⋙ the mystical manfredo

Well, that’s a good step. Manny staying. Alaric gives him a grin, and returns to his waffles. They do make a good team, even if that’s all there is to it.

“I never loved working alone, either. I did it, because I didn’t have a choice, but I’ve enjoyed what we do together so much more.”

Funny thing; he doesn’t pause to think about that ridiculous fight, or whether Manny really means what he’s saying. This is just true. They do work well together. Alaric is pretty sure he’s not easily scared. It counts for a lot in this line of work.

But Manny isn’t done.

Alaric feels a small, fond smile form on his face, as he watches Manny struggle with his words. This is it. This is what he needs to hear, this is what he needs Manny to say.

“It’s okay. Take your time,” Alaric says. Waiting. Watching Manny steel himself. Fuck, but his eyes are beautiful; Alaric could fall into them. He’d like to fall into them. He’d like to wake up looking at them every morning for the rest of his life, although spooning sounds good, too.

Alaric puts down his fork. His mouth is suddenly dry, but it’s not nerves. Not that. No, he’s just dizzy, or something, suddenly overwhelmed by optimism; he thinks briefly about that night in the RV, after the prison, telling Manny that he thought he might be the love of his life.

He is, very genuinely, the love of Alaric’s life. Maybe he suspected it then, but he knows it, now. After weeks of Manny crawling into his arms to look for warmth, or stretching out on the bed with a careful foot between them when Manny can’t sleep. After long walks once Manny had been up to it, and happy mealtimes with wine, music and conversation, laughter and companionship. Realizing that manny is his best friend, and the person Alaric wants to spend the rest of his life with.

“I’m really, really glad to hear you say that.” It’s all he can say, at first. “Really, I… I don’t know. Things have felt different, lately. Maybe since I started reading you The Hobbit. I like having you near me. I like you touching me.”

Alaric blushes dark, while trying to tell himself he grew out of that as a teenager. It’s a hard sell and a failed one. He wants to much more, wants to feel Manny’s mouth on his own, touch every part of his body, and if he tosses the halo aside for a second he can admit he both wants to fuck Manny’s brains out, and have him return the favor. Know the faces he makes when he’s overwhelmed physically, or hungry for something carnal.

“My home is your home. And your home —”

He waves in the direction of the parking lot outside, the RV.

“That’s our home, too. And I’m not prepared to pretend that we’re anything less to each other than we are.”

It’s definitely too soon to say that, but since he’s already reaching across the table to take Manny’s hand, there’s not too much he can do about it.

Alaric’s beautiful when he blushes. 

He’s beautiful when he’s concentrating too, the way his eyebrows crunch and his tongue occasionally peeks out from between his lips. He’s beautiful when he’s relaxed, when all those muscles he obscures behind layers of business casual go a little slack, and all the lines on his face soften. He’s beautiful    so, so fucking beautiful    when he’s happy. When a smile creases his cheeks and crinkles the corners of his eyes, and Manny wants nothing more than to tuck a kiss against those heart-stopping dimples.

It’s just Alaric, he’s come to realize. He’s beautiful inside and out, and Manny never really thought about his future before Alaric rolled around, but he thinks about it now. Thinks about what he wants, and with the way Alaric looks at him as he reaches out to take his hand, he thinks that maybe ... maybe he can actually have it. 

“So let’s not pretend,” he says, and if his voice is low, it’s not because he’s worried about what the people in the restaurant might think. Forget about them. Manny’s the guy who talks to ghosts; he’s never been one of the in crowd anyway, and prejudice is as old a friend as loneliness and darkness. 

No, his voice is low, because this is precious. It’s surreal. It’s incredible, and Manny wants to scream at the top of his lungs that he loves this man, and if he doesn’t force himself to whisper, then he will. He’ll shout. He’ll yell. He’ll laugh, and he’ll cry, and he’ll drag Alaric across the table and steal that kiss he’s been wanting since he first laid eyes on the man with the camera and the brilliant eyes.

He wants to live his life with this man. 

“I mean it,” he says. “No more tiptoeing around whatever this is, no more hedging our bets. If you want this, I’m in.”

He squeezes Alaric’s hand, food forgotten in front of him. He wants to throw a few bills down on the table and pull Alaric back out to the RV. Not even to get up to anything (okay, not just for that); he just wants to be alone with him. He just wants a moment, just for the two of them. No withdrawal, no addiction, no doubt hanging around to sour it all, no curious eyes watching them. No distractions. 

“I mean, life’s too short not to spend it with the ones you love, right?” If anybody knows that, it’s Manny. 

It doesn’t even register he’s used that word until it’s hanging in the air between them, and by then, it’s too late. Can’t take it back. Doesn’t want to. No more hedging our bets.

“They don’t care about academic credentials,” Alaric says. “Any more than I do. You don’t need them — you’re the genuine article, a real medium in a sea of fakes. They want to hear a few stories, see some video… next day we’ll be called charlatans in half the papers and heroes in the other half. Good for business.” And as much as this shouldn’t be a business… it needs to be. They need to keep themselves afloat. Alaric has a gear habit to maintain, and neither of them have what you’d call a small appetite.

Of course, that’s counting his chickens. They hadn’t even really talked about how this partnership might work even before the jail, and now things are more complicated than they were. But Alaric is still floating, after this last job. Nothing could bring him down, even if he’s about done with the waitress sticking her boobs in Manny’s face. Can she not feel the arctic blast coming her way?

Well, they’ve got their food, now, and she can steer clear for a while.

Alaric has a forkful of waffle, bacon, and an unforgivable amount of butter rounded out with some syrup when his brain catches up to his ears. He freezes, and feels the smile spread across his face, a blush color his cheekbones.

“Adorable, huh?” He chuckles, and shakes his head. Not a word that has been used to refer to him since he was a kid, he thinks, but somehow it sounds pretty good, coming from Manny’s lips. He chews his waffle slowly. He can feel the crinkle in his eyes; he needed to hear this, and now, and just like this. Waitress? What fucking waitress? Alaric only has eyes for Manny.

“Well, it’s a nice-looking waffle. Let me know if the two of you need a moment alone.” He presses back against the pressure of Manny’s got and it somehow brings to mind all the time they spent together in the last few weeks, sprawled out on the couch, Alaric’s arms around Manny’s shoulders, or his chest; those nights when they were a little drunk and it just seemed easier to share a bed.

“I’m glad. To hear you say that, I mean.” He sips his coffee. Stomach in knots, in that good way, like he’s in high school again, admiring someone from a distance and realizing they’re about to talk to you. “After what I said after that night — I don’t know, I guess I wasn’t sure if you even remembered, with everything that’s happened since.” But he remembers, and maybe it’s time they found their way back onto that road — or maybe they really never left it in the first place.

Certainly they’re closer now than they were that night. And having survived this, Alaric thinks they can survive anything. He wants to reach across the table and take Manny’s head between his hands, kiss him stupid, but this is the very edge of country New York and it’s really not a whole lot different to Virginia. So. He lays his arm on the table instead, covers Manny’s forearm with his hand.

“Does this… I mean. Does that mean you’ll stay? I get the wanderlust, and I can’t see a future where we’re not road-tripping half our lives… but it would be nice to know when we’re home… we’re home, you know? Together.”

This should sound like too much; strangely, it doesn’t. Alaric takes his hand back, and with another smile, makes himself up another forkful of heart disease. So fucking tasty.

It always seemed so contrived in books and movies, whenever the love interest would say something and the protagonist’s heart would go all aflutter. People aren’t like that, Manny used to think, and of course he was an expert in all things people at the ripe age of, what, twelve? Thirteen? 

Maybe he knew people. But he didn’t know himself back then, and he sure as hell didn’t know Alaric. Didn’t know the one man in the world capable of turning him into some swooning puddle of goo without even trying, and there’s no mistaking it    that’s exactly what happens. 

“Of course I’ll stay,” he says, and he bites back, you ridiculous puppy of a man. Because A) no puppy could ever stare down a house full of malicious entities without batting an eye, and B) it’s probably not all that ridiculous of him to have doubts. Alaric’s been nothing but honest and open with the way he feels    intimidatingly so, sometimes; Manny’s not sure he could ever be that brave with the shriveled little kidney bean of his heart    and Manny’s been ... well, confusing, he guesses. And confused. And hot and cold, and violently ill in the middle. 

Not exactly putting his best foot forward, is the point he’s trying to make. 

But he wants to do better. Not just because Alaric deserves better, for all his patience and kindness, but because Manny wants to be better. Be the kind of man who can give as much as he takes, who can be there for Alaric the way he’s been there for Manny. He wants to be strong and stable and brave enough not just to walk among the dead, but to walk among the living as well. 

Maybe it’s strange, but he feels like this is where it starts. 

“After all,” he adds, piling up another forkful. “We make quite a team. Not sure I could go back to working alone.” Baby steps, right? As if it’s just about the work, about how seamlessly they operate on the job. Maybe Alaric can read between the lines, hear what Manny’s really saying without him having to actually summon up the words through the lump in his throat. Not sure I could go back to being alone. 

So much for bravery. 

“No.” He shakes his head, setting his fork back to his plate and folding his hands. “No, you know what. It’s not the work. I mean, it’s not just the work. The work is great    we’re great, you know, when we’re on the job together. But that’s not what I meant. That’s not just what I meant.” He stops and let’s out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “Well, this is going great.” A deep breath. Try again. 

It takes Alaric a full second to realize what Manny has just done; and it’s absurd, and it’s freeing, and he grins like an idiot.

“What are you, twelve?” he asks, grinning, making a ridiculous point of pushing the straw wrapper back into Manny’s space. Oh, he looks good with a smile n his face, with his eyes so clear (and frankly sparkling with mischief), with his sense of purpose restored. “I wouldn’t grow a mustache like that even if you tried to make me be Cher.”

Alaric is. Just. So in love. The kind of love he’d roll his eyes at in a book. He lets himself study the tiny details of Manny’s face for a second, before turning half-heartedly back to the menu.

“Waffles, eh?” Yeah, honestly, waffles sound… ridiculous. And fun. And it’s never made any kind of sense to Alaric why bacon and syrup go so well together, but that doesn’t change the fact that they do. “Better have good sized serves.” But fuck it, they can always order more. The celebratory air hasn’t dissipated at all. Why not stuff themselves stupid on waffles and bacon?

“Alright, sounds like a plan,” he says, and looks up at the exact right moment to make eye contact with their waitress. She’s cute. Hopefully, Manny is too hungry to notice. He hadn’t said anything when she brought the water over.

“Hi,” Alaric says. Polite, but probably not especially friendly; he doesn’t want to invite something here where she comes over every two minutes to make kissy faces at Manny. “We’re ready to — okay, so two large serves of waffles, syrup, bacon… side of hash browns and some hot sauce. Couple of cups of coffee, and orange juice, too, please.”

(Because maple syrup just isn’t enough sugar, obviously.)

“So listen,” Alaric says to Manny, leaning across the table (he’d like to think it’s just to look a little conspiratorial, but the truth is closer is always better). “Something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about since before the jail. I put it off, and… well, I thought the opportunity might have passed, until I got another letter last week.”

He barely looks up as the coffee is delivered. “BU has this fringe science lecture series and they’d like us to do a talk for them. Honestly, it sounds like it could be great — we’d get paid. You’re doing so much better, now, and with our name out there, we’re more likely to get contacted by people who need help.”

Alaric orders enough food to feed a small college football team, and Manny’s satisfied that he won’t actually leave hungry. Waffles, syrup, hash browns, bacon ... he doesn’t quite share Alaric’s enthusiasm for throat-melting helpings of hot sauce, but he’ll cheer him on and enjoy his syrup. Anyway, whatever hot sauce the diner has on offer, it probably couldn’t hold a candle to some of the bottles of liquid torture he saw half-empty in Alaric’s cabinets. No wonder the man’s not afraid of ghosts. If he can survive half the things he puts in his body, he may well be immortal. 

He’s not real fond of the waitress, though. Manny likes to think he’s good at reading people, and Alaric better than most. The man isn’t quite as social as Manny, as a general rule, but he can turn on the charm when he’s in the mood for it. When it comes to the waitress, The Charm is still very much off. Manny can’t help arching an eyebrow as she shuffles away after delivering their coffee. 

Is he ... jealous? Because Manny is very deliberately not flirting with the waitress. Never mind that he doesn’t have much of an inclination; it’s more of a habit, really. Raised from a young age to equate making people like him to earning enough money to put gas in the tank and food in the pantries, and it’s hard to unlearn stuff like that. But he’s trying. He’s trying, because he there’s no uncertainty, here. He knows the way Alaric feels, and he knows how he feels. 

The only thing he’s not quite sure about is what to do about it, and when.

Flirting with the waitress, though. That’s definitely off the list, and he would tell Alaric as much, but he doesn’t want to interrupt. The lecture series sounds ... interesting. It’s not the kind of job offer Manny’s used to getting, and he would be lying if he said he was instantly comfortable with the idea. He scratches his head a little. 

“I can’t remember if this has come up or not,” he starts, a little awkwardly. “But I don’t exactly have, ah. Academic credentials.” He’s not ashamed that he didn’t go to college; he went his path, and lately, he’s actually starting to feel pretty good about where he’s wound up. He also barely made it through high school    Sorry, Teach, what was the question? Couldn’t hear you over the dead kid screaming in my ear. Let him count the ways that shit went badly.    so he’s not very optimistic about his chances in higher education. 

“I’m not saying no, mind you.” It does sound like a good opportunity to get the word out. “Just ... don’t want you to get your hopes up if they see my qualifications and suddenly remember that oh, sorry, they’d already booked out that week. Maybe next year.” He starts to say something else, but the waitress comes with armfuls of their food, and Manny again pointedly does not flirt. Smiles politely, says thank you, but the rest of the time, he keeps his eyes locked squarely, deliberately with Ric’s. 

“Hey, I did nothing single-handedly,” Alaric says, with a grin, shaking his head. “Before you walked in there, they’d lost all hope.” He takes the bottle, and swallows half of it down before handing it back. “You know something, though… it really struck me. I mean, before I met you, I’d done some of this… just documenting, obviously. And probably three times out of four, disproving whatever was going on. But a lot of the time, it’s got the family half torn apart. There was this one family in Cincinnati. I did not disprove their ghost, in fact, I got some of the most terrifying footage I’ve ever shot. Similar to this family, they had furniture fall over at night, drawers flying open and landing across the room — the older daughter was twenty, and she moved all the way to California. The father had been drinking so much for so long that his wife had tried to throw him out, and even though he wouldn’t leave, he blamed her for everything, he… and the kids, the little ones, they were a lot younger… I don’t know, maybe five and eight? And they just looked… haunted. No pun intended, but… haunted, miserable. But the guys? They love each other. Those boys are gonna help their parents put the house back together and they’re gonna make it and be that much stronger.”

Wow. Alaric rarely monologues. Sitting and grinning feels like as much as he can manage after these things, most of the time. He glances at Manny, who looks happy and rested; and yet. There is still a part of him that wonders if Manny really wants to see the footage, or just wants to make Alaric feel better.

Not that it matters, really. Fact is Alaric is dying to see it himself. His equipment is a hell of a lot better than it had been just six months ago, and he has a feeling this is going to be…

Well. Cool.

“Food would  be good,” he says, with a grin. Would it be too much to reach across again? They haven’t talked about things. And maybe they won’t, and Alaric will be okay with that. But he’s getting addicted, day by day, to the way Manny leans into every touch.

He points to a sign on the side of the road. “Truck stop,” he says. “Two miles. If it’s open, we’ll go there. Truck stops always know how to serve up enough bacon to stop your heart in its chest.”

And so it is that a few minutes later, they’re parking by a Texaco with a diner attached. Alaric needs so much coffee. He bumps Manny’s shoulder as they step inside.

Manny can still feel Alaric’s hesitation, and he wishes there was something he could do to make it right. To convince Alaric that the things he said when he was half out of his head from withdrawals weren’t him, weren’t true, weren’t even close to the way he really feels about Ric. But he knows there’s no magic pill for this. There’s no miracle cure to a wounded pride or hurt feelings, and Manny wouldn’t dare try to cheapen things by forcing it. 

No. He’ll give Alaric all the time he needs to realize how Manny really feels. And he’ll be there every step of the way to remind him, when he starts to have his doubts. 

He bumps Alaric right back as they step into the diner. It’s bustling with clinking plates and dishes, and he can hear a line cook and a waitress shouting back and forth like they’ve been married for decades, occasionally very happily and generally very noisily. It’s the kind of place Xylda used to love, and he smiles at the thought. Almost by instinct, he leads the way to the corner booth, sliding in smoothly as the waitress calls out a quick, “Be right with y’all.” 

Manny slides the menus from the holder on the table and passes one to Ric. A lesser man might cringe at the spattering of sticky splotches on the front, but Manny’s been possessed by ghosts, demons, and on one especially weird occasion, his own grandmother. Needless to say, he’s not all that worried about germs. “Ric, they have waffles.” In case Ric was laboring under the delusion that he’s working with an actual adult. A cup of coffee and a generous serving of bacon, syrup, and carbs sounds like just what the doctor ordered. 

They’re still looking at the menus when the waitress comes with glasses of waters. The Manny of a few months ago might’ve started flirting the second she comes over, but the moonstruck Manny of today just offers her a polite smile and orders coffee to get them started. As she clip-clops away on her practical heels, he tears off the tip of his straw wrapper and shoots the rest of it at Ric like a dart. 

@lcvoyant

The sun is just beginning to rise when they hit the outskirts of Syracuse, a half hour after leaving a grateful family to get some sleep, and then clean up, in that order. It has occurred to Alaric that the smart money is on spending a few hours sleeping in the RV before heading back to Boston. There are two reasons not to, though; first and foremost, it’s less than a six-hour drive home, meaning they’ll be back by lunchtime. Second, and only by a whisker, is that it’s been an exhausting few days, but that is unlikely to stop them from offering to help clean up the broken furniture and shredded wallpaper, and quite possibly, Alaric offering to repair the destroyed wiring. He could almost hear it; he or Manny offering, the family putting up a half-hearted refusal, and then Manny and Alaric insisting.

They are good people, both of them. But there has to be a limit to what they’ll do to help. There are two teenage boys in that family, tall, strong boys who seem to be the type who are happy to roll their sleeves up and work. The family isn’t exactly poor, and there are probably plenty of licensed electricians who will do a better, cleaner job than Alaric could if getting the home functional again.

And after the month they’ve just had?

They deserve to ride off into the sunset on a high note.

Well. The sunrise. Whatever. Same overall feel, more desire for a bacon and egg sandwich and some coffee.

Alaric is… ebullient. Not a word he’s often used to describe himself, but it seems apt. Credence on the stereo, a wide grin on his face, and most importantly, Manny by his side (more tired than Alaric is, having done most of the work, but looking pretty pleased with himself nonetheless). Despite his tiredness, Manny looks healthy. The last couple of weeks the color has returned to his cheeks, he’s gained a little weight (not much — Alaric might order those bacon and egg sandwiches with extra bacon), and sleeping through the night might still be a dream for another day he’s certainly sleeping more than he was.

Alaric turns, grinning, and adjusts the volume on the radio. It’s probably a little too loud for dawn.

“Manfred Bernardo,” he says, and he can feel how warm and fond his eyes are. “You… you were fucking amazing.” He wants to say that Xylda would be proud — and she would be — but invoking her name can sometimes bring Manny down a little. Never know which way it might go, on any given day, so why take the risk on a day this sweet? “When I think about what that family’s been going through… and you were steady as a rock,” he adds, knowing his voice sounds more than a little awestruck.

He reaches out and gives Manny’s shoulder a squeeze. They’re long healed up from that terrible night, both of them. And after a month living together, and finding it easier every day to settle their bodies together then stay apart, the distance between the seats in the front of the RV feels unreasonably wide.

Alaric loves it. He’s been thriving on it; hadn’t realized how lonely he was until Manny had decided that it was more fun watching television stretched out together, touching from neck to knee (a ploy, Alaric thinks, to get Alaric to play with his hair and a ploy that works every single time without fail).

But this had been a test, of sorts. Manny needed to get back to what he does and Alaric needed to make sure that working together still worked; and it does. Even better than before. They communicate wordlessly and coordinate seamlessly.

“Fucking unreal. Oh, man, I can still taste plaster dust. Can you pass me that water bottle?”

Manny’s tired but satisfied. No. It’s more than satisfied. There’s this deep, effervescent happiness that’s settled in his chest, and Manny’s reveling in it. Not so long ago, he wouldn’t have imagined he could feel this good after a job. He’s tired, of course; and there’s a faint throb behind his eyes that could go either way, depending on what he does with it for the rest of the day. He and Alaric are still testing out alternatives, but caffeine and food seem like a good first start. 

And this. This, right here, is medicinal in and of itself. The grin on Alaric’s face is a work of art, and if Manny had any talent for poetry, he could write sonnets about the way the sunrise plays off Alaric’s hair. The radio is playing, and Manny’s humming along quietly to Credence until Alaric turns it down.

Amazing how, even after all this time, he still blushes when Ric compliments him. 

“Says the man who single handedly kept that family from falling to pieces.” Manny could handle the ghosts, but there was just something about Alaric ... he had this presence that just exuded strength. Confidence. Steadiness. Even when things are at their most insane, Alaric finds a way to make it all seem manageable. 

He leans almost instinctively into Alaric’s hand, smiling at the touch. Surely, Alaric’s noticed by now, the way he gravitates toward him. They haven’t really talked about it, but there’s an ease between them now that wasn’t there before the prison. A give and take that comes as naturally as breathing. 

“Looking forward to seeing the footage,” he says, twisting off the cap of the water bottle and passing it to Ric. Hard to manage a lid and a steering wheel. “It never really manifested. Shadows, corner-of-the-eye. I could feel it, but I don’t think it was strong enough to show itself. I’d be curious to see what kind of physical influence it might’ve had.” 

He never really used to be interested in the science of spirits. The tangible, quantifiable proof of them. But then Alaric came along, with his instruments and his theories and his own unique way of perceiving a world Manny thought he alone was privy to, and now he can’t seem to curb his interest. 

“You can fall asleep. You need it.” It’s entirely possible that Alaric will, as well.

So strange how even just the first few paragraphs take Alaric back all those years. Curled up miserably under the blankets with his gentle mother sitting by his bedside, reading. And then later, picking up the Lord of the Rings on his own. Even, though he can’t think about it for long, some of her last days, where he read to her; but not the Hobbit. Books from when she was a little girl. He’s not really trying to do voices, but it’s almost impossible not to. Not overly dramatic; he’s not much of an actor. But voices. He still has a weather eye on Manny, making sure he’s still drinking the soup, which actually doesn’t seem to be making him ill — that suggests he’s maybe, possibly, starting to turn a corner. The bath must be making him feel better, too.

The way he’s leaning against Alaric right now is certainly making Alaric feel better.

“I’ll do you one better,” Alaric says, placing the book face down on the coffee table so he can rearrange himself. He stretches out on the couch, and Manny, almost instinctively and with a look of relief in his big eyes, stretches out beside him. “Since I’m a furnace, and you’re freezing.” Those ridiculously thick knitted socks must be helping his toes at least a little, but Alaric rearranges the blankets so he’s covered to the shoulders.

“It’s alright,” he says, as Manny tentatively draws an arm across his lap. “Really. I like it. And I… you know, this morning, it was this morning. Please don’t think about it. I want to be here with you.”

It’s probably the closest Alaric has come to acknowledging what he told Manny in the camper that terrible night, but it’s there, all the time. No pressure. There will never be any pressure. But in spite of the last few days, and how hard it’s been on both of them, Alaric is no less in love with Manny now than he was in that moment. Maybe more so, because watching Manny fight his demons is inspiring. He’d expected to need to argue against… something, he doesn’t know, Manny asking for just one pill, just to cut down, something. But he hasn’t. There is something so… important, about someone who is stoic, and independent, letting himself be vulnerable here, in Ric’s home, right in front of him.

It feels like such a privilege.

And this morning isn’t worth dwelling on. Even if a lot of what Manny said still feels uncomfortably true.

When Manny seems to be settled, Alaric picks up the book and starts reading again. It’s not a big volume, and that makes it more comfortable to hold in one hand, so he does. He barely notices when his fingers slip into Manny’s hair, clean and soft, curling hopefully around his fingers.

So maybe it is possible to play with someone’s hair platonically.

Or, no, maybe he missed a step between platonic and sexual, because it definitely feels romantic. And Manny seems to go boneless, after a while, though Alaric can tell he’s still awake. He seems to almost purr at the contact. Alaric is tactile. He likes to touch his people, he likes to cuddle up, and honestly — he’s been lonely. This feels like such a balm.

“Oh, the singing — my mom used to do a good job of this, but I promise you, I sing like I’m injured,” he says. “I’ll, uh… read it like poetry, okay? Probably safer, since you’ve already got a headache.”

But Manny says nothing, and it’s abundantly clear that he’s asleep, now, his breathing slower and more even, his arm limp where it loops gracelessly around Alaric’s body.

Alaric folds the corner of the page over one-handed (people obsessed with keeping their books immaculate confound him; he likes a book to look as loved as it is) and tosses it onto the coffee table, trying to move as little as possible. Manny doesn’t stir, so Alaric lets himself indulge, fingers still moving through his wayward hair, over and over; smoothing out a curl and watching it bounce back, letting a strand slip through his fingers, brushing softly across his temple.

He wants this to work. He needs this to work.

He’s asleep before he’s even noticed his eyes are trying to close.

Alaric was right: his idea is better. 

Manny stretches out more comfortably on the couch, settling into the space Alaric’s so graciously made for him. Alaric is a space heater with a pulse, and Manny sighs in relief once he’s arranged himself the way he wants. He’s warm, and Alaric is such a soothing presence that Manny can’t help but feel at ease. He even manages not to cringe when Alaric mentions that morning. 

He has a lot of work to do, to make up for all the things he said. He knows that. But for now ... for now, Alaric says they’re okay, and Manny lets himself believe it. He’s still a few steps away from the whole making amends part of this ordeal (he is, for the record, petrified of the idea of a fearless moral inventory; which seems a little counterproductive), but he’ll get there. For the first time in days, it feels like he really can. 

Manny loves him. 

He might not have owned up to it the way he should’ve, but he does. Alaric is steady and constant and warm and kind, and he’s brilliant and funny and embraces Manny’s particular brand of strange. He’s put up with some serious shit, and there he is, sharing his couch and reading Manny a bedtime story, like he’s got nothing better to do, and nowhere better to be. Manny can’t help glancing up at his face, just to feel the soft glow of affection in his chest that blooms every time he looks at him. 

He really, truly loves him. 

Alaric’s voice is like waves on a beach, ebbing and flowing over Tolkien’s lyrical prose. Manny knows the book well, knows what comes next before Alaric says it, and it’s all the more soothing for it. A soft, familiar song on the radio, or the warm embrace of a favorite sweater. 

Fingers card through his hair, and Manny shivers and melts a little. It’s a weakness of his, and he’s never been so grateful to have it exploited as he is when Alaric’s hand brushes through his curls. He’s only vaguely aware of Alaric taking a break from reading to tell him something, and not at all conscious of what he’s saying. Too far under, floating in that warm, dark, in-the-middle place on the edge of sleep. 

And then he’s out. 

---------

When he wakes, he has no idea how much time has passed. His head’s aching, and his stomach feels raw, but it’s probably the best he’s felt since the prison. He’s warm. Not hot, but comfortingly warm, bundled in a blanket and tucked against Alaric. 

He blinks his bleary eyes and looks up, and damned if a smile doesn’t find its way onto his cracked lips. Alaric’s asleep. Head lolled, snoring softly and steadily, with his hand still resting loosely on Manny’s head. God, he’s beautiful when he sleeps. All those worry lines smooth, sandy brown eyelashes fanning out over his cheekbones and lips a little parted. 

Alaric pauses at the door. The thought of spending some time together this afternoon is nice, and Manny looks better than he has in days. Is he just trying to indulge Alaric, though? Some kind of sense of obligation? This is stupid; he has to stop second-guessing himself, and just let this get back to the way it’s been. He knows Manny hasn’t been himself. He’s sick, he’s miserable, that doesn’t change the fact that they’re close, or that they’ve been edging closer since the day they met.

“That sounds really good,” he says, with a nod. “Not the sleeping in the bath — it’s be getting cold, soon. But the couch, sure. I’ll be back with those clothes.”

By the time Manny is dressed and stretched out on the couch, covered in blankets, Alaric’s put a record on and he’s in the kitchen. Ans in better spirits himself. The scent of browning onions and garlic on the air always puts him in a good mood.

“My mom — who was an amazing woman, so please don’t hear this wrong — she wasn’t a very good cook. She used to do a roast every Sunday that was so dry and chewy it was actually difficult to swallow. She always boiled vegetables for much too long. But she had this recipe for chicken soup which I think might actually have magical properties, because it’s delicious and will fix anything. I usually make it with noodles, but I thought we’d try just a few for now, see if you can keep it down. You need some salt in your system. And some protein wouldn’t hurt.”

And in the meantime, he’s brewing a mix of cloves and honey in a mug of hot water, since Manny’s voice sounds hoarse and his throat probably hurts from throwing up. He fishes out the cloves with a teaspoon and carries it down to the coffee table next to where Manny is sitting.

“Sip it slowly. The cloves are an anesthetic, and the honey should be soothing. The lemon’s just so it doesn’t taste like pure sugar.”

He rests his hand on Manny’s shoulder for a moment, and as he pulls away, the ends of Manny’s curls brush over his fingers. Very soft. It’s really a pity there’s no way to platonically play with someone’s hair for a couple of hours until they fall asleep on you. Not even Alaric could sell that. Maybe one day.

The broth needs time to simmer, so Alaric turns the heat down, and tidies the kitchen. He puts a few noodles in the bottom of a mug. He’s really not sure anymore how long it’s been since Manny ate something solid, but it’s been a while. Something, anything, would be better than just the broth, though the shreds of chicken will probably help a great deal.

It’s a pity that daytime television is so terrible. It would be nice for Manny to do something mindless for a while. It’s pretty unlikely he could concentrate on a book, the way his head is right now. Something about the smell of the soup cooking, and the thought of a book, stirs something in Alaric. Memories of when he was a kid, sick in bed. It didn’t happen all that often and when he did get sick, he was a terrible patient, demanding and teary. And his mother read to him.

Maybe it’s too weird. They’re adults. But still.

Alaric looks around at the bookshelves, trying to think where he’d find — oh, he knows. He crouches at the bottom of one of the large ones (wow, one day he really has to make a concerted effort to get these into some kind of order, but it won’t be today) and pulls out an ancient, battered copy of The Hobbit.

He stands slowly, looking at the cover. Something about being read to. It’s sort of indulgent. The reader offering up the gift of time. Alaric can’t make Manny feel better, can’t ease the pain in his head or his stomach, but he can offer the gift of time.

“If you don’t think it would be way too weird,” Alaric says, “I might read to you. I don’t know if you’d even like that. Maybe you want to get some more sleep, but if you like…”

He leaves the book on the table and returns to the kitchen to get Manny a cup of the broth.

“Sip it slowly,” he says, placing the mug on a coaster on the coffee table. “Let your stomach get used to having something other than cherry-flavored electrolytes, for a change. It’s good, I promise. Even if it looks a little anemic.”

He hadn’t been quite brave enough to add vegetables. One step at a time.

“So… The Hobbit? Do you know it?”

The couch is nice. Soft enough that Manny’s pretty sure he’ll be asleep with in the next hour or two, but different enough from that fucking bed that he doesn’t instantly feel like crawling out of his skin. 

He’s hit a cold streak, but Alaric’s waiting to bundle him up with enough blankets that the chill is only a little annoying, rather than all-out torture. It helps that all the blankets smell vaguely of this house, which smells vaguely of Alaric, which smells vaguely and inexplicably of peace. 

He still feels bad about Alaric waiting on him. Tucking him in, cooking for him, bringing him his drink   which is, Manny discovers, some kind of magic potion designed specifically to trick his stomach into letting something fucking touch it for more than ten seconds    and basically just being a saint with a five o’clock shadow. He shouldn’t have to do it. 

But Manny’s grateful, too. And he can’t deny the little prickle of warmth he feels when Alaric comes back with a well-worn book. He’s just so good. And generous, and thoughtful, and Manny’s still not sure how he’s been so lucky, but he’s not so wrapped up in his own misery that he can’t appreciate what a kind thing Alaric’s doing. 

A smile spreads on his face. “I haven’t read that book in years,” he says. And he’s really not in any shape to read it himself at the moment. Thinks it would probably give him a vicious headache, if he could even focus on the page long enough to string a few sentences together. “But if you wouldn’t mind reading it ... I think that would be really nice.” Alaric’s deep, just-rough-enough voice drifting over word after lyrical word. A familiar story, told in a familiar voice, with the increasingly familiar comfort of Alaric’s presence. 

“Not to say I won’t fall asleep anyway.” He feels like he ought to own it up front, because with his stomach more settled than it’s been in days, his skin and hair washed, and the well-loved sofa slowly embracing him with plush cushions, there is a very solid chance that Alaric’s voice will send him off. 

“After soup,” he adds. Because tired as he is, that soup smells good, and he really is tired of cherry-flavored electrolyte drinks. He takes the mug when Alaric offers it, folding his legs up enough to let him sit down as he sips the broth. He’d never thought salt would be a flavor he’d appreciate so much. Probably his body trying to tell him, yes, please, more of that. He’s careful, though. Takes his time, as the first lines start to roll from Alaric’s lips.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort...”

Manny sips his broth and clove tea and gets lost in the ebb and flow of Alaric’s voice. It’s hypnotic, soothing all the frayed edges of Manny’s nerves. He doesn’t ever decide he’s full, just looks down with half-lidded eyes and realizes he’s not holding anything. He’s also apparently slid down some point midway through the chapter, leaning against Alaric’s side. He wants to lay down, and Alaric’s lap is just about the right height for a pillow. But he’s not ... entirely sure that wouldn’t be crossing a line. 

In his infinite, sleepy wisdom, he asks. 

“You can say no,” he murmurs when Alaric pauses for a drink. “But would it be okay if I just ... laid down for a while?” He’s hoping it’s obvious how he means, because there’s not that much couch, and Manny is about 60% leg. Either his head goes in Alaric’s lap, or his legs hang off the arm of the couch up to about the knee, and he knows which sounds more comfortable. “Again. No is an acceptable answer.”

Alaric has just finished changing the sheets when he hears Manny call out. A ten-second detour and the old ones are in the washing machine. Fresh sheets always feel nicer. And hopefully, by tomorrow, Manny will be over the worst of the withdrawal, though Alaric has been duly warned that he won’t be feeling great for a few weeks after that. Sweating less, anyway. Alaric hopes. He’s left the window open to air out the bedroom and let some sunshine in.

He smiles as he walks into the bathroom. “Don’t worry, I’ll grab some before you get out. I think there’s a very exciting Jimi Hendrix t-shirt somewhere in that pile. Should put a smile on your face. Always works on me.”

He crouches by the edge of the tub, and eases the little soggy bandage off Manny’s back. It’s definitely healing, and the angry red that had Alaric worried about an infection yesterday has faded somewhat.

“It looks good,” he says, and that’s only a very small exaggeration. “I’ll put some more antiseptic cream on it before I cover it again, but for now, some air will probably do it good.”

He takes a washcloth from under the sink and wets it under the cold tap, so he can clean away what little blood has crusted around the stitches. The cool should feel nice against the angry skin, too. He tosses the washcloth aside, when he’s done, for the next load of laundry.

“I know they’re a bit… silly. Childish, I don’t know. But I always have a bottle of bubble bath tucked away for when I need cheering up. You know? They’re just easy, ridiculous fun. And they smell nice. I like having a vice that won’t hurt my liver, and I can’t see myself taking up cross-stitch.”

Sandalwood, this one. Like his soap. One of Alaric’s favorite scents.

Alaric fetches his shampoo and conditioner from the shower, and another washcloth so he can wash Manny’s back, once a good scalp massage has him floating off on a cloud. He scoops some water out of the bath and once Manny’s hair is wet enough, he pours a little shampoo into his hands. It’s women’s shampoo. Alaric doesn’t care. It smells good. Jasmine, and something woody. He wonders what the men’s stuff smell like. Motor oil and bourbon? Are women the only ones who are allowed to smell nice?

He sits on the edge of the bathtub.

The best thing about getting a haircut, Alaric thinks, is when they wash your hair, and really give your scalp a thorough work over, so that’s what he is trying to emulate, here; he has big, strong hands, and as the shampoo lathers up, he can almost feel some of the tension drain from Manny’s body. Some of it. He has plenty to spare. This won’t fix anything, but hopefully, it will make things a bit better for a while, and doing something nice for Manny is taking the rough edges off Alaric’s hurt, as well. He refuses to let his mind wander back to this morning. Nothing good would come out of dwelling on it. He focuses instead on this, the sensation of touch, the simple intimacy, and the connection he feels.

It’s nice. Luxurious.

“I love your hair,” he says. Comes out of nowhere and it’s probably not exactly appropriate while trying to maintain platonic distance, while trying to avoid any pressure; but Manny is no less attractive now than he was the first time Alaric saw him, in a t-shirt that was a little too tight across the shoulders and loose everywhere else, all lean angles and easy grace. Propriety re-asserts itself and he manages not to tell Manny he should grow it longer, but it’s a close call. “Does this feel okay?”

He knows the answer. Manny hasn’t looked this relaxed in days. When Alaric twists his neck a little, and catches sight of Manny’s ridiculously long lashes, he thinks his eyes might be closed, or close to it. It’s probably getting excessive, but Alaric spends a few more moments anyway, making sure to put some pressure around his temples, and the base of the occipital bone. He’s been thinking the last few days about what they’ll do when Manny is clean; his pain is going to be bad, and they need to find drug-free ways to ease it a little. Alaric knows a couple of herbalists, and a massage therapist, and he’s prepared to try anything they suggest.

He reaches for the hand-held shower head and adjusts the temperature until it’s almost uncomfortably warm, and the pressure is high enough to heal, but not hurt.

“Tip your head back,” he says. One hand settles on Manny’s hairline to keep the shampoo from dripping into his eyes, and he rinses carefully. The curls start pulling themselves back into place. “You feeling okay, there?”

He gives Manny’s good shoulder a gentle squeeze, before turning the tap off.

Conditioner, next. Manny’s hair will probably be softer than it’s ever been. He works it through the length carefully. His own hair is too short for anything this intense, but he’s enjoying himself, here; Alaric likes doing things for people, and doing things for someone he loves is about the best way he can spend his time.

While the conditioner soaks in, Alaric scrubs gently at Manny’s back with another washcloth. He’ll be happier, clean and smelling good, the sick sweat scrubbed from his pores. And hopefully, Alaric’s mother-henning won’t feel so invasive, when he’s more comfortable.

He’s taking too long. He really needs to rinse Manny’s hair and excuse himself, but this connection feels so magical that he really doesn’t want to.

“Tip your head back again,” he says, starting the shower spray again, rinsing the conditioner out until it feels soft and silky, and it’s thoroughly rinsed. “That should feel a lot better.”

He needs to create some distance, here; Alaric can feel himself getting needy, and he’s going to do something stupid if he doesn’t leave now.

“Take your time. I’ll be back in a minute with some clothes, okay? Just don’t fall asleep.”

Jimi Hendrix. God, the man’s charming; Manny’s almost certain he has no idea how much, but Manny would happily spend the foreseeable future finding ways to show him. Assuming he’s still interested, after all of ... this. The drugs were bad; the withdrawal’s been nasty; but none of it really tops eviscerating the man in a fit of misplaced anger. 

The sting of the bandage lifting is almost a welcome distraction, and he manages not to hiss through his teeth as the air of the bathroom hits the tender line of still-healing skin. Alaric’s gentle with the cloth. Painstakingly, breathtakingly gentle, and Manny lets out the next breath in a shuddering gasp. He really doesn’t deserve this man. 

But he really, really wants to. 

“I like them,” he says, skimming his fingertips through the bubbles on the surface of the water. Likes the smell. Likes the nostalgia     is it possible to be nostalgic for something you never really did? Most of all, he likes that some of the awkwardness between them has faded away. He’s no empath, but he’s always had a sort of feel for people. He can feel Alaric relaxing a little, and it relaxes him in turn. 

Relaxing turns quickly to melting when Alaric’s fingers start working the shampoo through his hair. Manny’s not sure if it’s ever come up between the two of them, but his hair is ... definitely a spot for him. Makes his spine feel liquid and tingly, and with the heat of the water working its way to the bone-deep aches, Manny can’t help the soft, relieved sigh that leaves his slightly-slackened lips. Fuck, it feels good. 

His world narrows to the pressure Alaric’s fingertips, working across his scalp. The aches and nausea and all-over malaise fades away, and maybe it’s the water lapping across his shoulders and the caps of his knees, but he feels like he’s floating. 

Alaric’s voice comes from somewhere far away, and Manny thinks he replies, but he’s honestly not sure. Feels great. Feels better than great, please don’t stop, please don’t ever ever stop. He wants to do this again, he thinks, when there’s nothing to detract from it. He can’t imagine. If it’s this good, now ... 

He’s putty. Doesn’t so much move his head when Alaric tells him to tip it back, as just let it loll back, trusting Alaric’s steady hands to keep him from knocking his skull on anything solid. There’s something indulgent about it all. About the time Alaric takes, working the soap to a lather, then massaging in the conditioner. Manny’s eyes slide out of focus, then drift closed altogether as his breathing slows. 

Time seems to stop, or slow down, or sluice by like molasses, and it barely picks back up when Alaric rinses the conditioner from his hair. He feels a little like crying. Isn’t really sure why, isn’t even really sure it’s a bad thing. His eyes are just a little damp, throat just a little choke-y, but he’s smiling almost dazedly when he sits himself up a bit in the tub. 

“That was ...” He’s not even sure what that was, but he wants to do it again. He wants to return the favor, too; see if he can steal some of the tension Alaric always carries in his shoulders and neck. He just wants, and he wants, and he wants, and Manny’s no stranger to wanting, but there’s a small whisper in the back of his head telling him, maybe you can have it, and that part ... that’s new. “I almost feel human again.” A little stoned, maybe. Not drug stoned, but maybe weed stoned. Baked, and though he wouldn’t say he’s hungry, he almost even wants to risk a little food, just to sooth some of the rawness from his stomach. 

He runs his fingers through his hair, like he can capture the echo of Alaric’s fingers. Helps squeeze a little of the water from his curls, too, and he can already feel them taking shape again. He scrubs his hands back down his face, blinking the moisture from his eyes as Alaric comes back in with clothes. “This means I have to stand up, doesn’t it?” 

That’s going to be tricky, he thinks. His legs feel like overcooked noodles, and he knows that the second he stands up out of the water, the headache’s going to come roaring back. Then the cold, and god forbid, the sweats, and, “Are we sure there’s no way I could just ... sleep here?” he asks. He aims for levity, but his voice comes out a little rasped, a little hitched. He really does feel a little out of sorts. He feels better, now, and it’s such a fucking relief that he could cry; but he knows it can’t last, and maybe he’s close to turning a corner, but the thought of it all rushing back makes him want to sink beneath the layer of bubbles slowly thinning on the surface and hide from the world a while.