i really loved you, you know.

For the first few days, they mostly ignored it, allowing him to assuage his guilt by picking up chores around the apartment that their still-tender side wouldn't allow them to do, letting him clean and fret over the stitches that they were perfectly capable of keeping clean. But it's been long enough that they no longer sting with every movement, and his kindness has become the source of a strange discomfort.

Theo isn't one of those my body is a machine, I am a slave to the job types. They do believe they will die on the job, but only because they can't imagine themself retiring to some safe boring life in the country. But even if they understand that they're human, they've always treated t heir body a a conduit for getting things done. The soft touches, the care Sasha takes not to sting or pull at the wound, it bothers them because it's more careful than they would be. They've told him as much--they've told him not to bother--so the fact that he persists is unnerving.

A week into healing and they're finally able to resume some normal function. They can't twist to the right without pulling on the stitches, but they can go to their cover-job and go out for drinks with the friends they're supposed to be working. Now, a sit-down bar or a sports bar would be easier, but even some mild clubbing isn't out of the question. The difference between sitting and clubbing, though, is entirely apparent when they return home, just shy of 3am, reeking of someone else's drink and several someone-else's sweat, and barely holding themself up for how their ribs burn.

They drop their bag right in the doorway, check that the blinds are closed, and pull their shirt up there in the living room, examining the angry red line of their cut under the gauze. Nothing tore, they don't think, but they'd best clean it. And themself. They pad over to the bathroom, quiet by nature but not worried about waking Sasha. His bedroom light is on, throwing strange shadows from the crack between the closed door and the floor.

The bathroom light is on too, but its door open. Theo doesn't bother to knock, just enters, resigned not to be surprised when they find Sasha waiting for them there. "They're fine. Just sore," they say before he can ask after them or--ugh--gently examine them himself. They can't stand the cool, delicate brush of his fingers when they're fine, let alone when their skin is red and throbbing from minor mistreatment today. "I was gonna take a bath unless you need the water." Sasha doesn't answer, but when they step passed him, they find a full, steaming tub. "Oh. Were you gonna…?"

"Nah. I thought you might." They watch him carefully, but the truth is, they're tired. They've been out far too long, and breathing is starting to hurt, and this kindness rubs on them in a way they do not want to examine. Sasha sees this--they are certain of it, without any proof, because they would see it if the roles were reversed--but he doesn't step gently to their side and ease them into the tub as he might have in the last few days.

Objectively, what he does is worse. He slides up to them all the same, but instead of stepping to their good side so as not to put pressure on the cut, he approaches head-on, fingers gently slipping under their chin to tilt their face up. His eyes drop; his voice drops. "You look flustered," he practically purrs. The hand on their chin slides over their jaw, cupping them, and his other hand dances over their cut, barely touching before dropping down to their hip. "Are you okay?"

They knew what he's doing. They've watched him flirt with enough marks to fill a book. What they don't know is why. "I'm fine and you know it," they answer, the snap in their voice habitual and effortless despite the bone-deep exhaustion. "What do you want?"

He leans in, like maybe he is considering a kiss. "What I want is to watch you bathe," he tells them, voice heavy with whatever he uses to make it sound like seduction. Theo was always insufficient as a honey-trap; they don't know how to pull this trick off. He steps back, pulling away with a touch that borders on lingering. "But I want to stay alive more, so I'll leave you to it."

He reaches down into the water with a cupped hand to help the shampoo lather more on the nape of Nico's neck. His hair is longer than Knox's, and he wants to be thorough, but he also knew Nico would enjoy this--and, hell, he does too--so he means to milk it a little. Nico's eyes have long since fluttered shut, his head resting its weight in Knox's, allowing itself to be turned side to side as Knox works. Knox's eyes have looked their full of Nico, whatever he can see through the sudsy water, but they keep tracking back to the careful bandaging on Nico's arm. It can't get wet, so they've had to be strategic about how Nico sits in the bath.

Knox has inspected the stitches himself more than once, cleaned bandages on a schedule and applied a painful but effective-seeming ointment to help the skin heal more quickly. And it's not like he could have done better stitches. The doctor was faster than he would've been, and the result is even and tiny. It might not even scar enough to notice.

And, no, he's not going to let it haunt him forever. He didn't slip up. His planning and drills all worked and they apprehended the would-be assassin and Nico is fine. A cut on the arm is not death. He spent some time yesterday brooding over how he could have avoided it but today, he started the day with a vague sense of satisfaction that his team was prepared. He was prepared, and he can accept that this is one version of job well done.

He gently lowers Nico's head to the lip of the tub, where he's folded up a towel to make a cushion. There's a bucket already between his legs, directly under Nico's head. The cup is by the faucet so he can get clean, warm water to rinse. But when he lets go of Nico's head, the other man makes a sound and he pauses. "What?"

It might have passed if he weren't watching Nico's face in good, solid light. A quick flush down the column of Nico's neck. Knox knows, from some experience, how far down that flush goes. He doesn't have to say anything; Nico knows he's seen and fills the empty air. "It felt good. I--" It's clear he isn't sure what he wants. Not to have a slice down his shoulder, probably. It's what Knox wants, even if he can see this as pretty good case scenario. He was enjoying what he was doing, but not so much that he'd trade it for Nico's independence. It isn't so much that Nico resigns himself to one decision or another. Or, if he does, he doesn't show it in some obvious way. But he clears his throat before he finishes his thought. "I was enjoying myself, was all."

He lets Nico's head settle on the cushion anyway, and slides back carefully to extract himself from the stool he's on. He pours a cup of warmer water and returns to gently rinse out Nico's hair. Nico sighs, a pleasured sound at the way he massages the soap out of the hair. Then he pours out a measure of conditioner, and slides his fingers back into Nico's hair, repeating what he just did all over. It's not until he's fully occupied his hands in that task before he speaks. "You're just trying to say I give good head….massages."

The space above Ashton's head doesn't react. Ashton also doesn't react. Noah lets out a relieved breath--too weak to be a sigh--and shifts into a more comfortable position. Every time they do this, he finds himself torn between physical comfort, and closeness with Ashton, and every time, he chooses closeness.

He wouldn't normally say that every time, he regrets it, but, well. That's sort of what he said, isn't it? "I mean, I can," he responds to himself, out loud, because if he's going to make some of it real, he should probably make all of it real, right? "I can, and I probably will. But I dunno if I--I dunno."

His hand, which had been resting on Ashton's back with just enough firmness to wordlessly communicate don't leave, drifts upward, over the other man's spine. His shoulders. On top of his head, where Noah can't help but toy with a cow lick. He's always loved Ashton's hair, for as long as he's loved Ashton, because he's horribly stupid.

"I do know, I think." It's in response to the himself that said he didn't know, and it's true. He does know. "I'm definitely going to keep doing this, but I know I shouldn't. And--hey, if I'm being honest--I can't say I'm going to try to stop. But I have to stop pretending that he's--" This part, he can't say out loud. Because he knows he can't make it--what Ashton isn't--real. That would be too painful. "So maybe. Y'know. Back to dating? Yeah, that'd probably be good."

"I'm not interrupting something, am I?"

"No, no, I'm just--" They glance at their book. It's flipped to the back, where they've begun a sketch. They don't know what it is yet, but they need to look away from the notes in the front of the book. All work and no play makes Max unable to solve important mysteries, as the saying goes. "I'm not busy."

They can hear the smirk through the phone. "You're just not busy?"

"I'm not busy." *Their tone is weary, or joke-weary. Not serious. "What's--uh--what's up?"

"Wanted to know if you've figured out that little…personal thing you mentioned."

The notebook stares them down. "I haven't." A long, exhausted sigh. Weary, and not joking. "It's been a whole lot of nothing and a whole lot of dead ends and, you know, if I had another choice, I would probably just give up but--"

"But this is too big for that."

"Yeah." *Their voice sound so small and sad, even to their own ears, that they want to hang up and find some way to make themself sound bigger and tougher. "I need my--I need this thing to work out." *They can't explain why, but they haven't told anyone. Maybe it's embarrassment. Maybe it's fear that whoever else will involve the cops. Maybe it's paranoia. But if there were someone they'd tell, it's this person. They can't explain it, but they have the feeling he'd understand.*

For a moment, the other line is silent. They don't worry about that; they know it'll return. "Have you tried leaving a note?"

It's their own turn to be silent. They toss the words around in their brain, looking for meaning. "And say what?"

"I dunno. You won't say what the problem is, but maybe if you leave a note wherever--whatever it was happens, maybe you'll get something back."

It's not a horrible idea. They admit that easily. "Yeah, maybe." They pull their page close and begin sketching out letters, stylized and striking as they can make them. "What about you? What's going on in your life?"

It's easy to listen to the voice. It's so pleasant. And the person talks about nothing, but in that easy way where listening takes no brain-space. They listen and ask the occasional question, and sketch, until they have a reasonable start. It'll need ink, but they have nothing better to do tonight. "Hey, um, I--you gave me a really good idea and I need to work on this, but maybe we can talk uh--a different day."

His laugh is buttery, like his voice. They press their hand to their stomach, like they want to hold in the feeling of hearing it. "Sure, yeah. Let's talk a different day. Take care, Max."

Of course, telling someone "Don't think about knives" is the surest way to make them think of nothing else. And so Knox had to bring something else up. Why he picked the most awkward topic possible? He couldn't rightfully say. If asked afterward, he might say it's because the awkwardness will fill all the potential-knife-thought space, but in truth, that's excuse-making after the fact. He has no idea why he said it.

Clearly, Nico doesn't either. "Sorry--what?" There is something in Nico's tone that makes it clear that he heard what Knox said. He's just giving him an out. Masterfully done, too, Knox has to appreciate. He sometimes forgets that Nico disliked court manners, but that didn't mean he doesn't know them.

Knox considers taking the out, tactically retreating, finding a new distraction. But that impulse is cowardly, and anyway he has to keep his attention on waiting for his signal--tense and boring--so he ploughs ahead. "After--you know, before your sudden rise to power but after that weekend, did you ever think of calling me?"

"I don't recall exchanging numbers." Nico's tone has a sardonic edge, which Knox prefers over the distractedly urgent tone. He didn't bother hiding why they were waiting in this narrow corridor; Knox rarely keeps matters of safety from Nico, figuring a knowledgeable ward is easier to protect than a clueless and cranky one. The only downside is that Nico knows enough to be afraid. Hence the distraction tactic. If only he didn't choose a distraction so embarrassing.

In for a penny, in for a pound, though. "Sure, yeah, I mean, I know you didn't end up calling obviously but did you, you know, did you wish you could?"

There's an energy that seems to come off Nico, a restlessness. One can almost see the way he yearns for the comfort of his kitchen. But kitchens have knives, and therefore are off the proverbial table. Nico seems to know this, because he just leans back. There's enough room in the corridor to lean back, but it only creates scant inches between them. "I dunno," he says finally, and Knox figures that has to be true. "Did you?"

"Yeah."

It's immediate and definitive in a way he knows will make Nico uncomfortable. He considers saying more but he's not sure what else to say, and the words have had their intended effect. Nico's tensed, eyes flicking over Knox's face, attention solely on him, very clearly unaware of the way the low din upstairs has intensified. Knox doesn't have to say anything because he's said enough.

"Oh," Nico says finally. "Well, you knew where I was. Why didn't you come find me?"

Knox wishes he could fold his arms across his chest. He has no problem revealing his vulnerable underbelly to Nico. It's examining that underbelly he doesn't relish. "Picked up a promotion. Took on extra shifts. Y'know, life stuff." He pauses. "I thought about it, though."

Upstairs, the noise shifts, in character if nothing else. No longer a few footsteps moving northeast. Now, the dominant sound is rolling, and mostly to the southwest. Nico doesn't seem aware of the change. "Yeah?" he answers and asks at the same time. "What did you think about?"

Knox's options here are limited. He doesn't know how much longer he needs; he wants to actually keep his job; and he won't lie. "That weekend. The lack of strings. Certain parts of you, on lonelier evenings."

There's a lot in that answer. Knox knows he can harness the power of saying a lot in few words more than anyone, and he's cornered Nico, trapped in a tight hallway, a couple inches between them at best. He doesn't bother making predictions about what Nico might do. For one thing, Nico doesn't take all that long to act.

The change in his body language is immediate. He seems to straighten, making himself bigger in the space. His eyes no longer flick across Knox's face. No, they've settled comfortably on the curve of his lower lip. Knox's eyebrow kicks up, and Nico's mirrors it. "Lonelier evenings, huh?"

If Knox's tongue darts out to that lip, he can't say it's on a conscious decision. He's only a guy, after all, and he's made no secret of his interest in Nico. Quite the opposite, this particular afternoon. "I've had ideas. Regrets, I guess, about things we've could've done."

"Anything you wanna share?" Now, Nico is leaning in instead of leaning away, and their scant inches whittle away to nearly nothing. Knox leans down, with the height gap being one of the only ones left.