@malumxsubest bared their pretty throat :
[ JOSHUA ] sender offers receiver a safe place to hide / crash .
āYou always did have a filthy habit of being decent when itās deeply inconvenient.ā
It came out dry, mostly because gratitude in Lucienās mouth tended to sound like something he ought to cough up and bury. He stood in Ameliaās doorway with rain running from his hair, leather soaked through, one hand still gripping the strap of a bag packed in a hurry. The sort of hurry that left drawers open, mirrors cracked, and someone swearing in another room. A bruise sat along his jaw. Blood marked his cuff. His face had gone blank in that particular way it did when pain had become a private matter and pride had dragged itself upright to keep watch. ( Naturally, Amelia would offer. She had that terrible gift for making shelter sound simple, as if letting him over the threshold would not give every bad thing at his heels a new address. ) His eyes moved past her into the room, catching on the lamps, the closed curtains, the warmth gathered in corners. Her home looked lived in. Kept. Real.
He trusted her, which remained inconvenient and, frankly, poor planning on both sides. When she stepped back, he came inside without making a performance of refusal. That alone felt indecent. The door shut behind him, and some old, trained part of him counted the exits before the rest of him could pretend he had not. ( Old friend. Old witness. One of the few people left who remembered him before certain horrors got creative with him, which made her dear in a way he would rather choke on than say aloud. ) He set the bag beside the wall with more care than it deserved, then straightened as if posture could argue with exhaustion and win.
āFor the record, I am not hiding. I am briefly abusing your terrible taste in rescue cases.ā
A ridiculous distinction, but he preferred ridiculous to exposed. He worked the jacket off slowly, leather clinging at the shoulders before he dragged himself free of it. Amelia, damn her, handled it perfectly. She let him breathe. Let him take up space. Let the blood exist without turning it into a scene. That was the problem with Amelia. She could be kind without making a grand production of her own goodness. ( Someone ought to have warned him about women with steady hands and inconvenient loyalty. ) His expression threatened to change, so he looked aside before it could embarrass them both.
Her place smelt of tea, leather books, and a life that had carried on with or without permission. It reached him too quickly. The rain sounded farther away now, shoved to the other side of the door where it belonged. The street loosened its grip. The sofa looked far too pleased with itself for furniture, and he chose to resent it on principle. ( A sofa should never sit there looking ready to catch a man when he was making a heroic effort to remain stubborn and insufferable. ) His fingers twitched at his side, eager for any familiar little sin he could put between himself and the quiet.
āIāll be out of your way by morning.ā
There it was. The usual exit line, offered before she could decide he was too much trouble. He heard how thin it sounded and almost sighed. Amelia would hear it as well, because she had always been irritatingly good at catching the meaning under the words. He had spent centuries making himself easy to remove. Pack light. Leave early. Spare everyone the tedious business of caring too long. ( There were only a handful of people he allowed near him like this. Amelia had somehow become one of them, and he had yet to decide whether to thank her or file a complaint. ) His throat tightened, so he looked at the kettle as if it had personally arranged the whole evening.
The worst part was how ordinary it all was, Amelia, opening the door because he had nowhere sensible to go. Her standing there in the warm light, seeing the rain, the blood, the pride held together by spite, and allowing him in anyway. Somehow, that was harder. Cruelty, he understood. Cruelty gave him something to bite. This sat under his ribs and stayed there. ( He would be appalling about it later, obviously. He would insult her tea, make remarks about the blanket, accuse the sofa of emotional manipulation, and perhaps avoid bleeding on anything she liked. Saintly behaviour, really. ) His eyes found hers again, and the humour in them had gone without permission.
āIf youāre going to be noble about this, can we have a drink? I refuse to be emotionally cornered without alcohol.ā
He moved farther inside and folded the ruined jacket over his arm instead of dropping it on a chair. He still had manners. Damaged, soaked, running on spite and whatever remained of his self-respect, but manners all the same. The room did nothing miraculous. It simply took the night down a notch. Gave the rain somewhere else to be. Let him breathe for a moment without feeling quite so stupid for needing to.
His voice changed before he could stop it. Only slightly, but she would hear it. ( That was the trouble with old friends. ) They heard the smallest cracks.
