#3k words

If you hadn't been seated in your car, your knees would've buckled under you. You'd seen a few big, dark trucks since the encounter, bringing your chest to a simmer each time, but the back of this one read Miller Bros. When a mustached man in shades reached out the driver's side window to adjust the mirror, your breath hitched, and you didn't exhale until he rolled away. Jesus Christ.

A minute later, it approached from the back and rolled to a stop parallel with you. A pit opened in your chest. Of all the days to be wearing another animal print bikini….

“How ya doin', sugar? It’s me. Tommy." When you didn't manage any words, he added, “The Seat. Remember?” he gestured to the empty passenger seat where you last met.

“Yeah,” you nodded with a forced smile, face burning. “Hey.”

He took off his shades and asked, “Wanna go for a ride?”

“No, I'm uh… I'm on my way to meet a friend.”

“Yeah? Where y'all goin’?”

“The beach.”

“See ya there.”

When he drove off again, he didn't circle back.

—------

At the beach, for the rest of the day, your eyes darted around not finding him. To get out of the sun, you left your stuff on the beach and put on a light, airy swimsuit cover-up, leaving it open in the front. You got in line at the popsicle stand. You were wet and tingling from thinking about what could happen. What did happen - it was so degrading to everyone involved, so depraved, so devilish. You couldn't think about it without squeezing your thighs together.

You closed your eyes for a moment, wincing at your aching need, when someone stepped into your space from behind.

“Need somethin’ to suck on?”

Your heart skipped a beat at the voice, deep and smooth, not two inches from your ear. Your cover-up shifted as he reached around you. He lightly pinched the border of the open garment and ghosted his fingers down it. You opened your eyes and turned your head just a bit.

Joel brought his lips to your ear. “I got somethin to suck on… or somethin’ to fuck you raw.”

His fingers brushed your bare waist and he said, “ooh, you're hot….even hotter than I remembered”

He laid his palm against your skin and let it wander. He felt your side, your belly, your chest, then cupped your breast, making your lips part as your nipple hardened through the thin fabric and the person in front of you stepped forward in line. You followed suit. He stepped forward, even closer than before, placed his palm on your lower abdomen and pulled you back against him, right against the heft in his swim trunks. You were met with a subtle thrust of his hips that sent daggers of need from your tailbone up your spine.

He touched you like you were together, like you belonged to him. Not like you'd met one time behind a gas station.

When it was your turn in line, you expected Joel to back off, but he did the opposite. He dipped his four fingers into the front of your swimsuit bottoms leaving his thumb on the outside. His middle finger wiggled ever so slightly on your clit.

The Popsicle salesman turned bright red before quickly averting his eyes.

“What flavor did you want?” He asked, looking down into the freezer rather than at you.

Joel dipped his hand lower in your suit, and his thumb took your swimsuit down with his hand as his middle finger reached your slick and he growled. “Giver somethin’ creamy,” he answered for you.

A force field around you was vibrating against the reality of the moment, letting you exist there like a dream. The popsicle guy cleared his throat.

You handed the cash to the guy. Joel only took his hand out of your swimsuit to take the pop from him, shiny fingers and all.

-

Joel put his arm around you, guiding you toward a wall. Then he unwrapped the creamy pop and took a long slurp of it as you leaned with your back against the wall. He braced his arm on the wall above you and laid his hardness against you. Your hand twitched with the urge to shove it down his shorts, to take him right there against the wall. He brought the pop to your lips, and watched your lips accept it as he pushed more of it in. “Yeahhh,” he whispered, and his hips pushed forward as the rest of the pop slid into your mouth. “Good girl.” His eyes flickered up from your spread lips to your eyes, and half his mouth twitched into a smirk at your lustful gaze. He fed you the pop, controlling the pace, grinding against you at the same pace. “You feel that?” he asked.

“Mmm,” you hummed into the popsicle,

“How long til it’s inside you, huh?”

“Mm,” you looked at him.

“How long til you're packed with this big cock?

Five minutes?” he asked with a slow rut against your front in rhythm with the popsicle pushing back into your mouth. “Three?”

“Mmm,” your eyes closed with the next stroke of his hard cock. “Ohh,” your mouth opened slightly.

“Ohhh, that sounds more like sixty seconds,” Joel teased and removed the pop from your mouth, bringing it to his own for a long, sensual slurp. “See,I was thinkin’ I might take my time, but…”

Your phone rang, pulling you out of the moment. It was your friend down on the beach. “I gotta grab some sunscreen while I’m up here,” you told Joel.

“Nah, I got plenty,” he said. “I'll put it on ya, too.’

After texting your friend that you’d be back a little later, you and Joel headed down to the beach.  “I saw your brother earlier,” you said. 

“He behave himself?” Joel asked. 

“Uh… yeah.” 

“Yeah, he knows better than to fuck my girl without me.”  Joel gave you ass a little pop, then grabbed and jiggled it. 

“Your girl, huh?” 

“What, you like Tommy? He can put his dick in you, if ya want…” Joel looked at you as though curious about your reaction. “But when it’s time to fill ya up, that’s all me, baby.” 

“You’re bad,” you said. 

“Oh baby, you’ll find out. C’mon, there’s some privacy in the tent. 

—----------------

In the tent, Joel rolled the back of it down, so the only opening was facing  toward the water.  People could walk by, but they'd have to turn their head and look. At least that's what you told yourself. Didn't take much convincing. 

He picked up some sunscreen and set it next to him as he got behind you. His lips brushed the nape of your neck. 

“Been thinking ‘bout this,” he admitted. His nose brushed your hair as his hands roved your body and you melted into his touch. “Wishin’ you were workin’... wishin’ I had your number… “ At the same time: a squeeze of your breast, a cup of your mound. “be your number one customer, baby.” He worked both hands, big and gentle, dragged his lips down the shell your ear, then sucked the lobe. Could he feel it was on fire? Fuck, to think about y’alls first time… The way he thought you were for sale. How offended you were, and turned on…. 

“Such a good girl, lettin’ me fuck you in a goddamn parkin lot,” he murmured, dragging his lips against your skin. He pulled you close, so you could feel the shape of his cock even stiffer than moments ago.  “Lettin’ me fuck you full’a my load…” He rutted against you, making you drip. “Comin’ on a stranger’s cock while he fucks a baby in ya…. Fuck, Nothin hotter.”  Your insides were hot, swollen, yearning to be filled.  

“Thought maybe one day I’d see ya with a pretty dress and a baby bump.” A voracious need ignited in your core. “Oh, fuck,” he breathed, his cock thick and rock hard, digging against the upper flesh of your butt, making you gush and buzz. 

Knocked up behind a gas station? So deranged, so arousing…

“Just as happy to see ya like this…. like a gift I’m boutta unwrap.” 

He tugged at your halter string, and it fell loose.

A glob of sunscreen squirted into his massive palm, he tossed the bottle aside, and rubbed his hands together. 

Wrapping his arms around to your front, he started with your chest. “Most sensitive skin's right here,” he said, sliding his fingers up your sternum to your neck.  He paused with his hand around your neck. “How’s that feel?” His thumb added light pressure.

“Good,” you said. He rubbed the lotion into your chest, between your breasts, then directly on them, with your halter dangling below his big masculine hands as they cupped your breasts. “Gotta get the whole body, cause if your swimsuit moves….” 

He continued the sensual breast massage, and you audibly sighed.

“That feel good?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Get you all tingly. Get you all wet?” he asked. 

“Mmm,” you replied. “I was already wet.” 

“Already wet for me,” he murmured. “....Cause ya let me feel ya up at the goddamn popsicle stand,” he said with an edge, bringing a flash of heat to your face. “Poor baby, must be dyin’ for it."

“I could take care of that for ya,” he offered, massaging your breasts and then moving lower to your stomach. He stopped short of your bikini bottom. “Only one problem, he said. Now I got lotion on my hands.” His hands slithered over your body, feeling every curve. “Don’t wanna make ya burn or nothin’,” he mumbled. “So how’m I gonna get ya off?” He spread his knees,straddling your legs wider, finding a lower angle. Then hee grinded his hard dick against you, prodding at your lower crack. “Hm?” 

He pulled one the string of your bikini bottom, then the other. “You want me to take care of this, don't ya?” He asked, pulling the loose swimsuit from between your legs, holding it up to see how wet it was.

“Mmmm,” he observed. 

His hands left your body only to pull down his swim trunks, making his warm, smooth shaft spring against the bare skin of your ass cheek. He took his shorts fully off, then resumed his position. 

Without using his hands, he thrusted against your backside. He held your waist and you tilted your hips for him. “Good girl,” With the angle just right, his cock slid right between your thighs, with no help from his hands. . “Unggh—There we go,” he said. He moved his hips nice and slow, pushing his cock through the snug tunnel of your thighs and dripping pussy. His girth pushed your folds out of the way, and the fat head of his cock nudged your clit. You kept your thighs squeezed together, nearly breathless from the perfect pressure of his dick against your naked heat. Your head tilted up, eyes closing in pleasure. He massaged  hips and your thighs while rutting against your dripping heat. 

It was more than enough to get you off. You tensed your abdomen, very aware of the swell of arousal deep in your gut, threatening to burst into the stratosphere. You squeezed your thighs together tighter, making him moan out loud.

He rubbed the lotion into your hips and sides, and when his hands were no longer wet, he brought them back to your breasts, lightly cupping them with each nipple between two fingers on each breast. He began to thrust in faster, smaller motions, grunting, sighing. 

Fuck, he felt good, and you were close, so close, your body tensed. 

“Breathe, baby,” he said. “Let it happen—Mmm.”

You obeyed with the next nudge of his tip against your clit making it pound with pleasure.

“Fuck, I feel it,” he said. The pressure pounded and released, and as it faded, you could only think, that better not be the only one I get. 

Badly needing him inside you, you leaned forward, getting on your hands hands and knees and tilting your hips.  

Joel let out a low whistle, and began to fuck your thighs again. 

The lack of penetration was driving you crazy. 

“Fuck me,” you demanded. 

“Do I even know your name, babygirl?” His stiff cock must have been aching, still sliding through your folds. “Just want me to fuck you raw, huh?” 

“Put it in me,” you agreed. 

“Ow,” he reacted. “Well, god damn… a woman who knows what she wants.” 

“Give it to me,” you pleaded.

“Where ya want it?” he asked. 

“In my pussy, god.” He had you dying for it. 

He slid his cock through your folds, one last time. “Ohhh I feel her twitchin’ for me, baby.” 

You tilted your hips and the head caught at your entrance. “Yeah,” he whispered, then began to push. You pushed back on him, then forward just a bit, to keep the skin from catching. Then the rest of his cock slid through your soft walls, pushing a moan out of you with his girth. 

“Fuck,” you breathed as he bottomed out with a grunt. 

“Forgot you were tight,” he muttered, stiff and throbbing. He placed a hand on your lower back as he withdrew a few inches, then slammed back in.  “Oh, fuck yeah, you're real tight,” he said as he fucked you.  You moaned with each thrust, each throb, each grunt, each rumble from his chest. 

“Ain’t got fucked right in a while, huh?... Well, daddy's here,” he reassured you, making you spasm on his cock. 

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “You like that…. Oh, fuck. Take it good for daddy,” he gushed as he fucked you. Your ass pushed back on him in perfect rhythm. “God damn, this ass,” he said, grabbing a handful, then giving it a pop. “Uggh,” he groaned, burying his cock in you, watching your cunt swallow it right up.  He spat on your asshole and pressed gently on it with his thumb, spreading the spit around, then adding more. 

“You like it here, too?” he asked. 

Sure, you’d like it goddamn everywhere from this freak. But there was only one thing on your mind. “Stay where you are,” you demanded. 

“Damn, just gettin’ to know ya’s all,” he said. “No way I’m leavin’ this pussy empty. You know that, baby……Fuck, she takes it real good.” 

He slammed into you with a growl.

The rhythm was a perfect overlay with the waves outside. The lap of skin and the wind against the tent. The heavy breaths and growls and moans. 

Jesus Christ, you've had his cock buried in you for minutes and it seemed to only get bigger… a mind-numbing fullness, making your eyes glaze over. 

“Fuck, you're big,” you breathed, feeling him in your guts. 

“Yeah, you need a big cock, don’t ya?” He said, he slammed to the hilt and grinded his hips, letting you feel just how deep he could. 

“Oh, fuck,” you whined. 

“Need a real big cock to fuck this pussy right.” 

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yeah, daddy. Oh, fuck me.” 

“Fuck yeah,” he breathed, grinding deep again. “Oh, fuck.” 

You pushed back on him, making him “Mmmmmmm–oh, baby,” before catching another rhythm. 

He asked, “Member our deal? Free if I come inside….” 

“Come in me,” you said. 

“You, uh,” he started to ask a question, then muttered, “fuck it, I don't wanna know.” 

His cock twitched. He fucked you harder. He gripped your hips and sped up to a punishing pace, one that took skill. “Fuck,” he panted. “You ready for it?....You ready?” his question broken by the effort of his hips. 

The pleasure overwhelmed your body. You thought you might pass out. 

“You gonna come on this cock, baby”  he asked and slowed down when you simply moaned in response. 

“Fuck, you're hot,” he breathed. “Nothin’ like a hot slut at the beach.” And he smacked your ass. “Fuck,” he said, “you dunno what I’d pay for this pussy.”  He sped up again. 

“You oughtta try it,” he panted, “Make bank with this pussy.”  

All you could do was moan in response. 

“Fuck yeah,” he said. 

“Don't stop,” you begged, so close…

“Not ‘til you're full,” He reassured you. “Not til my swimmers are all up in your guts.” He slammed into you, grinded his hips again, “pourin’ outta ya.” The friction sent you tumbling over the edge. 

You groaned as you came, and he slowed, nearly to a halt. “Fuck, yeah.”

You hardly noticed the shadow outside the tent as you choked him.

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me good, baby,” he breathed, and fucked you through it slowly.  And then he bottomed out deep, and pulsed. “Ohhh” he groaned, spilling his seed inside you.

A voice came from outside the tent, then Tommy appeared in the open side. “Ten’s a rockin’, and I ain’t knockin’....”

“I’m a-knockin’ her up,” Joel said, fully seated in your cunt. 

“Well look at her all fucked out,” Tommy smiled with admiration.  He gently touched your dissheveled hair, then thumbed your lip. “She’s a beaut.” 

“I miss all the fun?” Tommy asked. 

“Hell no,” Joel said. “Just helpin’ with her sunscreen. Ain't even got the back yet.”

“Is that right, Tommy asked, then wet his lips, looking at your tits. He unscrewed a bottle of water and got on his knees and tilted it to your lips. You lapped some as it trickled out of the bottle. 

Joel’s hands were steady on your ass and he pulled his hips back just a bit for one last thrust and sigh. 

“Fuck. She's good. She's so tight, man.” Joel said. “I mean, wrecked right now, but--- You need a break, baby? Whatcha wanna do?” 

-

-

-

-

"You're afraid of me, aren't you? Don't deny it, I can smell the dread from here." Owen sat on the examination table, his head tilted to where his locks of silver hair covered most view of his face, red eyes gleaming in the shadow cast by the lantern hung above.

"I'm not." The doctor shut the door behind him, slow with his movements in a way that bothered Owen. He liked his adversaries flighty, to bring out his prey drive. "Just cautious about this… truce, we've agreed to." Legs set aside the tools he kept on his belt, casually placing them on a tray by the door before locking it. "No one is going to disturb us, I made sure I had an alibi. You're safe, Owen."

Legs gestured to the notebook on the desk. "Will it be alright with you if I write some things down? It's not everyday I get to-"

"You're trying to diagnose my old disease, not gather information you and the townsfolk could use against me." He scrapped his steel-like claws on the table. "The less you understand about me, the better."

"... if that's what you want." Legs put his pen down as he approached. "But just so you know, patient confidentiality is an indispensable pledge to me. Anything you don't want escaping this room," He made a zipper motion over his mouth. "Will never leave my lips."

"You don't have to reassure me, Doctor. I will make sure myself that if you betray me it will be the final futile act of service you attempt to give your beloved humanity." His tone became dark, but the human seemed unphased.

"Hm. Understood. Now, shall we begin?"Owen nodded, but became unsure of what he was supposed to do next as the doctor just stood there off to the side. There was a scoff, or maybe a chuckle from him as he twirled his hand. "Your clothes?"

"Ah." Owen's ears pinned uncomfortably as he realized the request. He removed his shoes without thought- it was only when he took off his shawl that he felt hesitance towards his next task. Gripping the edge of his shirt, his infuriating hands gained a familiar shake to them on instinct. The harder he tried to get the imaginary shaking under control, the weaker his hold on the cloth got, the shallower his breath became.

"Owen?" Legs edged forward, snapping the creature out of his spiral. "Let's start with the leg bandages. Go slow if you must." He left his professional posture, leaning on the desk beside the table Owen sat. The vampire fumbled with the wrappings as his trembling continued.

"I don't.. I don't usually have this much trouble with this." He tightened his fists. "It's a gemynd wound- I- It's all in my head, I mean. These bandages just thwart my steady senses-" He sounded angry, which he was, but it was more anger at himself than anything. The stress made it more difficult to use the modern slang of this time, or just to focus in general. He would have been fine if there wasn't a fucking human so close, so intent on staring, judging and hating-

"Try this." Legs patiently offered. "Clench all your muscles at once, tightly as you can for a few moments. It should help." He waited for Owen to do as asked, and answered the confused look he received from those big brown eyes. "A trick I learned from my past… work, I'll say." He explained, not with condescension, but with the goal of distracting his anxious patient. "The figurative nerves we feel are in response to anticipated danger. When spooked, we get tensed and ready for an attack, and then the danger is over. It makes a slow, stalking predator into a passed threat."

Owen flexed his claws, still in awe that it had worked. "…Being the predator in most scenarios, I don't tend to consider my prey's response to terror besides the thrill it brings me."

"It shouldn't- or should I say it doesn't come as a shock to me that it worked as intended. You.. still have the same responses, you still feel.. You're still a person." Legs added on as Owen's glare hardened. "At least, in some ways I believe you are. And that little test doesn't exactly disprove my theory, hm?"

"… I'll refrain from correcting your delusions for now, Legundo. We've proven before that arguing our viewpoints gets us nowhere."

"I don't see it as arguing. I don't blame you for how you think of me, or how you think of yourself." He took the wrappings from Owen, setting them aside. "I'm only here to help those who need it. You included." He tried to coax his patient's claw from gripping the table. "You suspected some kind of leprosy, correct?" His eyes narrowed as Owen pulled his hand back. "Look, I can't help you if you don't-"

"Fine, fine. Just.. not that hand." He spat under his breath as he started to unfurl the wrappings around his other arm. The doctor's touch, though gentler than Owen spooked himself into thinking, had caused the hidden bite mark on wrist to throb. "The marbling, the scars.." He presented his gnarled hand solemnly. "They used to be boils, a paralysis in my limbs that made them shake as I moved, a vomitous infection that rotted my living flesh for years.."

Owen felt chills along his shoulders when Legs took his hand into his own, turning and feeling over his arm in an unforced manner. His firm hands didn't exactly look fit for precise surgical work, but they felt softer than Owen's toughened skin. No one had ever been gentle with him, nor his horrible scars in a long.. long time… Not since Louis. "They’re an eyesore, I'm aware." He retorted at the hurtful look Legs gave as he pushed up his monocle."I never said that."

"Your eyes did. That repulsed glare-""These don't bother me, Owen." Legs took his hand back, continuing to examine it with the same furrowed look. "It's the fact you bore the sickness they used to be for so long before... he helped you."

"I don't want your pity, doctor." He tried not to flinch as Legs' hands came further up his arm.

"Pity is the last thing on my mind right now." He paused, sliding his hand out from under the sleeve of Owen's tunic. "Try lifting your shirt again?"

"I.. I-" He moved to give it a shot, but froze in the same spot as before.

"… Will you allow me to help you, Owen?" Legs asked, unmoving but genuine by the way his tone shifted. It wasn't until he confirmed he'd heard a gruffly muttered "yes" that the doctor finally assisted him in pulling the garment over his arms and off him.

Owen jolted a bit as the lantern light cast across his torso, as the knot in his stomach became a noose of unease. He was barren, vulnerable for the whole world to see, terrified of what could happen as his skin felt the cold air with no layers to cover the irregularities along his body. But the longer he sat there… The less vulnerable he truly felt.

There were no eyes here. None hurtful or judging at least, just….

Legundo.

"I suppose you want the rest of the bandages off? Just to properly…" He trailed off, watching Legs carefully untuck the ligature just below Owen's collarbone, unfurling each layer. The vampire rested his hands on the man's shoulders, one placed so that his claws loosely held the back of his neck. Legs pretended not to notice, rolling his shoulder sharply to dislodge Owen's grip, but the way his hands continued to remove the compress remained the same. Gradual, and with that kindness that sickened Owen when he tried to decipher the motive behind it.

Discreetly and though it was nervewracking, Owen's hands shifted down to holding the doctor's hips. As Legs paused for a few moments, genuinely taking a look at the creature's bodily scarring, Owen tried to break his attention, feeling the staring was becoming unbearable.

He went from holding the man's waist to slowly trailing his hand up from where it was. Just when he was about to get a reaction out of Legs, he noticed a slight shape under the doctor's scrubs, and not one he was happy to see. "Whats…. that?" He moved the apron but as his hand grazed the object Owen found himself hissing. "You'd dare keep silve-"

"Oh- Oh!" The doctor backed away, taking the shears off his belt with haste. "I forg- I thought I might need these to help remove your banda-"

"Cast them aside." Owen snarled deeply, feeling warm and frustrated over his discovery. "You agreed- you promised that you bore no weapons."

Legs' brow furrowed, but he did not seem guilty for what he'd done, making Owen more upset than he should have been. "I'm sorry, really. I forgot they were silver forged. I-"

"Do you forget your house is built of wood too? Or that fire burns, or- or that rain descends from the sky? Wh-"

"Owen. Owen…" He was quieter, his voice persuading Owen to cease his rant for a moment. Legs didn't touch him without warning, he just offered his hand. "We don't have to.. continue. I'm sure I can use what I've gathered-"

"No!" He didn't mean for it to sound so.. insistent. "…. No. I- I want a… definite diagnosis. Just.. take off that apron. Just so I know you aren't hiding anything else…" He watched from the corner of his eye as Legs' fingers worked the tie behind his back. Against his better judgment, he outstretched a claw. "May I?"

Legs nodded, almost smiling thoughtfully before Owen cut the knot of his garment with a talon. "Hey-" He caught the apron as it came off his shoulder, annoyance flashing across his expression. "I thought you were offering to untie it." He said through gritted teeth as he remained calm.

"Are you saying you're upset about the fact you’re more avaliable to me?" He lightly pulled Legs closer to him with a lazy hand finding its way back to his hip.

Owen almost got an answer out of him, but Legs spoke past the question to avoid getting flustered. "Well I guess now we're even." His elbow pointed slightly to the shears for a moment. "Though that was accidental. I didn't mean to hurt you by any means."

"I… okay. I suppose we are." He couldn't forgive Legs, but he was not upset enough to hold the grudge. He could not be when he could barely keep a glare or a straight face. The doctor took his hand again, comparing the scarring on both, muttering something about discoloration and bone structure that Owen could not quite hear with his ears pinned bashfully. Owen didn't move, partly to stay as still as he could for the doctor, partly because everytime he did he heard Legs' heart rate increase like a vampire dinner bell, and partly because an older, buried part of him had something to prove when it came to keeping his hands steady.

Owen finally shivered when the man let go of his hands, and lightly gripped the vampire's legs just above his knees, leaning on him passively.

"Now." Legs' focused eyes landing on his specimen's lips, the words less of an ask and more of a wish. "Show me your fangs, please." In a glimpse of clarity he tried to justify his request. "Some strains of illness can leave lesions in the mouth, I just-" He didn't need to finish though, Owen was already titling his head back, dizzy from the scent of prey fogging the closed room.

His piercing teeth unsheathed from where they were folded on the roof of his mouth, anticoagulant saliva dripping from the dagger-like points. He only ever unfolded them to feed, to puncture the necks of his prey, and this spit that almost pulsed like venom from his fangs dried out his tongue. It put a tightness in his chest every time he looked over the doctor's silhouette hazily.

He was hungr- no, thirsty- there was something gnawing at him that he wanted, desired... And he wasn't sure if it was even related to his thirst for blood. The vampire gave a soft lunge for Legs' neck, fraught into trying to bite to see if the crimson of human veins would satiate him, but Legs caught his chin with his finger tips. He redirected the bite where Owen quietly snapped just inches from the doctor's face.

Owen's eyes went wide once he opened them, staring for a moment longer than needed. A snarl started to rise in his throat but it cut off in shock as Legs ran his thumb over the corner of the nearly feral vampire's face, wiping a bit of the drool away as his mouth watered. "I thought you said you'd feed before the appointment?"

His grumbling quieted. "Animal blood can only do so much, doc. It's the only reason I'm coherent as I am." Owen leaned back, pressing his boot to the doctor's knee so he'd give him space, so the mindbogglingly sweet smell of his warmth wasn't so nauseatingly close. "Speaking of feeding, how are you after our meeting a few days ago? Still so sore that we're afraid of another…" He gnashed his teeth once more. "Sample?"

"I'll recover, but I'm anemic as is." He blinked, rubbing his beard and muffling his words. He wasn't doing much to cover the slight flush of warmth on his face, to hide how his eyes kept darting back again and again to Owen. "Besides, our truce said nothing and will hold nothing of another feeding."

"Mh hm." Owen nodded, taking shallower breaths to focus himself. "Would you like me to take a look? I may not be licensed, but I believe I'm qualified to know more of that kind of wound than most."

A smirk started to edge the vampire's mouth as Legs' moved to cover his shoulder, but it faded meekily when the doctor revealed the reddened bite mark just above his collarbone. The vampire had been hoping for a bit more… hesitance than that. Moreso, he'd been expecting more hesitance.

He was more cautious than Legs' was about his own wound when he brushed his bandaged fingers over the punctures. The man didn't wince, didn't flinch or anything. He just stood and watched, looking at Owen without any distaste, without any darting of his eyes from his appearance out of queasiness. Owen frowned at the mark. "It's still really deep.."

"That would be your doing-" The doctor's statement staggered as Owen licked his row of fingers and massaged the saliva onto Leg's bite. He yanked his shoulder away, alarmed and red faced and unable to find his words.

"What?" Owen pulled his hand back faster than he thought he would. "I can be gentler if you're going to be that bitchy about it-"

"What the fuck are you doing??" Legs exclaimed, wiping his shoulder repeatedly.

The vampire raised an eyebrow, slightly upset by his reaction. "I'm helping? You'll avoid infection if the punctures close sooner than later."

"And your.. special vampire spit. It can close wounds?" He asked with the same skeptical tone he would ask if someone proposed mold could cure cancer.

"It… It can. I've seen it work before, good as- dare I say better than the medicines of your field." He almost lost his tone dwelling on the past. "Did you think I just wanted to cover you in spit for fun? Claim you like a petty rat child would claim bread while fighting with his sibling?" He scoffed, his fangs baring slightly with his voice mocking.

"I.. I didn't know vampires could have any kind of helping properties like that." He murmured, Owen interpreting it as a thoughtful remark.

The creature smiled, dry and a bit forced to look noticeable, but it was genuine underneath, even as he spoke. "Now where were we?" Legs, with his eyes averted, didn't see Owen reach for him until he had already spoken.

"Right, right." The doctor cleared his throat and took a knee in front of Owen unexpectedly. If the vampire's heart was still beating, it would have stopped just as dead as it was. Legs held Owen's shin, feeling up and down his leg and foot for remnants of lesions. At first, Owen hissed softly as a warning, and just as he was ready to snap, Legs quickly let go. "You okay?" His query stemmed from genuine concern.

"Sorry, I'm not used to… this thorough medical examinations." Owen flinched from his touch and shrank back with a hostility and slight guilt to his body language. "I haven't been touched in a long ti- Don't you fucking laugh, I mean- previous doctors never bothered to get close enough to look at… well, anything really." He didn't know what he was saying, he had to look away, only getting more confuddled as Legs stood, his nerves sending him spiralling as they tried to decide whether to duck from Legs' hand or to lean into it as he grazed his thumb over the vampire's face, feeling for irregularities on his skin besides the marbling.

Despite the painful thirst and heartracing anxiety, Owen hadn't seen a moment as this serene in hundreds of years. A part of him did not understand how on earth this human's presence could be this… calming. Yet he sort of knew exactly why.

Legundo wasn't just some human. That bite mark on his neck, the echoing "I trust you" from the feeding to their unspoken moments now, those proved it to Owen.

"I.. I've gathered all I need for now. We both should head back before any dots can be connected to our whereabouts." Legs let his hand slip away, but the moment he gave an indication of moving from where he was, Owen caressed the neck of his company to distract him. It worked like a charm, since Legs not only stayed, but found himself holding Owen in return.

A barrier that could only have been kin to the one around Oakhurst sat invisible between them- That was the only explanation to why neither of them closed the space between their whispers and light smiles. "Thank you. For the.. for trying to help diagnose me…." His claws tapped softly under Legs' chin. "But we don't.. we don't have to leave just yet. Yea? This… this can be personal.. for a momen…." A slight rumble started from deep in Owen's chest when Legs' tilted his face to the vampire's ear.

"… Just something for you and I?" He asked, tentatively, hopefully.

….. Hopefully.

Owen felt trepidation creep quickly into his veins, and before he could bite his tongue, he withdrew his ask. "Don't tempt me anymore, doc." Owen chuckled over the twinge of added misery. "You have your pathetic town to go back to, and I have..."

"You can have me… you have me." Legs whispered, close enough Owen felt his breath.

"Only for so long." Owen tried to snarl but it felt too wrong when he felt so safe. "Oakhurst will burn, one way or another. If you're caught on the wrong side, you will bleed. You will… die. Patients will die, people die." He hovered his face beside Legs' neck, his lips ghosting across his skin as he spoke. "If I turned you… you won't have to be a person anymore. You'll have an eternity to help the sick and aching. … an eternity I could spend.. with you."

He was nearly about to touch his fangs to flesh, but was caught off guard by Legs' question. "What did he tell you?"

"… Who?"

"What did your 'sire' tell you when he offered his.. gifts?" Legs stayed still, even as Owen froze beside him. "You.. you clearly cared about him. So when he offered to turn you, did he say the same thing? That he wanted to spend eternity with you? Is that why Scott turned Shelby…. do vampires only offer.. this to those they-"

"Enough." Owen was silent for a long time, long enough Legs thought he may have been in the embrace of a stone statue. "Who are you to ask so many prying questions about," The creature's voice became hoarse enough it could pass for a growl. "Him?"

"I.. I want to prove Avid wrong, is all." Legs thought he'd worded it carefully enough, but he was clearly mistaken as Owen flinched hard, tearing himself from his arms.

"What? That I'm salvageable by your kind's terms?" His body pulled painfully for Legs, to continue to feel that he was so close, that he was there.. but his bubbling anger gave him enough will to resist. Hearing Avid's name made his blood boil, hearing mention of his Lou…. it made fury engulf the heart that had almost started to thaw against Legs' hold. "I don't need your saving grace, Legundo. You're late. Two thousand seven hundred and ninety nine dead and over two hundred years late." He spat the words like they burned his throat.

"… Close." Legs did not meet his blazing eyes, couldn't without those numbers ringing through his mind. "I want to prove… despite the things you did, despite what you think you have to do, I want to prove you can still-"

"Come back to Oakhurst?" Owen spat, grabbing his shirt and trying to cover up, suddenly feeling tart at being unclothed. "Be a vile fucking human again? Give up my life and my gifts for the comfort of people who would sooner put a stake through my beloved's heart than let us live in peace?" The vampire stood, shoving Legs away from him as he yowled, hurt breaking his words like they were glass. "What is it that's worth proving about me that you're so fucking confident won't be wrong, Legundo?"

Prince Grace ran through the gardens, ignoring the calls of his brothers behind him, needing to get away from the chaos of the meeting. He ran through the manicured paths full of blooming flowers, twisting and turning through the paths to lose his brothers. He needed some time alone to think over the planned courtship.

He ran until he came across the edges of the palace grounds; a wall of thick ivy appeared in front of him and he pushed his way through, still hearing the voices of Colt and Court calling for him behind him.

As he pushed his way through the wall of vines, he fell into a sunken area of the forest, completely hidden from the entrance above.

He stood slowly, taking in the surrounding area. It was a huge field, full of blooming flowers; deep-purple violets, baby's breath, and other wildflowers were everywhere. The air in the clearing was different than the gardens at the palace, full of what could only be described as magic, entirely untouched by the world outside.

At the center of the field, stood a massive hill. At first glance, Grace thought it was it was nothing more than a huge rose bush, but as he stepped closer, he noticed that the unnatural shape of the hill. The roses were outlining what was a human shadow, wrapped tightly around the chest and falling over the back like a heavy cape.

Grace stepped forward slowly, heart pounding and still trying to catch his breath due to running earlier, slowly pushed his hand through a gap in the bush, and his breath caught in his throat as his fingertips brushed against something cold and smooth. Grace slowly pushed aside the branches , trying to avoid the thorns, just to be met with a flawlessly carved face, the stone eyes were staring out into the clearing ahead.

Grace let out a shaky breath and stepped back. He didn't immediately reach out to tear the weeds and roses away. Instead he stared at the statue, amazed at the tragic beauty of the statue in front of him. The statue looked incredibly lonely, left out here while the world outside of the clearing moved on. In some strange way it felt familiar.

Grace let out a sigh, and sank down onto the wet grass, his legs crossed in front of him. He leaned his head up, meeting eyes with the statue in front of him.

"I guess you're trapped here too." Grace said quietly. He offered a sad smile. "Although I kind of envy you. No one expects you to put on this heavy crown and smile at guests. They're not forcing you to court Prince Ryder to 'make our alliance better and boost the economy.'" He picked a small wildflower, twirling the stem between his fingers.

"Court and Colt, my brothers, tell me that I'm a child for wanting to court a person I actually want to marry, not just for an alliance." Grace sighed out, looking back at the statue's face. "But looking at you, I think I'd rather be forgotten stone than a puppet on a throne."

The clearing around him remained quiet, wind rustling softly. For the first time since before the meeting, Grace felt safe. He reached out to the statue again. "I think I'll stay here for a while, if that's okay with you."

Grace sat in the clearing for a few more hours, thinking over how he was going to stop the courtship between him and Prince Ryder before deciding to go back to the palace. It was getting late and he needed to eat before his brothers sent out guards to find him. Before he left, he looked at the statue's face again. "I'll be back tomorrow and clean you up. At least one of us deserves some niceties."

The next afternoon, Grace returned to the clearing after lunch. He had a small satchel full of supplies from the palace's garden shed. Inside of the satchel was a small shovel, a wire brush, and a handful of small towels.

"Prince Ryder sent a letter and some chocolates today," Grace said to the stone man, pulling out the supplies. "Colt ate most of them. He told me that I should be appreciative of the gift. I told him I'd rather choke on sawdust."

With a soft laugh, Grace got to work cleaning off the statue. He used the shovel to cut through the thickest of the vines, peeling them back from the man's legs. As he pulled the growth away from the statue, the intricate designs of the man's outfit became visible. The man wore a vest, similar to one royalty a few hundred years ago would wear. Every time Grace would pull away some of the greenery, more details came to light. He dipped one of the rags into a creek just outside of the clearing he didn't notice the day before and started washing the dirt off of the statue's arms.

"You were someone important weren't you?" Grace asked quietly, his voice soft, not trying to disturb the peaceful energy of the clearing. "Someone brave. I wonder if anyone forced you to be someone you didn't want to be."

He went back to the clearing whenever he had time over the next few days. By the fourth afternoon, the statue of the man was mostly cleaned, he just had to clean the pedestal. Grace had small scratches from the thorns but he hardly felt them, too focused on his task.

"Today, Ryder sent a portrait," Grace told the statue, voice tired. "The painter gave him a kind smile, but I know it's a lie. I don't want a political courtship. I want…" He trailed off, looking into the now clean face of the statue, the light gray of the stone bright against the green of the trees surrounding the clearing. "I wish you could talk back. I wish you were real."

The sixth day of Grace going back to the clearing caught him by surprise. He had stayed later than he meant to, exhaustion from dealing with his royal duties and Ryder's visit to the castle to talk more with Grace in person had caught up to him. He fell asleep in the flowers at the base of the pedestal. Dreams of his courtship and being made to be someone he didn't want to be woke him up shortly after. Half asleep, Grace looked at the statue mumbling "I can't do it. I can't be who they want me to be. I wish you were real, because even though I don't know anything about you, you have made me feel safe. I may be crazy for saying this but I think I have loved you since the day I stumbled into this clearing." Grace fell back asleep, not noticing the change in the air.

The magic in the clearing didn't start the change with loud movements, it started slow like snow melting in sunlight. A small golden light shone from the center of the statue, turning the light gray of stone to slightly tanned skin, dark red fabric and a sharp inhale.

The sudden sound of gasping breaths startled Grace awake, causing him to scramble back into the dirt behind him. He took in his surroundings quickly, trying to find where the noise came from.

He looked towards where the statue was just moments before. Instead of seeing the stone he had come to love, there was a man curled in on himself, gasping for breath. He was dressed in clothes Grace had only seen in paintings of ancient royal times, the man's cloak was a deep red with gold threads woven around the outer edges of the fabric.

"Where-," The man said, voice deep and raspy from years of no use. The man looked at his hands, flexing his fingers in what seems like horror. "Where am I? Who are you?"

Grace could only stare at the man, breathless. The man in front of him was the statue he had spent the last few days cleaning. Noticing the statue-turned-man starting to panic, Grace raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Breathe. It's okay. You're safe. You're in Erid and I'm -" Grace started to say before he was interrupted.

"Erid?" The man asked, looking at Grace. "No, that…" the man paused, looking around. "No. I was in Eden, my father's kingdom. How long have I been here?"

"Eden fell two hundred years ago," Grace said softly, still trying to help the man calm down. "I'm Prince Ryland Grace of Erid. We took in the remainder of Eden's people and my family has been ruling over this area since."

Grace remembered reading about the kingdom and its history. The king had lost his eldest son, Simon, to a curse and in a economic crisis, had asked one of Grace's ancestors for help. They agreed and Eden and Erid's populations combined into what Erid is today.

The man stumbled back, knees hitting the pedestal and sat down on the cool stone. "The witch. She said it would be an eternity. She said a heart of stone could only be thawed by a heart that chose it blindly. A soul bound match." His eyes moved back to Grace, finding the traces of dirt and small scratches on his hands. "You…," he started to say, pausing for a second before continuing. "You stayed. You came back every day. You spoke to me."

Seeking to give the man shelter from the incoming storm, Grace took him back to the palace to allow him to clean up and rest.

The stone bath hidden behind a screen divider in his room was overflowing with warm water, the scent of lavender was in the air when the door to Grace's room was pushed open by Colt, Grace's twin brother older by a couple minutes, standing in the doorway with his arms over his chest. Court, the twin's oldest brother, was standing behind Colt.

"What are you doing? You're going to get yourself in trouble. The guards said you brought someone dressed in historical wear back to the palace." Colt asked, looking over Grace's shoulder to where the bath was. There was a candle behind the divider, showing the outline of the man sitting in the bath.

"Colt, you have to listen. You remember the story of Eden's prince being turned into a statue. It was real. The curse was broken be-" Grace tried to explain before he was interrupted by Court.

"Because you fell asleep and had a lonely boy's dream?" Colt grabbed Grace's wrists, turning his palms upward to inspect the cuts. "Look at your hands. You've spent a week ruining your hands on weeds, avoiding your duties to Ryder, and now you bring a stranger into the palace to mock us? Quit playing these childish games Ry."

"Grace speaks the truth. I'm Prince Simon of Eden," The man's, Simon's, voice rang out in the room from behind the divider.

"Quiet," Court snapped, not even trying to listen to what Grace or Simon were telling him. "You will be out of the palace by morning, or you'll be thrown in the dungeons for trespassing." Court turned back to his youngest brother, eyes cold. "Ryland, grow up. You're courtship with Prince Ryder is happening, whether you want it to or not. Stop chasing spirits in the woods."

The harsh words struck Grace like a physical blow. Warm tears blurred his vision as he turned and ran from the room. Court could be cruel at times, but he had never spoken to Grace like that.

Simon had heard everything and was trying to finish his bath when he heard Grace run. He rushed to get dressed, trying to catch up to Grace.

He ran through the main palace first, calling out for the youngest prince, not finding him there. He rushed to the doors to the garden, finding one of the doors open and rushed into the freezing rain, following after Grace to the one place he knew Grace would feel safe.

By the time Simon caught up to Grace, the youngest prince was a shivering, broken heap against the bare pedestal, weeping as the torrential rain battered the flowers into the mud.

"Hey," Simon breathed, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around the shivering prince. "I'm here. Look at me. I'm right here."

"You... you shouldn't have followed me. They're going to throw you in the dungeons" the younger prince gasped.

"Let them try," Simon muttered. He effortlessly scooped Grace up into his arms, cradling him tightly against his chest to share some of his warmth. "You spent a week keeping me clean and safe. Do you truly think I would leave you to freeze in the mud?"

Simon carried him all the way back to the palace, his fierce stride forcing the guards to step aside in stunned silence. He took Grace back to his room, stripped away his heavy, waterlogged cloak, and wrapped him in a mountain of thick, dry blankets.

Simon stoked the hearth until the fire crackled with a roaring heat, then sat on the edge of the mattress, pulling the shivering prince securely against his chest to help him warm up.

Grace, emotionally and physically exhausted, fell asleep in Simon's arms, shivering still from the cold.

An hour or so later, the door to Grace's room was opened by the oldest of the brothers. The harshness Court had earlier was gone, replaced by a heavy guilt. Court knew Grace didn't want to court Ryder, he didn't want Grace to court him either, but Erid needed the alliance. Court carried a dry blanket and some tea, hoping to apologize to Grace.

The words caught in Court's throat when he looked up from his hands. Simon sat perfectly still on the bed looking down at Grace. Simon holding Grace close as he slept, sharing body heat to hopefully stave off an illness.

The moment Simon heard the footsteps on the room's floor, he looked up from the prince in his arms, sending a glare Court's way, causing him to stop in his tracks.

"Stop right there. You've done enough for one night. Let him sleep." Simon warned, pulling Grace closer to him. Grace hummed and settled back, moving his face further into Simon's neck.

"I came to apologize, to both of you, for earlier. Ryland tends to let fantasy stories run and distract himself from his duties." Court tried to explain.

"He was heartbroken. The two people he thought would be in his corner, were not. He spoke the truth though. I am Prince Simon of Eden. Two centuries ago, I was betrothed to a woman from a neighboring kingdom. She was a witch and when I refused her, she cursed me. She turned me to stone and told my father that I would be a testament to all. My own arrogance was my downfall and until a heart loved me blindly enough to wash the stone, I would stay a statue."

Simon looked back down at Grace, his expression softening as he brushed a strand of hair off of Grace's forehead.

"And then Grace found me," Simon continued, gaze turning cold as it settled on Court. "He didn't know who I was or that I was a prince. He simply saw someone lonely. He bled for me, and his love broke a curse that an entire kingdom of mages couldn't break."

Court stared at the man and took him in. The way he carried himself, the way he spoke as if from a different time, and the royal energy he was giving off made reality hit. Court could almost feel the magic in the air as he slowly lowered the blanket.

"Oh my god, Ryland was right," Court whispered as he looked at Grace's face, still blissfully asleep. Court stood frozen for a long moment, the weight of his own foolishness heavy in the silent room. He looked at the ancient prince, then down at his little brother, who looked safer in this stranger's arms than he ever had within the grand, political walls of the palace.

Slowly, Court bowed his head, not just out of respect for another royal, but an apology to both of the men in front of him. He set the warm tea on the bedside table, quietly turned, and slipped out into the corridor, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a soft, final click.

Throughout the rest of the quiet night, Simon never closed his eyes. He stayed perfectly still, maintaining his tight, protective embrace to make sure Grace didn't get sick. He constantly adjusted the heavy blankets and laid a palm to the his forehead every hour to check for a fever. Thankfully, Grace's skin remained cool, his breathing deep and even, thoroughly protected from the biting chill of the rain.

As the morning sun finally spilled across the bed, Grace stirred, waking slowly as his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, and he let out a soft, contented sigh before his eyes blinked open.

For a disorienting second, he forgot where he was-until he looked up and met the warm, fiercely devoted gaze of the man resting against the headboard.

"You're still here," Grace whispered, a hesitant but radiant smile breaking across his face.

"I told you I wouldn't leave," Simon replied, his voice a low, gentle rumble as he brought a hand up, one of his thumbs tenderly traced Grace's cheekbone.

"One of your brothers came by last night. He apologized. He finally understands."

Grace sat up slightly, pushing back the blankets, his eyes wide with surprise. "He does? How? What did you tell him?"

Simon offered a soft, bittersweet smile, leaning forward so their foreheads gently touched. "I told him the truth. I told him about the witch, and my father's fallen kingdom of Eden. I told him about the curse that bound me to that stone for two centuries." He paused, his eyes locking onto the Grace's with absolute reverence.

"And I told him about the spell's final clause. The witch said a heart of stone could only be thawed by a soulmate; a heart that chose to love me blindly, without knowing who I was or what I could give in return. Your brothers call you foolish, my brave prince, but your pure heart did what an entire kingdom of mages never could."

The youngest prince stared at him, the heavy weight of the palace, the unwanted courtship, and his potential lifetime of loneliness completely evaporating in the morning light.

Logan’s woken up in alleyways, face down, with clothes torn from a brawl he instigated and the glass bottles he’d fallen onto. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, he wakes up slumped over a table in the back of a bar because the owner was too afraid to tell him to leave.

Afraid of his claws or just his name.

The buzz of alcohol never stays long, even with high proof liquor, but the tiredness of a fucked up life still lingers for awhile more after several bottles of booze.

So waking up exhausted isn’t new. It's about the only way he’s woken up for a long time.

And that’s what Logan expects, slowly coming back to consciousness.

Exhaustion. Some hard surface. Hopefully most of his clothes intact.

One eye begrudgingly cracks open.

Yup, definitely a little fucked up. His joints ache deep into the bone and his head is cotton-y.

But… Nothing feels hard or sharp beneath him. In fact, he feels… comfortable.

Huh.

Turning just a bit, he finds his face buried in softness. It smells lived in; skin, spilled food, a hint of… gunpowder? And, after a moment, he hears the soft sound of music- too quiet to be bar music but not muffled enough to be from a building he isn’t inside of.

Huh.

“Mmm.” Using his forearms, Logan props himself up just enough to leave the softness and get a look around him.

Not an alley. Not a bar. Not even a cheap, seedy motel.

A house- er, an apartment more likely. And he’s sprawled, a moment ago face down, on top of an old couch with a blanket over him and pillow under him. Neither the couch nor the general space is all that large, he’s practically spilling off the furniture, but everything feels warm and lived in. Home-y, if a little messy.

There isn’t anyone else here- the living room, a good guess- but noises, once he registers them, coming from an adjacent room says he isn’t alone. The soft music seems to filter through from there as well.

Logan flips himself over, a bit too groggy to be elegant about it, and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The feel of gritty grime on his face, more than he usually gets after a night drowning in alcohol, confuses him.

And then-

His head slumps back into the pillow and he groans. “Fucking hell.”

The TVA. The Time Ripper. The Void.

The red spandex-ed asshole who stole him from his timeline.

… Who, after everything, took him home, here, introduced him to his blind roommate- Althea, if he recalls- and offered him a place to stay and sleep for a while. And, vaguely remembering being too tired to shower, who also gave Logan some clothes to sleep in.

Groaning, only half heartedly after remembering the comforts offered and taken, Logan pulls back the blanket and, likey for the first time, actually checks to see what he’s wearing.

A gray, “I eat cement” T-shirt and blue, rubber duck shorts.

Yeah, that seems about right.

He huffs, but sits up to get his elbows onto his knees and scrub more of the sleep away from his face. Instant regret again. Both he and Wade- battle worn and disgusting- had forgone a shower in favor of just near instantly passing out. He is fucking gross; dirt, blood, and god knows what else covering him in a disgusting layer.

Logan feels a pang of shame for getting onto their couch with this much dirt and sweat coating him- maybe he can wash the blanket and pillowcase as an apology- but a clattering from the room with the music recatches his attention. The volume of whatever song is playing- a woman singing, pleasantly raspy- increases afterward.

Too interested to ignore whatever’s going on, Logan gets up to stand- with only a small groan, thank you- and, after a quick, satisfying stretch, slowly pads over to the doorway. Nothing outright sounds or feels dangerous, but from his experience and especially after the past few days, the need for caution can’t be shaken.

He must still not be fully awake, because the smell hits him only a few creeping steps from the doorway; pepper, eggs, something a bit burnt.

Food.

God, he didn’t realize how hungry he was until now. Even the burning smell is appetizing.

Popping his head in, the sight inside startles him awake completely.

With “I <3 hot dads” shorts, a red apron, and fucking crocs on his feet, Wade shifts around in front of the kitchen counter, swaying to the song he has playing from a radio somewhere. The place is a complete mess of egg shells and plates, but the table has a, rather large, plate of scrambled eggs, another plate of half burnt toast, and an assortment of other breakfast items. The smell of coffee also hangs in the air. And for the first time, maybe since knowing the man- and when he wasn’t unconscious- Wade is happily content not saying a word. He simply turns a toaster, with a fucking butter knife stuck into it, this way and that, and shakes it like he wants information from it.

It’s jarringly warm, and domestic.

Logan is again thrown for a moment.

When was the last time he woke up to clean clothes- even though he himself is gross as hell- the softness of a pillow, to the smell and sight of another person cooking breakfast in a kitchen?

Ever?

That sounds pathetically sad and incorrect, but in the doorway, watching it happen in real time, Logan feels lost and a bit raw.

Lucky for him though, Wade is still an annoying fuck and pulls him from his thoughts.

Like he sensed the presence of the other man half lingering in the doorway, Wade looks back at him and smiles wide. All bright teeth. No mask.

“Well, good morning Peanut! Did ya sleep well? I don't know about you but I think being torn apart and put back together finally got rid of the knot in my back. God, I slept like Al after she goes through waaay too many little baggies.” He motions over to the table with his chin. “I made some eggs and toast if you want. A true triumphant heroes’ breakfast! Hopefully you like them both a bit overdone. And there’s a pot of coffee over there.” He gestures to a machine on the counter now. “You can literally just drink from the pot if you want. Caffeine does not work on me, funnily enough. We don’t have creamer but there’s milk in the fridge and sugar next to the coffee maker…”

Wade goes on to babble about everything and nothing and, while Logan cannot count the number of times he’s wanted to stab the man for not shutting up, he can’t find the want to be actually irritated.

Not in the face of food, and coffee, and just… comfort.

Speaking of…

Logan clears the lump in his throat. “Thanks.” It’s all he can think to say, but he means it, even with the rough rumble of his morning voice.

Which Wade seems to find fascinating.

“Holy shit! How the fuck does your voice get even deeper? God, you would make a killing as a erotic audio book reader. Millions probably.” Wade flashes a flirtatious look before he turns back to the toaster and continues to mumble to himself, or perhaps the broken machine.

Logan huffs, but the call of coffee is stronger than his need for a comeback. The whole pot is grabbed per the offer, the sugar too, and now standing in front of the table he finds himself hesitating. No spots are occupied and nothing says ‘preferred seat’, but Logan can’t help but pause. ‘Make yourself at home’ feels like the unsaid, unfamiliar offer he can’t accept as easily as the coffee.

It feels too easy- another pathetic thought- and he can’t help but feel like he isn’t awake yet, and the reality of a cold, pavement bed will greet him if he gets too comfortable…

“Stupid fucking piece of metal crap!” Wade hisses, followed by the sound of the knife stabbing into the toaster.

Nope, probably not a dream. Logan is not a creative enough person to come up with something like this.

God, so just… sit, you fucking moron.

Picking a chair facing away from the toaster killer, Logan sets the coffee pot down- on a mat he also picked up, he isn’t an asshole- and settles in.

He feels awkward, like a kid at his first sleepover, but the eggs are there in front of him and his stomach is starting to growl. Awkwardness can wait until after a few bites, at least. There’s a lack of something important on the table though. After a quick glance around the plates and cups, and not finding anything, he looks over to Wade who seems to be completely brawling with the toaster now.

Wincing at the sight, and before he can rethink his decision, Logan clears the remaining sleep from his throat and uses that to draw the other man’s attention.

“Do uh, do you got a fork or somethin’?”

“Ah fuck, that’s what I forgot!” Wade sets, or slams really, the toaster down and moves over to a drawer, then rooting through it. “Didn’t run the dishwasher either and all the good forks are in it. Fuck…” He mumbles something else too, but lets out a triumphant ‘ha!’ when he pulls out two forks, one a little more bent than the other.

He skips, almost, over to Logan and presents the utensils. “Here you go Peanut, pick your favorite!”

Grabbing the more bent fork, Logan nods a silent thanks and begins slowly transferring eggs from the larger plate to one of the smaller, empty ones. Wade, satisfied with the choice, simply sets the other fork onto the table and goes back to the counter, and that damn toaster.

But before brawling again, he calls back, “Help yourself to as much as you want Babygirl! You deserve it for all your sexy hero work!”

Logan huffs again but grabs one of the toaster’s victims, once he’s gotten a fair amount of egg, and takes a bite of the slightly over cooked toast and just… enjoys.

The moment is pretty… nice.

Warm food. Morning sun from the window- god, he doesn’t even know that time it is. Wade isn’t quiet, hardly ever is, but he’s not overly inane or loud right now.

It’s all… good.

So… What does it?

An old memory, like deja vu, from another place and time with other people? The still lingering, ghostly sensation of his own body shredding and healing, just below his skin? Wade grumbling at the counter over the broken toaster, like a strange picture of domestic living?

It could be anything, everything.

But all he knows is that it’s twisting into something else. Something darker, and sharper, and cold.

Logan starts to tremble in his seat and the fork in his hand damn near snaps in his grip. The bite of food in his mouth tastes like blood- no, it is blood. He’s bitten into his tongue. His heart is racing, and something is tight in his chest, too tight and still tightening. Crushing.

Air isn’t breathable. His lungs won’t let it in.

Whatever stupid song is playing now is muffled by a white hot pulsing between his ears.

… He knows this.

Panic.

This is panic.

Of all the times to break, after days of one problem after another, pain after pain, this is when it happens? Now? While he’s sitting in Wade fucking Wilson’s kitchen, wearing his worn-soft clothes and eating at his table and listening to some soft song on the radio?

Yes, it is.

Pathetic.

Fucking pathetic.

He can’t focus anywhere anymore- it’s too much, too overwhelming, too fucking stupid to reason with- and burning nausea is creeping up his throat.

He’s spiraling. He’s breaking. And he can’t find the fight to beat himself out of it.

Perhaps that’s the reason he doesn’t hear the increasingly desperate ‘Logan?’s behind him or the quick footsteps moving towards the table.

He does startle, however, at a sudden touch to the side of his skull, making him gasp.

His claws gouge the surface of the table and knock over a half-filled water cup but, remarkably, they don’t thrust into the sudden presence pressing to his side.

It takes a good minute to process the situation, much slower than it usually takes him. But he feels the warmth of another person and the pressure of a hand on his head and his head is bent at an odd angle-

Wade, his mind breathes. This is his scent- gunpowder, spandex, and his own strange, unique smell. The touch to the back of his skull is his hand and the press to his cheek is the exposed skin below his shirt.

He’s cuddling him.

Uh-

And because it’s what he does best, Logan rages.

“The fuck are you doing?!” Logan snaps, and he yanks his head back from the other man’s grasp. Or, at least, he tries to.

“Eeeasy Peanut,” Wade hushes, not relinquishing Logan’s head. It's easy to forget the teasing, ridiculous man is incredibly strong. The battle lasts all of two seconds, and Wade’s stubbornness takes the victory. Logan’s cheek presses back to his hip and stays there under the weight of his hand.

“Easy, easy, easy…” Wade mumbles. He hesitates, only for a moment. “Vanessa did this… when shit got really bad.”

He’s quiet. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. The meaning and weight of the softly spoken words are enough.

There’s a growl starting to rumble in his chest and while he wants to fight against Wade harder- he doesn’t need sentimental crap or, god forbid, pity- Logan takes a breath just long enough to pause here in the moment, and let’s himself feel.

Wade’s hand is cradling his skull and his fingers are threaded through his hair. The weight of them is firm, but not crushing. No, they’re gentle. And they press his cheek and temple into Wade’s side, where the dip of his waist is. Even at the odd angle his neck is bent to, the shape of the dip fits to his face near perfectly and, if obliged to stay here, he would be comfortable. Wade’s body heat- much like his own, running high due to constant cellular regeneration- seeps into him. Into his skin, and then his flesh, and then his bones, settling deep into his chest.

All of it, it… helps.

The revelation startles Logan.

The weight and solidness of Wade is grounding; constant, steady pressure. His warmth slowly relaxes the painful tightness behind Logan’s ribs. Even his smell- showered now, likely before he started cooking, still strange but not unbearable- settles his mind just because it’s there.

Wade… is anchoring him.

Maybe he really should fight this harder, or be annoyed at the coddling, or pissed just because he’s being handled at all, but Logan can’t keep a grip on any of the feelings. He can’t stop the calm that pulls him in and brings him down. It’s so- He’s feels so-

…

… When was the last time he was held?

Not fucked by nameless faces, or hanging on to another person for dear life, or punch near through the stomach- Held.

Was it before- God does it hurt.

… Was it before, when he had his fellow mutant friends and family? Before that?

After?… Definitely not.

Warmth, gentleness, nothing of the kind was what he deserved afterwards. He could never reward himself with something he never showed, and no one offered it to him regardless.

Logan shudders, his breath likely teasing Wade’s skin but, if the other man feels it, he blissfully leaves the fact be.

Wade- warm, solid, annoying as hell Wade- who breaks his train of thought, unaware of it. “Better right? When Vanessa first did this, waaay back in the storyline, I fucking melted like a kid’s ice cream. It’s like the guilty, trauma victim’s morphine.” He pauses, and there’s a grin to his words now. “I also ate her out that first time, but we can wait to do that until the second mental breakdown session, Babygirl.”

Yup. There it is. Asshole.

But Logan just, non-committedly hums, although it's more of a grumble. Yeah, Wade will probably be insufferable after this, smug and a whole new level of too comfortable touching him, but right now, right here, he’s calming.

He’s- something Logan can’t quite name. Or at least, he’s unwilling to.

Call Logan weak, call him pathetic- because he truthfully is, just below the storm in his skin- and like hell does he actually deserve this, but he’s gonna savor it for as long as he possibly can.

Seconds pass, or maybe hours, and the gentle massage of Wade’s fingertips to his scalp continues during it before his hand slides away from Logan’s hair onto his shoulder.

The loss of that contact against his head is disappointing-a private thought- but when Wade shifts like he’s about to move away the disappointment quickly morphs into panic.

He isn’t ready to let go.

He isn’t ready for Wade to leave.

With pure, unthinking action, Logan latches onto the fabric of Wade’s shorts just below the hip he isn’t leaning against. He fists the material into a ball, like he’s afraid the other man will just disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

Like he really is going to wake up, and be alone again with only the memory of coffee and warmth.

Embarrassment quickly reddens his face once he understands what he’s done but, instead of releasing Wade, Logan turns his face into his hip to hide. Clenching his eyes shut for extra precaution.

Weak. Pathetic.

Wade is quiet, his hand hovering above Logan’s shoulder after it was started off but, just as Logan is about to relinquish his hold of the man- he can't bear the unnerving stillness of him- Wade surprises him again.

Quick but gentle, Wade cups the back of Logan’s head and neck, turns ever so slightly to the side, and presses Logan’s forehead to the cushion of his stomach. And just lets the other man stay against him, as he rubs his head and shoulders.

Logan cries a small sound he’s never heard himself make before- something wounded, and relieved, and ragged- but he can’t be bothered to care. Not right now. He releases his death hold on Wade’s shorts and wraps his arms around the other man’s thighs, as flush against him as he can be in their current positions. His hold might be too tight, edging on painful most likely, but Wade doesn’t complain. Doesn’t do anything except this… hold him.

Thank you, thank you, thank you…

“Of course, big guy. Whatever you need.”

Ah, he said that out loud.

… He’ll care about that later. Logan will be pissed, and embarrassed, and in denial at some point, but it’ll all be later. When Wade isn’t cradling him or murmuring soft words. When he isn’t cooking warm food or listening to music on the radio.

When he isn’t making him feel like, for the first time in a long time, he’s allowed to have kindness.

Xenia; noun—they say every stranger is a god in disguise. You open your door, offer them warmth, and the walls remember your courage — or your fear. To turn them away is to invite the wrath of invisible eyes. Hospitality becomes a prayer, a ritual, a test of what survives when the world watches in silence.

Night fell softly in Oakhurst, the way a hymn faded when no one remembered the words.

The candle flickered against the pale walls of Abolish’s small room, throwing dancing shadows across the furniture, the edge of the bed, the wooden floor worn smooth from years of use. He knelt there, at the very edge, legs tucked neatly beneath him, back straight, palms pressed to his knees. The rosary slid silently between his fingers, each bead traced with care, the silver cross catching the dim light every few moments as he murmured the familiar lines.

“Forgive me, Father… for my sins… for my weakness… for my desires…”

He always started the same way. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, because the foot of the mattress was his altar, his small sanctuary in the room that belonged entirely to him. The cross earrings he wore brushed lightly against his jaw every time he bowed his head. The candle’s flame danced as if it were listening, trembling in the quiet room, and Abolish closed his eyes against the intrusion of thought, against the pull of the world outside.

His prayers were methodical, a ritual repeated with care, not because he believed in a watching God anymore, He had left Abolish a while ago, but because it anchored him to the person he thought he had to be—the pure, obedient child who had survived too many rules, too many accusations of being “marked.”

The rosary wound around his hand like something living, each bead catching the low lamplight. He always prayed at this hour, between the turning of the clock and the shivering of the streetlamps outside. He told himself it was habit. In truth, it was fear—fear that if he stopped, someone might notice.

The words came easily, even when they didn’t feel real. Deliver us from evil. He knew them by muscle memory, the way a wound remembers how to ache.

He still crossed himself before sleep. He still kissed the crucifix that hung from his nightstand, chipped and dulled where his thumb rubbed the silver away. He still whispered the names of saints who had never once looked his way.

And though the candle beside him trembled in its glass, he did not. He’d grown used to the trembling of things around him—the town, the air, his faith.

There were beauty marks scattered across his skin, moles and freckles, the kind that once made the children at the orphanage whisper that the devil had touched him too many times. Sister Maeve used to scold them for it, but she never denied it, either. God leaves his chosen untouched, she’d said once, not looking at him when she did.

He had learned to pray harder after that.

The small window above his bed looked out over the main street—empty now, except for the faint mist curling low around the lampposts. Sometimes, he thought he saw figures moving in it, shapes too tall or too still. He told himself not to look twice.

He breathed. Counted the beats between each word. In. Hail Mary. Out. Full of grace.

The beads clicked against each other like tiny teeth.

A soft sound interrupted him—not loud, but strange in its place. A knock.

It wasn’t a neighborly knock. Three slow taps, spaced apart. As if whoever stood outside already knew the door would open.

Abolish froze, his hand tightening around the rosary until the cross dug into his palm. No one visited him this late. No one from town, at least.

The candle flickered, guttered.

Another knock.

This time, the sound seemed to breathe through the wood.

The third knock never came.

Only the hush after—thick and humming, like the air before a storm. Abolish stood, breath caught in his chest, the room bending under the weight of its own silence. When he crossed to the door, the wood groaned, and his shadow tilted along the wall like something trying to flee before him.

The handle was cold. Not winter-cold. Tomb-cold.

He opened the door.

Pyro stood there, framed in the fog.

He looked like they’d stepped out of one of the church paintings—the kind with saints carved too pretty for what they’d suffered. His hair was ivory, damp from the rain, strands sticking to their forehead; a few curls caught the light and gleamed like burnished wire. His skin was pale but not lifeless, a kind of moonlit pallor that made every vein, every shadow under his eyes, something deliberate. His mouth was the only warm thing about him—soft, parted, the color of bruised fruit.

He wore black, always black, but it wasn’t the polished black of mourning clothes. This was road-dust black, threadbare at the seams, the collar loosened like he’d been running from something. A golden clasp caught the light at his throat—simple, tarnished, shaped like a flame. The coat hung off his shoulders like it wasn’t quite his, and still he made it look regal.

Abolish didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until his chest hurt.

“Hey,” Pyro said quietly. His voice wasn’t smooth—it dragged, rough with smoke and late hours.

The sound of him did something awful and familiar to Abolish. Like being a child again, sitting in pews too tight around the ribs, hearing hymns that promised love but warned what it cost.

He couldn’t look at him for long. When he did, all the edges in the room blurred.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, the words brittle. “If they see—”

“They won’t,” Pyro cut in, simple, certain. He stepped forward, and the air moved—not heat, but something pretending to be it. A soft pulse that brushed Abolish’s skin as he passed. The scent that followed was strange: iron, rain, and a sweetness that didn’t belong to the living.

“Your candle’s almost out,” Pyro said. He nodded toward the desk. “You’ll go blind sittin’ in the dark like that.”

Abolish’s fingers tightened around the rosary. “Maybe that’s better,” he said.

Pyro’s smile was small. “You never did like seeing me.”

He said it lightly, but it hit like confession.

The lamplight trembled, threw gold across his cheekbones, caught the edge of his lashes—unfair, the way light seemed to worship him. His eyes weren’t red, not really; more a deep rusted brown that sometimes caught the light wrong and turned the color of a wound. When he blinked, Abolish thought he saw a glint, a flicker of something hungry.

“Don’t,” Abolish murmured, stepping back.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make it sound like it’s nothing.”

Pyro tilted his head, and for a moment his expression softened—something kind, almost human. “I never said it was nothing.”

The words sank slow into him.

He wanted to tell him to go, to shut the door and pray until his knees bled, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. The silence stretched between them, warm and dangerous, full of things neither had language for.

The candle finally guttered out. Smoke curled through the room like a sigh.

In the dim light, Pyro’s face looked almost unreal—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint mark at his throat that could’ve been a scar or a vein. He was beautiful in that cruel way things were when they weren’t meant to last: a statue that would crumble if touched, a star that burned too fast.

Abolish thought of every sermon that said beauty was a test, temptation dressed as grace. Then why does it feel like mercy?

Pyro moved closer. Close enough that Abolish could feel the ghost of breath that wasn’t there. His hand came up, fingers cold, brushing a strand of hair away from Abolish’s face.

“Still praying?” he asked softly.

Abolish’s voice caught. “Trying to.”

Pyro’s mouth tilted, not quite a smile. “Then pray for me too.”

The rosary slipped from his hand. Beads scattered, sharp against the floorboards, echoing in the silence that followed.

Abolish didn’t move for a long moment after the beads fell. The quiet felt thick enough to drown in. Pyro had stepped back, but not far—just enough that the air between them stayed alive, trembling with the heat of something that shouldn’t exist between the living and the dead.

Then Pyro’s voice, lower this time: “Can I come in?”

It wasn’t a question so much as a confession, or maybe a curse he’d said too many times before. Abolish looked up, pulse stuttering. There, in the doorway, the threshold seemed to glow faintly with something ancient, something that waited for permission.

Abolish didn’t answer right away. He only nodded, once—small, deliberate.

Pyro stepped forward. The air shifted. Something unseen, heavy and cold, uncoiled from the doorway as if the house itself exhaled.

Then, as if to fill the silence with anything else, Abolish cleared his throat. “Tea?”

The word sounded strange, too fragile to hold all the things behind it. It wasn’t really a question. It was habit, reflex—a reach towards something safe, something human.

Pyro’s mouth twitched, and for an instant, Abolish thought he might laugh. But he didn’t. He only nodded once, slow. “Yeah. Tea’d be good.”

They both knew it was a lie.

Abolish turned away, grateful for the excuse to move. The floorboards creaked under his feet; the lamp hissed faintly as he passed. The small kettle on the stove was already half-filled from earlier—he’d meant to make tea after prayer, when the world felt too quiet. He poured the water, his hands trembling just enough to make it spill over the rim.

Behind him, Pyro didn’t speak. The sound of them was in the space—the faint rustle of his coat, the way the room seemed smaller around them.

“You know,” Abolish said, keeping his eyes on the kettle, “most people knock during the day.”

“Day’s not really my thing,” Pyro said. His tone was easy, but the corners of it frayed. “Thought you’d know that by now.”

Steam began to rise, a thin curl that fogged the window. The glass shuddered faintly from the wind outside.

“I shouldn’t have opened the door.”

“No you shouldn't' have.”

“Then why’d you come?”

A pause. “Didn’t feel like being alone.”

The kettle whined softly, and Abolish turned it down before it screamed. He reached for the chipped cups stacked by the sink, hands working automatically—muscle memory from years of making things for people who didn’t stay. When he turned back, Pyro had drifted nearer, the faintest distance closing without sound.

Under the yellow light, he looked almost warm. Almost. His eyes caught the glow, bright red now, rimmed in that impossible black. They should’ve been frightening. They weren’t. They looked tired.

Abolish set the cups down on the table. “Sugar?”

Pyro shook his head. “Doesn’t make a difference.”

He poured anyway. The tea was weak, the color of old brass. He set one cup in front of Pyro, who watched the steam rise with a strange, almost reverent focus—as if he missed the way warmth felt when it came from within.

Abolish sat opposite him. The table between them was narrow, scarred from years of use. The air smelled of wet earth and cheap leaves steeped too long.

“You ever miss it?” Abolish asked suddenly.

Pyro looked up. “What?”

“Warmth.”

The question hung there, heavy as incense.

For a second, Pyro didn’t answer. Then his mouth softened, not into a smile, but something quieter. “Sometimes. But it’s easier not to think about it.”

Abolish nodded, though he didn’t know why. He watched the tea tremble in his own hands, the ripple of his pulse in the liquid. He wished, absurdly, that Pyro would drink it. Just to see if something human might flicker back into him.

Slowly he tilted his head, in remorse and prayer. The words found his lips without thought—a rhythm older than him, worn soft by repetition. Bless us, O Lord, and forgive what we take without worth. For what we receive, and for what we ruin, have mercy.

He didn’t know if he was blessing the tea, or himself, or the strange company he kept.

Pyro didn’t bend their head. He just wrapped his hands around the cup—pretending, maybe—and said, “You still pray before every meal?”

Abolish hesitated. “Only when I think they’re watching.”

Pyro’s eyes flicked up, and for the first time that night, they smiled. Not mockery, not pity—something small, understanding, almost fond.

Outside, the rain started again, gentle against the window.

The tea steamed between them. Neither drank.

The rain had softened into mist by the time their tea went cold. The window glass fogged with their breath, though only one of them breathed at all. The candle had burned low enough that the wick hissed and curled into itself, throwing faint halos of smoke that lingered above the table.

Neither spoke. The kind of silence they sat in wasn’t heavy—it was delicate, balanced. A stillness that asked not to be broken.

Abolish traced the rim of his cup, feeling the faint tremor in his hand. Pyro’s eyes followed the motion, unblinking. Every so often, the light caught in them, the brown and rust bleeding into gold. They looked almost human like that.

Forgive me, Father, for I have wants.

“You should... go,” Abolish said finally, though it came out soft, like a hope instead of a warning.

Pyro’s lips curved faintly. “You always say that.”

“And you never listen.”

“No.” A pause. “Guess I don’t.”

The air between them shifted—quiet, trembling, something almost alive. Abolish didn’t look away this time. He let himself see Pyro fully: the faint damp in his hair, the collar of their coat turned inward where the thread was unraveling, the shape of their mouth—too kind for something damned.

He told himself that beauty was temptation, that the devil wore faces like this to test the faithful. But in that dim, flickering light, it didn’t feel like sin. It felt like grace. Misunderstood and reverent. Like kneeling before a relic no one else worshipped.

Pyro reached out, slow enough that Abolish could have moved away. He didn’t.

The cold of their fingers brushed over Abolish’s wrist, then rested there—not gripping, just holding. As if he needed to confirm that warmth was real, that there was still blood moving underneath the skin. Abolish turned his hand over so their palms met, skin against skin, a small, impossible exchange of heat.

Deliver me from this want.

The tea on the table went still.

“You shouldn’t touch me,” Abolish said. It wasn’t a reprimand. It was almost a plea.

“I know.”

“I’m unholy.”

“So am I.”

He could have pulled away. He didn’t.

The candle guttered again, flame bowing in the draft that slipped through the window frame. The shadows bent closer around them, the room shrinking down to the two of them and the faint sound of rain against glass.

When Pyro finally moved, it wasn’t sudden. His hand slipped upward, tracing the line of Abolish’s sleeve, then the edge of his jaw. The touch was light enough that it might not have been real.

Abolish’s breath caught—not from fear, but the strange recognition of being seen. The kind that pressed into him until he felt transparent.

“Why do you keep coming here?” he whispered.

Pyro’s thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, a ghost of a smile tugging there. “Because you still open the door.”

Abolish almost laughed. It came out quieter than that—more of an exhale, heavy with everything he couldn’t name.

Lead us not into temptation. His lips parted all the same.

He didn’t notice when Pyro leaned in, only that suddenly there was less distance between them. That he could smell the way their hair smelled faintly of smoke and rain.

Abolish’s hands trembled slightly as he brushed a stray curl from Pyro’s forehead. The contact was electric and quiet all at once—the sort of spark that didn’t shout, but sang in his veins.

Pyro’s gaze dropped to Abolish’s lips, slow and deliberate. “You shouldn’t,” he murmured, voice low and even, almost teasing, almost a warning.

“I know,” Abolish whispered back, words barely there. But I can’t move.

For a heartbeat, Pyro’s hand rested lightly on Abolish’s jaw, cool and impossibly soft. Then he tilted his head, just enough for the smallest brush of lips, a question and a confession in one. Abolish’s breath hitched.

“Pyro—” he began, but the word dissolved into nothing when Pyro leaned in fully, closing the gap with deliberate patience. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, almost a whisper of contact, a slow test of closeness.

Abolish felt the contrast instantly: Pyro’s lips cold, his skin pale, and yet somehow warm in the weight of intention. Every second stretched; the room shrank until it was only them, only this moment, the scent of rain and iron and something unplaceable clinging to Pyro like a halo of danger.

He tried to pull back—a reflex, a whisper of fear—but Pyro’s hand followed, brushing down the side of his face, anchoring him. “Don’t,” Pyro murmured, not harshly, just a soft plea, the tiniest edge of insistence. “Please..”

Abolish stayed.

The kiss deepened slowly, deliberately, neither hurried nor desperate. Pyro pressed a careful, almost reverent trail along his lips, brushing against the corners, the crease of his mouth. A faint sting bloomed where Pyro’s teeth had grazed him—a small nick on his lower lip, accidental maybe. He tasted faint iron, and his chest tightened in the most complicated way, guilt and longing knotted together.

Forgive me, Father, for this desire…

But the prayer felt absurd here, swallowed up in the warmth and cold of Pyro’s presence.

Pyro pulled back just enough to let their foreheads rest together, the faintest pressure, just enough for warmth to bloom where their skin met, breaths mingling, the smallest shiver of shared heartbeat between them. “Are you all right?” Pyro asked softly, the red of his eyes flickering like embers in the dim light.

“I… I think so,” Abolish said, voice raw, almost reverent. His hands found Pyro’s shoulders, lingering, memorizing the shape, the warmth that shouldn’t exist in someone who was not meant to be warm.

Pyro’s lips brushed his again, just a light press this time, slow, insistently tender. “I could stay like this,” they whispered. “If you want me to.”

Abolish closed his eyes, letting the guilt, the longing, the beauty of the moment wash over him. He didn’t know if it was mercy or sin anymore. He only knew that he wanted it, and that Pyro was still there, still holding him, still himself.

And that was enough.

For one wild, aching second, Abolish thought: If this is sin, then let me burn quietly.

When they broke apart, they stayed close. Abolish’s hand rested against the collar of Pyro’s coat, fingers curled around the worn fabric. Pyro’s forehead leaned against his temple, unmoving. The sound of their breathing—one steady, one nonexistent—filled the space like a hymn half-remembered.

“Don’t pray for me,” Pyro murmured.

“I already did.”

A small smile ghosted across Pyro’s mouth. “Then don't pray for yourself.”

The words struck somewhere deep. Abolish wanted to say that he already had—that he’d prayed himself hollow, that every whispered Our Father felt more like an apology for wanting to be loved by anyone at all.

But he didn’t speak.

The rain picked up again, steady and soft.

They didn’t move after that. The candle burned itself out, leaving only the faint glow from the streetlamps seeping through the fogged glass. Pyro’s hand stayed over Abolish’s, cold and still, until dawn began to silver the edges of the curtains.

The heat between you and Price didn’t dissipate; it thickened, coiling tighter with every deliberate movement of his hands. He guided yours again, pressing your palm over his chest. His fingers wrapped around yours like a cage, and your body betrayed you, shivering against him despite yourself.

“You’re trembling again,” he murmured, a low growl that vibrated through his chest and into yours. “Do you even realize how much you give away?”

“I… I can’t help it,” you whispered, breath hitching as his thumb traced small, torturous circles over your hand.

“Of course you can’t,” he said, smirking, his grip tightening slightly. The difference in your size made you feel almost fragile under his hold, and yet you craved the weight, the dominance, the control. “You like this, don’t you? Feeling… overpowered?”

“Yes,” you admitted, voice barely more than a moan. The word left your lips as though it had been waiting there for him to pull it out.

He chuckled low, a sound that made your spine shiver. “Good girl.”

His hands didn’t stop. One slid down to your hip, pressing you against him, guiding, correcting. The other stayed on yours, keeping you trapped in his claim. You could feel the sheer weight of him, the dominance he radiated, and every inch of you responded, desperate, needy.

“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face. “So small, so aware of every inch of me… so fucking perfect.”

A sharp smack landed on your backside. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your body arch into him. Heat pooled low in your stomach, and you couldn’t stop the shiver, the gasp, the subtle moan that escaped.

“Price…” you breathed, trembling.

“Yes?” His lips were near your ear now, whispering words that made your skin crawl in anticipation.

“I… can’t… I need…”

“You need me,” he said, finishing your sentence. His smirk was slow, deliberate, predatory. “Exactly. That’s all you need. My hands. My control. My dominance.”

“Yes,” you breathed again, shivering under him. “I… need you.”

He let out a satisfied hum, hand sliding over the curve of your hip, pressing, claiming, teasing. His fingers grazed the sensitive line of your waist, lingering, drawing shivers from you you didn’t know were possible.

“You belong to me,” he murmured, pressing his chest against yours, letting the heat of his body radiate into you. “Every shiver, every gasp, every trembling finger… all mine.”

“Yes…” you whispered, voice breaking under the weight of his presence.

He chuckled, low and dangerous, a sound that reverberated through the air and through your bones. His hands guided yours again, trapping them over his chest, twisting, curling, pressing. You were helpless under him, aware of your own smallness, your own vulnerability. And God, you loved it.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, thumb brushing over your palm in slow, deliberate circles. “That’s me. All of me. Taking what I want.”

“Yes…” you breathed, shivering, arching into him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing his palm harder into yours. “My hands… my control… that’s what you crave, isn’t it?”

“I do,” you admitted, your voice shaking with need. “I crave it.”

“Exactly,” he said, his fingers tightening around your wrist, keeping you trapped in his claim. “So small… so fragile… so… deliciously yours.”

He pressed a hand to your throat lightly, just enough to make your pulse hammer, just enough to claim, just enough to remind you of who held the power. You didn’t fear it — you needed it.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Yes,” you whispered, shivering. “Yours…”

The spanking continued, deliberate, slow, teasing. Every smack left a trail of fire across your skin. Every touch, every grip, every whisper pushed you closer to the edge of need and madness. You could feel yourself melting under him, under his hands, under his control.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, voice low, dangerous, teasing. “Every inch of you responds to me. Every gasp, every shiver… mine.”

“Yes,” you whispered again, heat pooling low in your stomach, spine tingling, fingers trembling.

“Good girl,” he said, smirk curling on his lips. His hand slid along your side, down to your hip, pressing firmly, correcting, guiding. You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to. The tension between you was unbearable, delicious, consuming.

The air in the room was thick, heavy with tension and heat. Price’s hands were everywhere — on your wrists, your hips, the small of your back — guiding, claiming, correcting. You felt like molten wax under him, soft, pliable, entirely his.

“Look at you,” he murmured, low, dangerous. “So small… trembling… so aware of every inch of me. You belong to me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your throat tight, body quivering at his nearness.

He didn’t smile — not yet. Instead, he pressed a palm to your throat, light, teasing, just enough to make your pulse race. You gasped, and his smirk curled.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Feel my control. Feel how easily I can take over.”

Your hands, trapped in his, twitched instinctively. His fingers curled over yours, holding, guiding, dominating. Every nerve ending in your body was alive, every shiver a testament to his power.

“Hands,” he said, voice low, commanding. “You like my hands, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I… need them.”

“Good,” he said, and suddenly his other hand moved, firm and deliberate, landing across the curve of your backside. The smack echoed, sharp and hot, and your knees buckled slightly. Another smack followed, harder, and a low moan escaped your lips despite your best effort to stay composed.

“You respond too easily,” he murmured, pressing you against him, fingers digging into your hips. “Every touch, every smack… you crave it. Don’t lie.”

“I… do,” you breathed, shivering under his control.

His palm slid down your side, teasing, testing, pressing against the curve of your hip, then back up to trap your hand over his chest again. His grip on your wrist tightened slightly, just enough to make you gasp. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Feel it. Every inch of you responding to me. My hands, my control… mine.”

A sharp slap landed across your other cheek, and heat flared instantly. Your lips parted in surprise and pleasure, a shiver running down your spine.

“You like that, don’t you?” he asked, fingers brushing over your jaw, thumb grazing over your lips. “My hands… my power… taking you apart without touching everything I want to yet.”

“Yes…” you whispered, voice trembling, pulse hammering. “I… like it.”

“Good girl,” he said, leaning closer, letting his chest press to yours. The difference in size between you made every inch of his presence suffocating, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.

His grip on your wrists lifted slightly, letting you feel the weight of his hand move along yours. His fingers curled around yours, holding, claiming, guiding. He twisted your fingers deliberately, pressing your palm against his chest in a way that made you shiver, every nerve on fire.

“Hands,” he murmured again. “They tell me everything… how you feel… how you react… how completely mine you are.”

“Yes,” you breathed, shivering, heat pooling low, knees trembling. “Yours…”

“Good,” he said, voice rough, satisfied. And then, without warning, his other hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers gripping lightly. You gasped at the sudden pressure, the firm claim, the subtle but deliberate choking that made your pulse race and your body melt into him.

“You feel that?” he murmured, pressing just enough to take your breath for a second, to remind you who controlled the air you breathed. “That’s me… you’re mine. Every gasp, every shiver… every flutter of your pulse is mine.”

“Yes…” you whispered, voice broken. “Mine…”

A series of firm smacks landed across your backside, each one deliberate, marking you with heat and tension. You arched into him, helpless under his hands, trembling, moaning, entirely consumed by his dominance.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured, hand moving to your waist, pressing, twisting, guiding. “Every touch, every slap, every hold… makes you ache, makes you burn, makes you mine.”

“Yes,” you breathed, shivering, heat pooling impossibly low, body trembling under him.

His other hand returned to your face, fingers brushing over your jaw, then cupping your cheek. He tilted your head back slightly, thumb brushing over your lips. “You like my hands, don’t you? Every finger, every touch… making you shiver, making you yours.”

“Yes… I need them,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I… need you.”

“That’s it,” he murmured, pressing the palm of his hand to your throat again lightly, making your pulse hammer. “Every shiver, every gasp, every trembling finger… mine. Mine to command, mine to own, mine to claim.”

Your breath hitched as he pressed your hands over his chest again, fingers curling around yours, trapping them in his grip. His thumb traced small circles over your palm, deliberate, teasing, holding, marking. You couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could only shiver under him.

“Feel it,” he whispered. “Every inch of you responding to me… mine. Your skin, your pulse, your breath… all mine.”

“Yes… mine…” you whispered, shivering, trembling, heat pooling impossibly low.

He pressed firmly against your hip, then back down to trap your hands once more. “Good girl,” he murmured. “So small… so fragile… so fucking mine.”

And in that moment, every sense, every nerve, every shiver, every gasp told you exactly what you were: entirely his.

You couldn’t breathe normally. Not with him this close, not with his hands claiming yours, your hips, your throat. Every touch was deliberate, controlled, suffocating in the best way, and every nerve in your body sang under him.

Price leaned closer, fingers trailing over your spine, pressing your chest against his in a way that made your stomach twist and pulse with need. He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against you.

“You feel that?” he murmured, hand moving up to trap your jaw gently. “Every inch of you alive under me… trembling… begging.”

“Yes…” you whispered, your voice small, quivering. “I… I’m yours.”

“That’s right,” he said, low, commanding. His fingers pressed lightly into your throat, just enough to make your pulse hammer, just enough to claim. You gasped involuntarily, tilting your head back. He smirked. “Good girl. Feel my control… every breath, every gasp, every shiver… mine.”

His other hand didn’t stay idle. It slid down to your hips again, firm and heavy, pressing, twisting, marking. And then — a sharp smack landed on your backside. You gasped, hips pressing back instinctively, shivering under him.

“Responding too well,” he murmured, pressing you harder against him. “Every smack, every touch… you crave it, don’t lie.”

“I… do,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I… need it… need you.”

“That’s right,” he said, letting out a low, satisfied hum. His hands roamed freely now, one still cupping your throat lightly, the other guiding your fingers, holding them in place over his chest. He twisted your hand gently, thumb brushing over your palm in slow, deliberate circles, teasing, marking, claiming.

“You like my hands, don’t you?” he asked, voice low, predatory.

“Yes… oh God… I… need them,” you moaned softly, shivering, every fiber of your body alive under him.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing another smack across your backside. “So fragile… so responsive… so fucking mine.”

He let go of your wrist briefly to press both his hands against your shoulders, pushing you lightly down, making your chest rise and fall under the pressure. His size difference was overwhelming — every inch of his weight, every muscle, every deliberate movement pressed dominance into you, and you ached for it, quivering in response.

“You feel that, don’t you?” he asked, pressing one hand lightly to your throat again. “Every gasp, every shiver… mine. Completely mine.”

“Yes…” you whispered, voice breaking. “Mine…”

He let out a low growl, smirking as he lightly pushed your head back with one hand, thumb brushing over your jaw. “So small… so delicate… perfect under me.”

A series of sharp smacks rained down on your backside, each one deliberate, each one leaving fire across your skin. You moaned, gasping, every nerve alive, every movement of your body betraying the ache, the tension, the need he had awakened in you.

“You love this, don’t you?” he murmured, pressing his hand against the small of your back, guiding your hips, twisting, teasing. “The control… the dominance… the spanking… all of it…”

“Yes… yes…” you moaned, shivering. “I… I love it… need it…”

His hand moved from your back to your hip, pressing firmly, guiding, twisting, correcting. His fingers trailed over your waistline, brushing against your skin, marking, claiming, teasing. And then — his other hand returned to your throat lightly, just enough to remind you who was in control, who owned every shiver, every breath, every inch of your body.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, pressing closer. “All of you… every gasp, every shiver… all mine.”

“Yes… I’m yours…” you whispered, trembling, hips arching instinctively under him.

He let out a low chuckle, smacking your backside again, hand lingering on the curve of your hip. “Good girl. So responsive… so fragile… so perfect under me.”

Then his hands were back on yours, holding, twisting, pressing your fingers over his chest. His thumb traced small circles over your palm, slow, deliberate, teasing. Every nerve in your body was on fire under his touch, and you couldn’t stop trembling, gasping, moaning, desperate for him.

“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing against your ear. “My control… my dominance… my hands… every inch of you alive under me… mine.”

“Yes… oh God… mine…” you whispered, voice trembling.

He pressed another smack across your backside, and then gently pushed your head back with one hand, thumb brushing over your lips. “My hands,” he whispered. “Every finger… every touch… claiming you… marking you… teaching you what it means to be mine.”

You shivered, gasping, hips arching. His presence, his control, his hands… everything about him had you melting, trembling, desperate.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing one hand to your throat, the other pressing your fingers flat over his chest again. “So small… so fragile… so perfectly mine.”

Your breaths came in short, shivering gasps. Heat pooled low, spine tingling, pulse hammering. Every smack, every grip, every deliberate touch of his hand left you desperate, trembling, entirely his.

“Yes… yours… I’m yours…” you whispered, voice breaking under the intensity, body quivering under his domination.

He chuckled low, satisfied, pressing closer. “That’s right. Mine… every shiver, every gasp, every inch of your skin… mine to command, mine to claim, mine to own.”

And in that moment, under his hands, under his smacks, under his grip on your throat and fingers, under his dominance… you were his.

You were trembling, heat pooling low, pulse hammering as Price’s hands continued their relentless claim. One hand cupped your throat lightly, just enough to press control into every gasp, every shiver. The other tangled with yours, holding, twisting, pressing, teasing, marking.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, low and dangerous, voice vibrating through you. “Do you feel how small you are in my hands? How easy it is to take control?”

“Yes,” you whispered, hips arching instinctively. “I… I can’t help it.”

“Good,” he said, smirking. His hand slid down your side to the curve of your hip, pressing firmly, twisting, guiding. Then, without warning, a sharp smack landed across your backside. Heat flared instantly. You gasped, pressing back against him, shivering under the delicious sting.

“Respond too well,” he murmured, pressing closer, chest against yours. “Every touch… every smack… every shiver… you crave it. Don’t lie.”

“I… I do…” you breathed, voice trembling. “I… need it…”

“That’s right,” he murmured, pressing his palm again over your backside, firm, deliberate. Another smack, and your back arched, heat pooling hotter, every nerve alight. “So responsive… so fragile… so fucking mine.”

His fingers curled around your wrist again, trapping your hand against his chest, holding it in place. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over your palm, over the soft skin, teasing, claiming. Every movement made you shiver uncontrollably.

“You like my hands,” he murmured, lips brushing against your ear. “Every finger… every grip… every twist… marking you… owning you.”

“Yes…” you whispered, shivering. “I… need them… need you.”

A low growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating into your spine. His other hand moved to the back of your neck, pressing lightly, fingers curling, teasing, claiming. You gasped at the sensation, pulse hammering as your head tilted back. The teasing pressure made you flush, shivering, completely at his mercy.

“Do you feel that?” he whispered, thumb brushing over your jaw. “That’s me… just my hand… and you’re already undone. Mine.”

“Yes… mine…” you breathed, hips arching, spine tingling, every nerve alive.

Another series of smacks landed across your backside, sharp, deliberate. Heat flared with every impact, making you gasp, shiver, moan. Your body betrayed you, responding fully to his control, craving more, desperate for more of his dominance.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing one hand firmly against your throat again, thumb tracing circles on your skin. “Every gasp, every shiver… mine to command.”

“Yes… oh God… mine…” you whispered, trembling.

His grip on your wrists twisted them slightly, pressing your fingers flat over his chest, thumb moving in teasing, circular patterns. He held you like this, trapped, small, completely at his mercy, and you felt your pulse spike again.

“Hands,” he murmured, pressing his thumb over the sensitive line of your palm. “Every finger, every movement… tells me everything. Every shiver, every gasp, every tiny reaction… mine.”

“Yes…” you whispered, heat pooling, knees trembling, spine alight. “All… all yours…”

“Exactly,” he said, pressing another smack to your backside. “So fragile… so responsive… so fucking perfect under me. Do you understand?”

“Yes…” you whispered, voice breaking under the tension. “I… understand…”

His hands didn’t stop. One hand pressed to your throat, thumb brushing your jaw. The other guided your wrist again, trapping your palm against his chest. His fingers curled around yours, twisting, teasing, pressing, marking. The tension between you was unbearable, delicious, consuming.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, low, dangerous. “All of you… every gasp, every shiver… all of it… mine to command, mine to own, mine to claim.”

“Yes… I’m yours…” you whispered, shivering, hips arching, body alive under every touch, every grip, every deliberate movement.

He chuckled, low and satisfied. “Good girl. Every shiver, every gasp… every inch of you… completely, deliciously mine.”

Then his hands moved faster, more deliberate. One cupped your throat firmly, the other pressing against your backside again, smacking, teasing, marking. You moaned, shivered, knees weakening, every nerve on fire. The hand holding yours guided it over his chest again, thumb pressing, twisting, tracing, owning.

“Yes… yours… I… can’t…” you gasped, voice trembling.

“Shh,” he whispered, low, predatory. “That’s right. You can’t. You’re mine. Every gasp, every shiver, every trembling inch… mine.”

You trembled under his touch, helpless, desperate, and every smack, every choke, every hand twist, every press of his weight reminded you exactly who controlled you, who owned you.

“Good girl,” he murmured again, pressing firmly against your throat and smacking your backside in rhythm with his words. “So responsive… so fragile… so utterly mine.”

“Yes… oh God… mine… mine…” you moaned, spine shivering, knees weak.

He pressed you closer, one hand around your throat lightly, the other pressing your hands flat over his chest. Thumb traced over your palm, twisting your fingers. Every gasp, every shiver, every moan, every movement was an acknowledgment of his dominance.

“Hands,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Every finger… every twitch… every shiver… mine. Mine to command. Mine to mark. Mine to own.”

“Yes… yes… I… need… yours…” you whispered, shivering, heat pooling impossibly low.

A final, firm smack landed on your backside, and you gasped loudly, melting against him. Every nerve, every inch, every reaction was his. You were trembling, quivering, shivering — utterly consumed.

“Good girl,” he whispered, chest pressing to yours, hands claiming, twisting, marking, teasing. “Every gasp, every shiver… all of you… mine.”

“Yes… I’m yours…” you breathed, trembling, hips arching under him. “All yours…”

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“We’re going to have to do something about Tom before the party,” said Mary as she came into Edith’s room. “We can’t let him flail about like he has been, and Granny wants him in tails as well.” Mary said all this as she pulled her gloves up over her elbows.

Edith turned from her dressing table to look at Mary. “He’s doing better about the dinner part of things. He usually uses the right fork now and he almost never gets confused about which cup is which.” Tom had made a lot of progress since landing at Downton and Edith was proud of him for how hard he was trying to fit in.

Mary sat down on Edith’s bed. “Yes, he’s coming along well, but he’s still very shy around our types and I want him to be confident instead of always worrying he’s messing up. And there will be dancing at the party, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him dance. Well, I suppose he did a bit at his wedding.” The dancing at a working-class Irish wedding was not exactly the style that was popular among the upper-classes. Back then, it had been Edith and Mary who didn’t know what to do.

“Also at the Servant’s Ball. It’s been a few years ago now, I suppose.” That had been back in the winter of ‘14. It seemed like forever ago now. Edith didn’t remember if Tom was any good at dancing, she just remembered seeing him and Sybil dance together for part of the night. Much of the dancing at the Servant’s Ball also wasn’t exactly the type one did when a duchess was part of the company. Tom probably needed some instruction on the waltzes and a few other more refined steps.

“He’s not going to have any fun at all if he’s not coached a bit,” said Mary. “I think we need to take some time tomorrow and put him through a bit of a charm school. See what he knows of dancing, teach him some of the etiquette, that sort of thing.”

“I hope you’re prepared to hold him down,” said Edith, “because that’s going to sound like torture to him.” Tom tried to put a brave face on it to her parents, but would often confide to Mary or herself how uncomfortable he was wearing dinner clothes and how much he disliked them. To be in tails and learning stuffy dance steps would surely be a trial for him.

“I am prepared to do what is necessary if it’s for his own good,” said Mary. “He doesn’t want to be embarrassed and we certainly don’t want to see him embarrassed. Besides, it’s high time he learns some of this.”

“I agree,” said Edith. “But I’m not sure he will.”

~~~~~

“Must I?” Tom pleaded when Mary and Edith told him of their plan after dinner. “Can’t I just hang to the edges and go to bed early?”

“Certainly not,” said Mary. “You’re our brother now, and part of the family, and one of the hosts. It’s your job to help everyone have a good time and besides all of that, we want you there.”

“Yes,” said Edith. “It won’t be any fun at all if you’re not part of it.” While not as antagonistic as they once were, it was still rare enough for Edith and Mary to join forces. Edith hoped that the double pressure would be enough to sway Tom.

“I can’t believe that,” said Tom. “I’m hardly the life of the party at the best of times.” Edith rather suspected that Tom could be very lively indeed, he just was never comfortable enough to be so at Downton.

“We’ll leave being the life of the thing to Rose,” said Mary. “But we won’t leave you to drown when we can teach you to swim beforehand.”

“You know it’s a good idea,” said Edith. “And I promise we’ll be gentle instructors.” She hoped that by now Tom would trust them to be kind to him and not laugh at him if he made a mistake.

“I won’t,” said Mary with a mock severity. “I expect good work if I’m to give full marks. And I’m not easy to please.”

“Are you giving me no choice?” Tom sighed.

Mary smiled. “Not at all.”

~~~~~

Edith sat at the piano and Mary stood with Tom’s arms around her. “Now remember,” said Mary as she adjusted where Tom’s hands went, “don’t be nervous. Just relax and it all goes much easier.”

Edith kept her smirk to herself. Mary sounded like a groom coaching his anxious bride on their wedding night.

“There’s so much to remember,” complained Tom, “I can hardly keep it all straight.”

“That’s why we’re practicing,” said Mary. “We’re going to do this until it’s second nature.” Mary took Tom’s hand in hers. “Don’t be afraid to touch my waist.” While watching them, Edith had noticed Tom seemed reluctant to really hold Mary properly.

“But what if I spoil your gown?” asked Tom.

“You won’t,” said Mary. “Besides, no lady minds a spoiled gown if she’s had a good dancing partner.” She smiled at Tom and Edith knew she was trying to get him to relax about it all.

“Which you will be,” Edith chimed in. “You already move very well, you just need to get used to the steps, that’s all.” Edith hoped that the encouragement would go a little way to soothing Tom’s nerves. She and Mary specifically hadn’t invited Rose to help with this because they wanted Tom to be able to relax and Rose often made everyone a little on edge.

Mary looked over at Edith. “I think we’re ready to start again. Play it at full speed this time, Tom knows the steps now.”

The look on Tom’s face told Edith he did not know the steps, but Edith started to play at full speed anyway. Sometimes it was harder to go slower because you could get a bit lost in it and forget how the steps related to the music. Edith knew the song well enough that she could look over at Mary and Tom while the danced. Edith would never have accused Mary of being a kind woman, but with Tom she very much was. Even before Sybil died, Mary had gone out of her way to be good to him.

She watched as her sister and brother-in-law moved around the room. Tom was trying not to look at his feet this time, instead he and Mary were looking in each other’s eyes as Mary muttered reminders about which step to take next. Edith hadn’t been lying when she said that Tom moved well, he had a sort of natural easiness when he danced that would make him pleasant to dance with if he learned the steps. Mary and Edith both had had their share of stiff and cardboard-like dance partners who didn’t know the first thing about moving comfortably with a partner.

As Mary and Tom continued to move around the room, Edith could see Tom’s confidence begin to grow. The steps were starting to become familiar now, and Mary’s tutelage was having an effect. Slowly, Tom’s shoulders relaxed and he held Mary a bit closer to himself. Mary smiled and Tom smiled back at her. The two seemed almost in their own little world. With all the men currently buzzing around Mary, Edith almost wondered if there wasn’t someone for her sister a little closer at hand.

The song only lasted a few minutes, and at the end of that time Mary and Tom both needed a small break. “You did really well,” said Edith. “I knew you’d pick up on this in no time.”

Tom smiled shyly. “All credit goes exclusively to my lovely instructors, I did nothing myself.”

“Pishposh,” said Mary. “I think you know more than you let on and you’re a quick study.” Mary came over to the piano bench and sat down, bumping Edith to the edge. “I’m tired, you teach him the next one, Edith.” Edith stood and Mary rifled through the sheet music they had out. “Here, let’s do a foxtrot next. We’ll have some younger ones at the party and we wouldn’t want Tom to know only old person dances.”

Edith looked at Tom who held his hands out to her somewhat bashfully. She smiled at him and stepped in close. “Don’t worry,” she said, “you’ll like the foxtrot.” Tom put his hand to her waist, but seemed hesitant to actually hold her. Edith tried to reassure him. “For this one we have to be a bit closer than a waltz.” Stepping in even closer, Edith pressed herself against Tom’s and fitted his arm around her body. She saw Tom blush slightly and felt a flush in her own face. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been this close to him before.

“Ready?” asked Mary from the piano.

“Yes,” Edith said. Mary started to play the music and Edith began coaching Tom through the steps. Tom fumbled through the whole thing a couple times, but Edith just kept encouraging him. Mary wasn’t one to play music slow, so the pair fought their way through the dance at full speed. By the third repetition, however, Tom was starting to get the hang of this one too.

“Have you got it?” Mary asked, not looking up from the sheet music.

Edith and Tom finally broke apart as Mary played the last few notes. They were both a little out of breath. “I think so,” said Edith. “Tom’s got a knack for picking things up quickly.” She shot Tom a small smile to show she was proud of him.

Tom gave her an appreciative smile in return. “You both make it very easy,” he said.

Mary stood up from the piano. “Well, I’m very glad for that because we still have quite a lot to get through before the party. We’ll take a small break, then back at it.”

Tom opened his mouth as if he were going to beg mercy and ask for no more, but Edith cut him off. “Mary’s right on this one, I’m afraid. You need a little more practice just to make sure it sinks in. I promise it will pay off, though. You’ll have such fun.”

Tom sighed. “I suppose you two know best.”

“We do,” said Mary with a smile.

The dance lessons continued for several days, and each day Tom got better at them. Edith and Mary didn’t want to overwhelm him, but tried to teach a variety so he would be ready for whatever happened. In the process, Edith rather thought Mary enjoyed herself more than she had since Matthew died. The stumbles and awkward steps made Mary laugh more than once, but she was never cruel about it, always quick to buck Tom up and get him to try again. Edith supposed the pair of them were rather in the same boat, being widowed so young. It seemed to create a bond between them, and perhaps through it Tom was able to trust Mary in a way Edith had never thought possible.

As they worked with Tom, Edith spent much of the time wondering how Michael would be at the party. He was more of a gentleman than Tom was, but he wasn’t the same sort of dyed-in-the-wool aristocrat that the Crawley’s usually associated with. She didn’t expect him to have any trouble fitting in like Tom did, but she was curious to see how well he’d blend with her family. She hoped that everything would go well and that maybe not too far in the future they might announce their engagement. She hoped that her family would like him. She was really counting on Tom to be in her corner here. Whenever Michael got his divorce – she was certain it would happen at some point – her family would probably object to the match for that reason alone. But this time she was going to be like Sybil. She wasn’t going to give up a man she loved just because her parents said “no.” This time she would have what she wanted, no matter how long she had to wait.

The day before the party, Edith and Mary had Tom practice one last time. Taking turns, they each practiced all of the dances without any interruptions or instructions. “All right,” said Tom as they began, “I’m here to be your dancing monkey.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mary as she positioned herself in his arms. “You are a dashing and gallant figure who will preserve the honor of the house. Besides, far too often men are afraid to dance so I’ve got to have someone I can count on.”

Tom gave Mary a soft smile. “You can always count on me, I suppose. Even if it means doing this.”

Mary gave him a soft smile of her own. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate you for doing this.”

“Did you ever get tails?” asked Edith. Granny had brought it up no fewer than ten times when Edith saw her earlier that day.

“I did,” said Tom. “And I will look a right fool in them, I’m sure.”

“Nonsense,” said Mary. “You’ll cut a charming figure. You always look nice when you dress up.”

Tom shook his head with a half-smile. “I know you just tell me that so I’ll keep doing it.”

“Well, it’s not really fair if the women are the only ones who’re uncomfortable,” said Edith as she sat at the piano and opened the sheet music. “The men ought to suffer a little.”

This made Tom laugh. “Is this the modern feminism? Not about freeing women, but making men equally miserable?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “Men have had it easy for too long. It will make them appreciate women more if they have to wear uncomfortable clothes once in a while.”

Edith saw Tom look at Mary’s face, still softly smiling as he gave in to her arguments. “Very well,” he said, “I’ll do it for the equality of the sexes if for no other reason.”

“Do you need someone to help you dress?” Mary asked as Tom took her hand in his own.

Tom shook his head. “No, I can manage just fine. Besides, I wouldn’t even know what to do with someone helping me dress.”

“I can always ask Carson to help you,” said Mary. She readjusted her hand on Tom’s shoulder. The two of them being so close in height made the positions a little easier.

Tom shook his head again. “I really don’t need help. Besides, Mr. Carson is a busy man.”

“It’s just Carson for you now,” Mary reminded. “That’s the proper way to say it and it will go a long way to getting on his good side if you do things the proper way.”

Tom sighed. “I’m never going to get this right.”

“Of course you will,” said Mary. “Now let’s get started.” She glanced over her shoulder and Edith took the cue.

Edith started to play and Mary and Tom began to move across the floor. The pair moved gracefully. Mary always had easy, fluid movements. Out of the three sisters, only Sybil had been a better dancer and not by much. Tom, being more relaxed now then when they had started, also danced well. He matched Mary’s elegant steps and no longer hesitated as he moved along to the music. Edith knew the song more than by heart by now and watched them dance as she played.

It was nice to see the two of them having fun. Both of them seemed to be enjoying themselves and Edith was glad of it. Even almost two years after Sybil’s death, Tom really wasn’t the same. Maybe this party would have the effect of reminding Tom that he was still alive and still young. Mary was already brightening up a bit, though how much of that was real and how much was Mary putting on a brave face, Edith wasn’t sure. Sybil had always been able to see through Mary’s masks, but Edith never could, not in the same way.

Whatever the case, Edith hoped beyond hope that this party might give both her sister and her brother-in-law the encouragement they needed to live again and enjoy life a little. She had to admit that she worried about the both of them. She knew there wasn’t anything she could do to help either of them, they would have to get through their grief on their own, or maybe together. But without any interference from her. As she finished the song, Mary and Tom came to a standstill and stood apart from each other.

“Well done,” said Mary. “I felt like a debutante at my first ball.”

Tom blushed a little. “Just watch me forget everything and step on every foot in the house when the time comes.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Mary grabbed Tom by the upper arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “We’re all here to support you.” Glancing over at Edith, Mary said, “Well, your turn next.”

Edith rose from the piano and changed places with Mary. “You really are doing well,” she said.

“I’m trying my best,” said Tom. Edith could see the earnestness in his eyes.

“I know,” said Edith.

“I’m beginning,” Mary called by way of warning before immediately launching into the next tune.

Tom and Edith had to jump into the dance quickly so as not to be left behind by the beat. “Thank you for taking the time to teach me all this,” said Tom. “I must say it’s been more fun than I had imagined.”