford and her flock of magpies move through the house like ghosts, unobtrusive and quick, barely any sign of their presence. The cooks guard their marble fort without fail, not at all prone to any wandering; I'd hardly notice the groundskeeper if not for the smell of freshly cut grass wafting through the open windows. There hasn't been anyone but I for the longest of times (never) and… Well, even though it was my idea - dictated by urgency as it might be - I cannot help but find it invasive.
Not that my guests haven't made themselves scarce as best as they can with the ladies pushing through their respective traumas by burying themselves in my library and the other simply occupying a bed in one of many guest rooms.
Or so one would think, especially at this hour.
There is light in the kitchen.
My hold on the cane tightens, posture going rigid in preparation for confrontation - before a sound of familiar frustrated growl reaches me past the sick rush of blood in my ears. Thorn and the moniker alone uncoils the tight knot of alarm almost instantly, feet carrying me forward without my say-so; it does, however, take conscious effort to stop them.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. It will only bring further anguish upon myself and him alike if I do.
Yet before I manage to reason myself out of it I'm already standing in the entrance and - there he is: disheveled, haphazardly dressed, huffing and puffing as he dives in and out of the cupboards, making enough noise to wake the dead. Truth be told I am surprised no one has come running to check what the ruckus is about…
I can't quite help the way my old foolish heart seems to stutter at the sight of him - a reaction I hastily push down and seal away. Lord have mercy, it is not like I have not seen him for a long period of time…
As if I could bear such separation.
"Looking for something, Mister Sawyer?"
Thorn lets out a squeak he's so prone to making when surprised and my lips curl into a smile out of my own volition. Color flashes across his cheeks: dusk pink, quick and stark against the lingering paleness of his skin.
"I er, um… Wha— What are you doin' here, huh?"
"It is my house, Mister Sawyer. I live here." I deadpan, my tone perfectly neutral, jovial even; he flushes further, scratches at his neck in embarrassment.
"I know! I mean… It's the middle of the night! Shouldn't ya be asleep?"
"Shouldn't you?" I answer with a question of my own and a raised brow: a customary deflection - enough of one that his face immediately pulls into a frown "You are still recovering, Mister Sawyer."
"Yeah, yeah…"
"Midnight strolls are certainly counter-productive to the process."
A grimace sharpens his expression, muscles in his jaw working. "I'm sick 'n tired of that bed."
"Sick being the operative word here I believe."
"'M fine. Have been for a while now." he grunts out, then quieter still, almost to himself "Not that you bothered to check anyhow…"
So he did note my absence. "Are you a child in need of coddling?" the taunt comes with little difficulty, my tone pleasantly flat despite the instant pang of regret in my chest "Your injuries have been tended to, no? I hardly have time to wallow at your bedside."
"Y— I don't need no wallowin'! I…" Something shifts in his gaze, opens and shutters close, then again, in quick succession. His emotions are always so visceral, so palpable - swimming so close to the surface one can simply taste them with proximity alone. Therefore it is no mystery that I can sense it all at once: the accusation ready in the back of his throat; confusion, heavy and thick as smoke. Anger, always anger, first line of defense against whatever he encounters and cannot comprehend. His hurt and yes, he is hurting - not just in physical sense.
And I appear to be the cause of it.
Or rather… The lack of me, so to speak.
It feels almost like a physical blow, the realization. No, the confirmation - not that it should come as a surprise. It is, after all, of my own design. A decision I made for us both that he did not, could not, voice his protest to, wounded bird he was. Still cannot truth be told, for the chasm between us I so carefully curate.
It hits me all the same; harder even now under the heat of his voiceless reproach.
On the outside the impassive mask I take to wearing remains firmly in place. On the inside a war rages on - the part of me that wishes to make amends, to soften the sting, to coddle and yield battling the natural need to distance and shut myself off. To escape and never look back. I reign it all in watching his own battle unfold before my very eyes.
"Right." he gets out finally, voice rough, fingers rubbing over his scarred palm.
With that another less than pleasant realization clicks into place. "You will find no alcohol in this kitchen, save for some spirit to flambé the pancakes ever so often." I comment, words sour on my tongue "I do have an adequately equipped bar in the sitting room next door, however." under lock and key, though he needs not know that.
The frown morphs into a scowl. "I ain't lookin' for that."
Liar. "Then why exactly are all my cupboards open? Doing some late night cleaning? I'm afraid my housekeeper will be very cross with you once she discovers it come morning."
"Why you— I got hungry! And there ain't even one damned apple anywhere here!" irked, defensive and already moving to clean the mess he's created - just what I would expect of him getting caught red-handed like so. The predictability of it is almost… soothing though more importantly - the distraction a success.
"That would be the pantry you're looking for then." I point to the single door behind him, half-hidden in the shadow the lamp light does not reach.
His eyes don't stray away from me though; they rake over my form from the very top of my graying head to the soles of my sock-clad feet, sharp and assessing, like he's trying to confirm something for himself. I stand the scrutiny with confidence I do not feel and without a single flinch until something in him shuts down for good. "Yeah, well. I just lost my appetite anyhow."
I have no right to the ache that tears from within at this dismissal but it comes all the same.
"A glass of water then and off to bed with you." I state with fake zeal - and in that precise moment my body decides to betray me yet again, a loud gurgle of my empty stomach filling the space between us, echoing against the walls.
Thorn freezes in place; stares at me with his mouth agape and it is my turn to flush. We remain suspended in the disbelief of myself experiencing something so entirely human for a few good heartbeats before he huffs out a laugh. "Guess I weren't the only one, huh?"
The smugness on his face brings a familiar tingle to my lips. "I am but a man, Mister Sawyer. Even I need to feed from time to time." I say with a shrug, though my cheeks still feel warm.
"Pantry it is." he decides for us both, already making for the door "Come on."
It's pure darkness behind them: a gust of cold air brings about a musty, moist smell of something and I freeze, my frayed mind suddenly thrust back to another darkness altogether: the foul bowels of a city underneath a city and danger lurking within. My hand shots out without my conscious effort grabbing onto his wrist - I don't even remember following after him - and halting him in his tracks.
"Cross?" he questions, turning to face me "The light?"
I hear the question with some difficulty through the ringing in my ears and eventually force my shaking fingers to release him, locating a light switch instead: the warm glow chasing away the remnants of threatening gloom. My lungs deflate, releasing a breath I did not realize I've been holding; Thorn watches me a moment longer, seemingly uncertain, perhaps expecting me to flee - before starting down the short wooden staircase.
At this point my appetite has disappeared yet again - but I follow nonetheless, hand to the cold wall just like his.
The pantry is meticulously organized and stocked - Mrs Ford sees to it that the cooks keep it so, reigned by the the threat of her discontent. She's a wonder and a terror that's been keeping the estate for many years now, immaculate in precise way she sees fit - and I let her have it without a single word in edgewise. In return she does not comment or protest any of my own eccentricities - that is if you discount the subtle raise of her brow or occasional pointed sigh.
I could not hope for a better person for the job.
"Let's see what we have, shall we?" I say to fill the silence, scanning the shelves. Bread, yes, certainly. Apples - one for him and one for me. Seed cakes. Some salted meat. A small piece of butter.
Whatever protests my Thorn lets out under his breath are short lived as he follows after me, compliant as ever if unnaturally quiet otherwise, arms becoming more full by the minute. Finally it catches my eye - a checkered towel and faint roundness visible beneath. "Oh yes." I muse mostly to myself, lips twitching "That will do nicely."
"Are we done here?" he bemoans, feet shifting over the stone floor "'M cold!"
A shiver dances at the bottom of my spine, either sympathetic or on account of a memory trying to surface: so I grab whatever I can as fast as I can before ushering him back into the safety of the kitchen.
We lay out our plunder over the island in the middle and brand new uncertainty takes over me. I… It would be better if I leave him to it. Take what I need and return to the sitting room, satisfy my hunger there. Look in later, discreetly, to make sure he doesn't kill himself on his way up. Make sure he… doesn't…
My eyes fall on an ajar cupboard in front of me and the thought from before comes rushing back, just as unpleasant. I curse my own stupid decision of even mentioning the bar; I should have told him there is no alcohol in the house whatsoever, that I got rid of it. I should have done so, flushed it all down the drain and locked the wine cellar tight. He is still so fragile, drinking would not be advisable even for a—
A scrape of a chair against the marble floor startles me out of my musings. Thorn clears his throat, the whites of his eyes flashing as he glances at me sideways, almost shyly; then he sighs in something akin to exasperation. "Just sit down, won't ya?" he asks tiredly, tentatively "You look like yer 'bout to keel over."
My leg throbs; a twinge of a different kind tugs at my insides and I… I simply concede without a fight, like a puppet on a string moved by his very will. We take our seats: no plates and no cutlery save for a small, sharp knife Thorn magics out of nowhere and with a silent apology on my part to whichever of the maids will find the mess tomorrow - we dig in.
Crumbs fly, butter smudges the marble, fruit crunch between our teeth.
The silence lingers. The awkwardness lays heavy.
This is the closest we've been to one another while both cognizant since the caves and though his reticence irks me still, there is comfort in this proximity. Enough of it for my body to regain appetite and if the way he's stuffing his mouth right now is any indication, I suppose the same can be said for him.
"Uhh… What is it?" Thorn asks almost casually, eyeing the clothed bundle I take to dismantling.
"I suppose an introduction is finally in order." I say, oddly relaxed and already mildly amused "This, Mister Sawyer, is my cheese queen. Brie de Meaux, at your service."
"Wait— Really?!"
"I did tell you." with a quick flick of my wrist I cut a triangle out of the block, raising it into the air to inspect the creamy inside "Would you like a piece?"
The look of barely concealed disgust passes his face. "It looks like it's gone bad."
"That's precisely how it's supposed to be!"
"It's all moldy on the outside and yellow on the inside!"
"I assure you, it's perfect the way it is." I emphasize, cutting away another piece "You can have a grape with it, if you wish. It's quite the lovely combination."
Surprise - pleasant surprise, I note with some apprehension - flashes across his face. "So I was right, huh?" he grins, canines showing "You do eat your grapes with your slugs and cheese queen or whatever."
"Yes yes, you have seen right through me." in more ways than one "What an uncharacteristic show of brilliance on your part."
"Hey, that's—" but before he can go on a whatever rant he's readying I take the chance to plunge the piece of cheese right into his mouth. My fingers catch on his lips - cracked and dry but soft, incredibly so - and the phantom feeling of them on my own descends upon me with vengeance. Longing, terrible and powerful blooms in my belly - an image of a rose comes to mind unbidden and just like it, thorns tear into my tender flesh, rendering me weak.
With some effort I reel myself back and clear my throat, anger at getting carried away so easily prickling over my skin.
Even more so that he doesn't seem to be affected by it at all.
"It's not bad." he gets out, words coming out muffled by his chewing "Kinda bitter though."
"Were you raised in a barn?" I snap out in an attempt to conceal my reaction "Swallow before you speak for God's sake!"
"Y— It's yer damn fault!" he fires back at me once he's done what he's told "Yer the one stuffing things in my mouth all the time!"
This gives us both pause, words laden with double meaning having us both holding in a breath.
And then, like two lunatics we apparently are - we burst out laughing. "Oh Lord, how do you always do that?" I manage to wheeze out, stomach muscles constricting almost painfully "The most innocent of comments…"
It only makes him laugh harder, hand pressed to his belly. "I don't know! Do you always have to talk like that?"
"I didn't say anything untoward!"
"No, it's that inn… inn-thing Gray always babbles about with you!"
As always, it takes me a moment to decipher his meaning. "Innuendo, you mean? It most certainly is not!" I stammer out, face suddenly hot.
"It is! And it's spreadin'!"
"At least I'm not torturing you with my terrible singing!"
His grin is near blinding in its radiance. "Made you laugh though, didn't it?"
I look at him then - truly look at him - and something shakes loose in the confines of my chest. My insides swoop and settle, warmth spreading all over in gentle rivulets; my breath stutters and hitches in my throat. I take it all in: his crow's feet deepened with laughter; scruffy beard blinking silver in some places; the dip in his cheek visible with the curl of his lip. Beautiful my mind supplies but it's not enough of a word to describe him as he is. Why… How could I have denied this to myself? Suddenly it doesn't make sense at all.
He too settles and quiets under my awestruck examination, suffering it with uncanny grace.
Our hands are close on the countertop. His pinkie grazes against my own.
"This mean you won't be avoidin' me no more?"
And just like that, whatever spell befell me - breaks. Ever so innocent the question thrusts me back into the present, back into myself, the brief moment of levity passing irrevocably. Stomach once again tying itself into knots I lean away in my seat - I don't remember us sitting this close - hands now held (forcibly) in my lap. "I wasn't avoiding you."
It's a lie of course. I threw myself into the fray in effort to keep my mind off him, to retain whatever distance I could still possibly create - or bear for that matter. It was easier when he was still bed-ridden: out like a light, the fever slowly abating, the sick flush over his cheeks fading out. And selfish creature I am, I soaked in those moments of peace by his bedside - day or night alike, always away from praying eyes - reveling in the sound of his breathing, soft raspy puffs against the cotton of the pillow; pushing loose strands of hair from his face and tracing the contours of his profile with my bare fingertips until I could not tolerate the sheer intimacy of it any longer.
(And on one occasion I lied down next to him and stayed, exhaustion taking hold, greedily drinking in his warmth and the flutter of heartbeat under my palm almost until dawn.
I'd escaped into the gymnasium afterwards, punishing my body over and over again, past the point of exertion and muffling the effects of the damage I inflicted upon myself with familiar bitterness of opium on my tongue. Anything to rid myself of the odd, flickering feeling taking root in the space I long thought to be barren and hollow.)
I tried my very best to minimize our interactions once he fully regained his bearings, ushering myself out of his bedroom door before more than perfunctory exchange could be had. And he's never complained. Never objected to it or argued it. Haven't tried to stop me, not once.
Until now.
It occurs to me at one point that it's the same treatment he himself gave to Samuel Beauford and I find a newfound sympathy for him and them both. And guilt, hot and acrid, coats my throat once I recall the torment that pitiful man experienced at being pushed away in such a manner. Being on the other side of that equation at present…
What a fool I was to think him weak for it.
Back in the present my Thorn is giving me a doubtful look. "Yeah, sure." he scoffs, but it lacks any real heat "That why you're suddenly lookin' ready to flee?"
"I have been busy." I state with emphasis, ignoring the observation "I'm not sure you have noticed, Mister Sawyer, but we are quite literally under threat. And from the most influential man in this area no less. Someone needs to ensure our safety, yes? Especially with how battered we all came out after just one encounter."
My fault.
"I know, but…"
"I am most certain you do not, Mister Sawyer, or else we wouldn't be having this conversation." it's so hard these days to grasp onto my anger when he looks at me so, all open and tolerant - therefore I grab onto the fear instead "Do you think it coincidence you all reside here in the manor at the moment? It is protected by warding that needs to be strengthened and checked against any possible weaknesses or else we could end up in peril again. And none other than I know how to do it! Not to mention the favors I have had to call in, day in and day out, ever since our strut into the madness of that ball!"
Because not only did I bring you right into the lion's den but showed my hand and can no longer claim neutrality - if I ever could. He knows now you are under my protection and he would not hesitate to strike you down… and I don't know if I have it in me to protect you on my own.
"Cross…"
"Who knows what sorts of monsters that man can conjure? And even if he does not - he has the whole town, no, the whole Temperance in his grasp! A whole mob of people at his beck and call, ready to do his bidding! A whole goddamn cult walking in broad daylight, donning guises of respectable people while disposing of those in opposition like they are filth unworthy of even a fleeting memory!" the visage of the vestibule flashes in my mind's eye and my stomach rolls, the food I just consumed threatening to come back.
"Cross—"
"Strauss, The Gallows, Armitage and fuck knows who else! All of them with minions of their own while I—!" too much, too bloody close to the truth: the words get stuck in my throat, fist colliding with the cold marble of the countertop "All it takes is one lunatic with a gun. Or a lighter. A single spark and it all goes up in flames - the office, this manor, every goddamn thing I ever owned! And our lives with it! I have half a mind to call upon your old employer if it would not mean—"
"Paxton." he cuts me off, voice firm but kind "Breathe."
Awareness snaps back into place almost violently: be it the tone or the use of my given name, I do not know nor do I care. I cannot even fathom how but I suddenly find myself a few steps away from him, breathing erratic, quivering like a leaf in the wind. Clearly I am even worse off than I thought. "I…" but no other words want to come.
"Hey, it's alr—"
"Don't." I manage to cede, suddenly furious, looking away from the wretched pity in his gaze "Don't you dare."
"Paxton…"
"I said don't." I wobble in place and he twitches in his seat, and somehow it makes it even worse.
Mistake. All of this has been a mistake. I knew, I knew I shouldn't have followed him in here, should have stayed away. Should have made him leave with naught but harsh words, insults, false accusations, anything that would spare me this… this indignity. The shame of opening up to him in my moment of weakness stings anew; a fool, a reckless, needy fool, as if we could ever… as if I could ever allow myself to…
And I want to do it now: yell at him until my throat is scraped raw, curse his damned name, belittle him until he leaves to lick his wounds in solitude with a bottle of stolen liquor to keep him company, regretting ever daring to speak. Even if I would hate it, hate myself for it, hate him for because I—!
(Because I don't.)
His hand looms in the space between us. "Come here." my Thorn says, tone soft, patient.
I don't understand. "What are you…?"
The smile doesn't falter. "It's alright. Come on."
What is happening? He's smiling, why on earth is he smiling?" That's not— Mister Sawyer, I—"
"It's Wayne." he insists, the corner of his mouth turned up, still oh so gentle "Come here."
My world spins on its axis. All of my struggle falls away, leaving me bereft.
The memory of the motorcar surfaces.
I am but a man.
I go.
One shaky step, two and I grasp his outstretched hand with my own, thumb instinctively running over the raised skin of his scars; and he repeats the gesture in turn, his thumb ghosting over my knuckles, grip sure. I gasp at the fluttering in my stomach it elicits and step right into his space: a moth once again drawn to the brightness of his flame. He guides my hands to settle over his broad shoulders while his settle over my waist - warm and big, so damn big he could probably encircle it with them alone - before I'm pulled in and closer still, right into the "v" of his spread legs until we're fully pressed together. He looks up at me from his seat, the same smile showing in the lines around those big bottomless eyes of his.
I'm too dumbfounded to speak.
"I know yer runnin' yourself ragged." my Thorn continues just as softly and patiently, as if he's speaking to a frightened child "I don't get lots of things, but I know yer doin' what you can to keep us safe."
"Wayne…"
"It ain't your fault, alright? Not me, not the folks at the ball, not the ones down below. None of it is. And…" Thorn sighs, his grip on me tightens - a flash of frustration "You don't gotta do it all alone. Gray, Lila, me… We're here. We can help you."
Preposterous. Utterly impossible. Yet I already feel myself yielding. "And how precisely would you—"
"I don't know, you tell us!" stated so simply, almost flippantly like it's the easiest thing in the world "Daisy's smart right? And she knows all that magicy stuff and whatnot. I'm sure she could help ya with those wardens or somethin'. And Lila's got those costumes of hers, yeah? Let her scope things out a bit. See whats what out there. A-and…" he looks conflicted for a moment, the erratic beat of his words falling away as he searches for the right words "And I know I'm not… good for any of it. Ain't smart enough either. But maybe… Maybe I can help somehow." he smiles, crooked, awkward "Get you out of yer own damn head for one."
Oh this impossible, beautiful creature…
My arms give a twitch and without further ado I sag - practically melt - right into his waiting arms. All the tension, the worry, the fear - all of it ebbs away in the fortress of them; the relief spilling from within more potent than any dose of laudanum. My arms wind around his shoulders tight, pressing him into my chest where my heart stutters and trips over itself; I lean down and bury my face in his hair, breathing in the faint scent of soap and herbal salves. His hands leave the jut of my hips to rub over my back, slow patterns only he understands.
Reassuring. Stable.
So goddamn warm.
Fever warm, I note with a frown past the haziness of my own moment of weakness. I move away just enough to press my cold hand to his forehead. My Thorn closes his eyes at the caress, swaying gently in his seat, rocking both of us in place.
"You might have a mild fever again." I mutter, worry seeping in like poison into a wound "You shouldn't have gotten out of bed."
"I was hungry."
"You could have called for one of the maids." You could have called for me.
"Don't wanna bother anyone."
"It's not a bother. Caring for my guests is part of their job description."
His warm breath ghosts over my sternum. "…I had a dream."
Ah. Yes, that would explain the need for the bottle. "I see. The one you…?"
Thorn - Wayne - shakes his head instantly. "No. Another." he husks out, like it's a secret "Like the one we shared."
Oh.
"Oh."
"The fire. The night sky stretchin' above our heads." a flicker of light in his gaze as if the reflection of the pyre he imagined "You, tucked against my side."
If only. "Was I?"
"Had it before. Here. And then I woke up and you were there too." he smiles, the lines under his eyes crinkle "All but snuggled up to me, fast asleep."
A flash of hot embarrassment fills my belly, lax muscles tensing up. Caught. Caught like the damned fool I am. "You… you know that I…?"
He hums, looking content and entirely too self-satisfied. "Yep."
"You were awake."
"For a bit." he concedes, nosing at my shirt "You snore."
"I d— Well so do you!"
"You drool, too."
"I most certainly do not!"
His fingers flex where they're anchored into my person, a soft breath of laughter escaping his parted lips. "Do too. All over my shoulder, out like a light." then softer still "You looked like you needed it."
I tilt his head back so I can look at him properly. "Perhaps I did so, yes."
Needed you most of all.
Something in that bottomless gaze of his tells me he knows that too. "Wayne…"
"I like that." he breathes out, eyes half-lidded, heavy "Like the way you say it."
His hair is soft between my fingers. "Your name you mean?"
"Mhm. I told Gray… I told her when we first met I only shared it with good folk, you know?"
It's my turn to laugh now. "Is that so?" I say, half-teasing, feeling so unbearably fond I know not how to process it "Am I this good folk then?"
"Nah, yer not." the fire in his gaze blazes again when he looks up at me, nuzzling into my hand like a giant cat "But you have a claim to it anyhow."
Only he can render me breathless like this. "Wayne…"
"That's it, just like that." he murmurs, face pressed into my chest as if he wants to hide in the very core of me "Just like that."
A sun he swallowed indeed, the way my resolve melts in his presence. Against my better judgment, I allow myself to hold him close again. "You are a menace."
"So I've been told."
"And a distraction."
A snort and he's the one to lean away this time. "Good one?" he asks, aiming for cocky but his words coming out earnest and hopeful.
"Dangerous one." I confess and the truth of it is terrible and raw.
"Hm."
My Thorn's gaze never leaves my face when his hands grab on to tug me in closer.
"Wayne." and I hate the way my voice breaks over his name "I… We can't."
Another hum, seemingly complaisant - yet he brings me closer still until our foreheads touch. "I know but…" he whispers into the air between us "Just for a while? Please?"
His lips are so, so very close.
I am, after all, just a man.
"Just for a while."