Jameson's teeth grind together, and he curses under his breath, a running, endless parade of fuckshitdamnfuck as the physical therapist carefully works on getting his left leg to straighten out. The agony screams up through his thigh, throbbing in his hip, making him feel sick not just with the flipping of his stomach - but with how deeply familiar this pain is.

He feels Allyn's cool fingers thread their way through his hair, stroking carefully, their fingernails scratching just so along his scalp. He exhales, a huff of something like bitter laughter. "Fucking excellent-... shit, fucking excellent date idea, huh?"

"I don't mind," Allyn murmurs, reaching with their other hand to hold his. His fingers twitch in their grip, but they don't seem to notice. When he turns his head a little to look up at them, they smile down at him. The sunlight coming in through the window edges their long, wavy red hair with gold, turns even their eyelashes to metallic shine, sets their freckles bright and beautiful against their pale skin. "I like going places with you."

"This isn't the-... the best place-... fuck, shit, can't you go fucking slower?!" Jameson raises his head to glare daggers at the physical therapist. Trissa only looks back at him, placid and serene, as she works her fingers carefully over his knee.

"No," She responds, without offense. "I really can't. But I promise, tomorrow's going to feel better than today."

"It fucking better."

He groans. His left leg is twitching without his say-so, the muscles desperate to curl back up. His body thinks he has to crawl like a dog all over again, and it makes his face burn with furious humiliation to think that the therapist - who works with tons of runaways - might have seen this before, might know what it means.

Trissa pushes down, gently as she can, but the pain rises in a crescendo and Jameson's swearing goes from a mutter to a shout as he squeezes Allyn's hand as tightly as he can.

They keep their hand moving through his hair, tugging just a little, just enough to make things hurt in a much better kind of way. Jameson catches his breath, looking up at them with his eyes wide with pain.

They smile down at him.

Allyn's face is flushed, two red smears like paint that fade their freckles under the rush of blood. Jameson leans over them, dabbing with a cold wet washcloth at their forehead, cheekbones, jawline, down the sides of their throat.

They exhale, eyes closing with the momentary relief. "I feel so silly," They say, voice soft to avoid making their throat ache any worse, swallowing with difficulty around the swelling. "I hardly ever got sick before."

"You're not silly," Jameson answers, leaving the washcloth laid flat over their collarbone and the hint of their chest that peeks out from under the blankets. He shifts, sitting just at the edge of the bed so his knees can stay bent. His crutches are leaned against the wall, easy to grab onto at a moment's notice. "Getting sick happens. I get sick all the time."

"I didn't used to, before... Before my master died." Allyn sighs, wistful and sad, and Jameson watches them. The rain shower taste of their voice lingers on his tongue, not a good or bad taste, just an Allyn taste, through and through. Water and atmosphere, a hint of green. "He took care of my health, he took it very seriously."

Jameson quirks a cockeyed smile. "Yeah?"

"Yes." They sigh and close their eyes. Jameson watches their eyelashes, not quite resting against skin. "Every morning I took vitamins, five different ones. I had a toner for my skin, a serum, a moisturizer with sunscreen, my makeup... Every morning."

"Sounds like a lot of work. Nanda was just happy if I washed my face."

"I had to be perfect," Allyn sighs. "No flaws."

Jameson swallows, thinking of the scars on his face, his back, his thighs. His ruined knees and fingers. "We always have to look perfect," He whispers. "Or we're worthless. Just one more piece of fucking trash."

To his surprise, Allyn opens their gray-blue eyes and looks up at him, reaching out to take his hand in both of theirs. The heat of their palms eases some of the ache. "I had to be perfect," They say, voice low. "And he took care of me. Because I was perfect. But when I wasn't... He didn't care. You take care of me even when I'm not perfect."

"I don't know." Jameson looks away from the sincere intensity of their gaze, down at their hands holding his. "I can't even fucking take care of myself. I'm sure as fuck not perfect."

"You don't have to be, anymore. I don't have to be either." Allyn's smile, just at the edges of his vision, pulls his eyes back to their face. He finds himself smiling back. "I was perfect, but I wasn't happy. I didn't even know what happy was to know I wasn't. Now... I haven't washed my hair in two days and I haven't even tried to ask Jake to buy me serum and toner for my skin. I'm not perfect."

They pull his hand to their mouth and kiss his fingertips, one by one.

Jameson finds his mouth suddenly terribly dry. "Allyn-"

CW: Injured caretaker with whumpee, recovering whumpees, referenced pet whump and past captivity/torture

"You, uh. Have to rotate your shoulder a little more." Jameson's voice is harsh, hoarse and rough like always but maybe a little more of an edge than he means it to have. He sits on the steps outside, near Jake but nowhere near him at the same time. The sun is warm on his scarred arms, briefly bared to the sun as he wears only a loose t-shirt and jeans.

If he could stretch his legs out, he'd be able to wiggle his toes into the blades of grass that badly need mowed, but his knees aren't having any of that plan, so he just sits and feels concrete warm under the soles of his feet instead.

"Yeah, probably." The sling is off, and Jameson glances sideways to see the big guy opening and closing his left hand, again and again, stretching his arm out, pulling it back. He's shirtless, in just loose pajama pants. The California sunshine and heat is layering his skin with an easy tan. Jameson doesn't look at his chest to see if the hair there's as blond as the hair on his head.

Well, yes he does. But only for a second.

The scar where Jameson stabbed him still seems glaringly, brilliantly new, a red slash across formerly mostly-pristine skin, and he has to look away as soon as his eyes take it in. Guilt twists inside of him, guilt and the fear that he could do it again, maybe to someone who won't survive it, to Allyn or Nat or... anyone else.

Jake again, even.

"Listen," Jameson says, voice low. Inside, he can hear Antoni and Allyn talking, Antoni walking them through some kind of baking thing . It had been a bunch of words and measurements that made no sense to him, but Allyn seemed eager to learn, and Jameson just... just wanted to feel like part of the house again. "I'm-... I'm sorry-"

"You said that already." Jake rolls his shoulder again and winces a little, glancing at it like it personally offended him to still be injured. Maybe it does. "I told you, no apologies necessary, taking risks is part of the job."

"Yeah, you said that, but-"

"And I meant it."

"Right. I just. So, I asked Nat to bring me over to see Allyn, but... kind of. I wanted to talk to you." He hates how weak he sounds, how his voice kind of trembles a little, and he glares down at his throbbing knees as if they had caused his nervousness. As if in response, nerve pain sparks and tingles up and down his leg, making the right one jerk a little unconsciously. He hits his thigh with one fist, but it doesn't do any good. It never does.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Jake blinks and looks over at him, surprised. "What about?"

"Uh. I want to-... to move back into the house."

There's a beat of silence - something that isn't surprise on the big guy's face but isn't exactly joyful excitement either, and Jameson hurries to fill the gap. "I-I'm working on shit, I take like three meds a day now - the pain meds don't do shit but the ones for my brain work, I swear, I haven't-... I haven't had any, um, any fucking weird shit things in my head for a while, and I want to be closer to Allyn-"

Jake takes a deep breath. "Jameson-"

"I'm not going to hurt you again," Jameson says, as quickly as he can get the words out, almost breathless. His hands clench into fists, muscles knot up all the way up his spine, everything hurts from the stress of trying to say what he's been wanting to say for hours now, since he got here. "I'm not. I'm, I'm better. I won't hurt you."

There's another beat of silence. Jake presses his lips together, then exhales loudly. "It's not me I worry about, Jameson. I have to think about all my people here, not just one."

"I've-... I've never fucking touched anyone else-"

"I know, but you've come real close with Nova, and after what happened with me, I just-"

"No, I won't. I won't hurt anyone." Jameson leans forward, tries to look to the side and catch Jake's eye, but the big guy won't look at him - and that's answer enough, isn't it? His heart twists, and he shouldn't have asked, he knew he shouldn't have asked. It's why he didn't tell Nat, honestly, he knew he shouldn't have. The taste of Jake's voice is sour with the sudden certainty Jameson has that he will never, ever be safe for the people he cares about. Even the guy whose entire literal job is to fucking deal with people like him doesn't want him here.

"Let me think about it," Jake says, finally. "Okay? We've brought in this new guy, Rafael, and I just. Let me think about it."

Jameson knows what let me think about it means. It means no. He's not fucking stupid. He has to look back down at his feet, closing his eyes against a sudden burning rush of tears he can't let anyone see. Fury and fear and guilt overrun his nerves, and it's all just layers of pain.

Jake stands, moving back inside, and Jameson keeps his eyes closed as the sun shines hot on his hair and arms, as the wind moves along the lines of his face like the fingers of someone who loves him.

Allyn's voice startles him when they say, softly, "So how did it go?"

Jameson pushes himself to his feet - and jesus, he's so fucking glad when his knees hold him long enough for him to grab the cane he brought with him - and walks away from them without answering.

The big guy's fucking job is to take chances on people like him, and even he thinks Jameson is too big of a risk.

"Hey! Didn't I see you in here last week? You're a regular, too, right?" The voice behind him is cheerful and feminine and it tastes like butternut squash.

The barista meets Jameson's eyes as they pour coffee into a mug, and they both know, he thinks, that this is going to be really fucking irritating.

Jameson takes the mug and turns, putting the closest he can manage to something pleasant in his expression. He's seen this woman before, yeah - and knows she's a chatty asshole, the kind of person who does speakerphone calls while sitting in a coffeeshop asking her son to tell her how to use some sort of program on her laptop and tells complete strangers who just wanted to enjoy their damn latte her life story.

"Yeah, my-... my partner-" That still feels weird as fuck to say, doesn't it? "-my partner and I come here a lot."

He keeps his voice low. It's hard, still, not to defer, to feel the urge to curl into himself in self-protection. But Jameson was never all that good at being demure, and that hasn't gotten better with real freedom and time.

"Oh, that's lovely. Like a weekly date! How sweet. Are you feeling better?"

He blinks, looking down at himself, then back up at her. She has impeccable makeup, he thinks randomly. It reminds him of Nova, who struggles to choose groceries at the store when she goes with the big guy, but whose hands are always steady when applying eyeliner and mascara, because it's what she knows better than she knows anything else.

Nova's the one who told him makeup is armor, if you do it right. It lets you change yourself and be protected because no one can see who you really are, or they see exactly the parts of you that you want to show. Makeup is control over yourself.

Allyn doesn't see it that way, but... but he can see what Nova means. He told Dr. Berger that he gets it. He feels the same way about baggy clothes that Nova feels about makeup. The long sleeves and baggy pants... it's showing only what he wants to be shown.

It's protecting himself.

He wonders what this woman is protecting herself from.

Maybe she's just protecting herself from herself.

He gets that, too.

If he was such a nosy bitch, he wouldn't want to look at himself in the mirror either.

"Uh." He realizes the pause has drawn out just a moment too long. "I feel... like I always feel, I guess? What do you mean, better?"

"Oh, I just-... I noticed the last few times you were, you know-" Jameson has to set his jaw when she mimes her hands gripping something and pushing forward, and he realizes she's mimicking someone pushing him in his chair, which doesn't even happen, he mostly pushes himself. But still, the only thing she can think of-

She doesn't even want to say it-

Like it's something shameful, like he should be ashamed of being able to get out of the fucking house even when he hurts-

Like it's his fault he was locked up for so long his legs stopped remembering how to fucking stand up straight-

He has to remind himself to breathe.

"Oh. I don't-... always need it. Just on, you know, pain days." He was having a good day, until this - his legs ached, sure, but they carried his weight and he'd only needed the painkillers to get him out and moving.

"Well, that's good. I'm sure you must hate that."

"I like it, actually. I got to pick the color myself."

"Oh." She looks a little taken aback, and for a second he hopes this means the whole damn thing will be over.

He feels a twinge in his right knee, as if mocking him, and he locks it despite the way it makes the pain flare higher. His teeth grind together. The woman doesn't notice.

"So, what happened? Have you been getting over a broken bone?"

None of your fucking business.

He bites his tongue until it hurts and then answers, quietly, "No, it's just a thing my legs do."

"Is it like a disease, or-"

"It's just... it's just a thing my legs do. It's not-... I don't talk to people about it?" He's trying, he really is. But he can hear the barista's breath hitch and feel the burst of a taste like licking wood on his tongue as they whisper, oh my god. "I'm not comfortable-... talking about it."

Allyn would be so proud of him for staying calm. He can just see them over in the corner of his eyes, by the window, curled up on a couch with one of their books, squinting a little as they sip their peppermint tea.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," The woman says, in a tone that says she really isn't. "I have just been seeing you come here for weeks, and I was a little curious-"

"Do you ask people with headscarves if they've had cancer?" The question pops out of his mouth before he can stop it. His right hand is white-knuckled on the handle to his coffee cup, and he can feel the pain spreading from the bones back through his palm, up his arm. He tries to ground himself with it.

He should have worn his fucking gloves today.

The woman's eyes go wide at the sudden viciousness in his voice. "I'm sorry?"

"Do you walk up to guys with one leg and ask what blew it off? Do you fucking ask people if they've got autism when they, I don't know, do anything, do-... do you-... do you tell people their moles don't look right, do you ask-... shit. Fuck."

He turns abruptly on his heel.

"Well, I'm sorry, I was only curious-"

"No, you weren't." He turns back. He needs to walk away but he can't make himself do it. Some of the coffee sloshes over the side of the mug from the violence of his movements and splatters on one of his shoes. "No. Don't pull that shit. What you were doing is looking at me and thinking you could remind yourself that you don't look like me and what a goddamn blessing, huh? That you're better because your goddamn legs work better than mine do, but you know what?"

She looks frozen, as if she expects him to hit her. Her mouth is a pink O, and the lipstick is wearing off on the inside, showing the paler natural color against her teeth.

"You being an annoying piece of shit is the least important thing in my life, so take a good fucking look and enjoy your fucking working legs, because I may need a wheelchair sometimes - and it's a badass fucking chair, for the record - but you need a goddamn brain transplant and too bad, you're fucking stuck with yourself for the rest of your life instead. And frankly that makes me luckier than you."

He's limping by the time he makes it to Allyn, his right leg is burning pain up his thigh, and he half-collapses onto the couch.

His heart is pounding, adrenaline and fear dumping into his veins on a delay. They look up and their eyes widen at the sight of him, leaning over to touch his shoulder. He dips his head and they put a hand to the side of his face. "Jameson? What's wrong?"

He can't stand up to tell them they should just leave and go somewhere else, that's what's fucking wrong. He has to sit here and feel like shit and-

He realizes the woman has left without ordering, her face bright red in embarrassment. The bell over the door jingles with her exit.

"Can you-... can you call the big guy?"

"Yes, but-... but what's-"

Jameson swallows down his anger and his pride, and reminds himself there's nothing wrong with asking for help. "Ask if he'll come by with the car to get us, and bring my crutches. Please?"

Allyn nods, and they shift closer to him on the couch, their hand dropping to rub his back. "Of course. I'll call him, you just drink your coffee. Is everything okay? I mean, other than-"

"It's fine."

Jameson watches the woman's car as it pulls out of the parking lot, and he hopes she never comes back to this fucking coffeeshop again.

He really likes the coffee here, and he's sure as fuck not going to give it up just because one asshole tried to ruin his day.

He settles his head on Allyn's shoulder and takes a sip, eyes slowly closing. "Tell him not to hurry," He says, quietly. "I still want to stay here for a while with you."

He feels Allyn's smile, hears it in their voice and tastes it in the rainwater of their sound, he doesn't see it. "Of course."

No one's going to ruin his fucking day.

From any of the new rescues? TIA

Allyn, Dr. Berger notes, always sits with perfect posture. They settle onto her couch in a pair of black leggings and a flowy, patterned tunic with a notched neck. On anyone else, it would look matronly, maybe even frumpy. On them, it's impossibly elegant. It's entirely in the way they hold themself, in the innate grace of Allyn's movements, right down to the way they tip their head just slightly to ensure the light coming through Dr. Berger's window shines in the most flattering way.

It must be exhausting to live every single second that way.

Dr. Berger sits in her own chair, black no-nonsense slacks and a black-and-white tank-top-and-shrug set she'd thought looked pretty good until Allyn came in.

One of Allyn's flats dangles off their foot as they cross their legs. Somehow, on them, it's charming.

"I think," Allyn starts, then closes their lips. Presses them together into a thin line, and then tries again. "No. No, we talked about 'I think' and 'I feel' being, being ways to be... less. To not be so strong. I'm going to try again."

"Take your time," Dr. Berger says, pen poised over paper on her notepad. "We're in no hurry here."

"Right. Well. Okay, let me try again." They swallow, and their eyes shift, following the fluttered wings of a small finch outside Dr. Berger's window as it settles itself into a tree. "I... I do... I deserve more than this."

Dr. Berger makes a note. "More than what? To what are you referring, Allyn?"

"This." They press a palm to their own chest, just beneath their collarbone. "What I've been, what I am. I deserve to be more than just something pretty. There is more than just pretty in me." They hesitate, and Dr. Berger smiles encouragingly.

"You were about to say, 'I think'," She says, softly, not quite teasing.

It's the right choice- Allyn relaxes and smiles back, at ease with the little joke in a way they wouldn't have been in Dr. Berger had been too serious. "Right. Right, I was. But I stopped myself, because I don't think I deserve more, I do deserve more. I want to be-... I want to be confident, and I deserve to be. And I want to be strong, like Jameson, and I can be if I want to be."

"Do you think Jameson is strong?" Dr. Berger asks the question mildly, but she isn't surprised by the sparkle in their eyes as they look back at her.

Pets in a romantic relationship can be a hazard to one another - Romantics even more so. But Dr. Berger isn't here to make demands or give orders, only to help Allyn find their own way as healthfully as possible.

"Yes," They answer readily, without hesitating. Almost breathless. Their smile widens. "He is, he's stronger than I am, so much stronger. Everything... everything was soft and easy and sweet for me, but he was hurt, Dr. Berger, over and over again."

It's a shift dress, really - sleeveless, straight-up-and-down. The ivory lays like cream against their freckled skin, dotted with hoops and pearls, painstakingly sewn in by hand.

They step into it, rather than pulling it over their head - their hair won't be ruined that way. When they lean over, they know his eyes are on them, and they flush, pleased.

Their narrow, angular hips wriggle as they work it up over them, then slip their arms through. They look over their shoulder, smiling, thick wavy red hair pulled back into a carefully-crafted updo. They've already got their heels on, and from where he sits with a drink in his hand, he has to look up and up and up to see them.

"Can you do up my zipper?" They ask, putting a hint of flirtation into their tone. He stands - he might have to steady himself a little more than he used to, and they worry he doesn't go to the doctor often enough, not that it's a pet's place to worry or even to make suggestions. But he comes up to them anyway, and they turn back, feeling his breath hot on their neck making them shiver as he slowly, slowly zips them up.

"God, you're gorgeous, do you know that?"

"Yes." They take it as a statement of fact - it's their job to be beautiful for him, after all, beautiful and available and overwhelmed at the strength and power of his love. And they are, they are, they love him more than they ever imagined they would love the man who would own them.

He smiles, and kisses the back of their neck over their collar's familiar soft barely-there weight. They turn around to kiss him - only to see him lean over, bent suddenly at the waist, coughing harshly into one hand. The cough seems to go on and on, and their hand is over their own mouth in alarm by the time he seems able to stop long enough to catch his breath.

They reach out to put a hand to his shoulder, and find it shaking.

"Are you all right? Should I call Lionel-"

"No, no. I'm fine." He takes their hand and kisses the back of it, smiling at them, but his eyes are watery and his voice is rough. "I'm fine. Go downstairs and be there to greet our guests while I finish getting ready, hm?"

They hesitate, torn between obedience and concern. "Are you sure?"

He gives them a playful shove towards the door. "I am. Go on, then. Go sparkle for me. Make everyone I invited wish you were in their bed and not mine."

They flush, embarrassed but not sure why, and only nod and head out into the hall.

Behind them, he starts to cough again, and they trip, tumbling briefly down the stairs before they can get their heels back under them, patting a hand to the side of their head in dismay.

Their hair will have to be done all over again, and there's almost no time.

I took some liberties with the concept of "bedtime story" as a comf prompt here. But I give you... some pure and utter unadulterated fluff. Set a few years into the future from where Jameson is now.

-

He doesn't need them to push him, not yet, and he rolls down the sidewalk in the park fast enough that they're speed-walking to keep up with him. The sun is warm against his back, soaking into the dark blue shirt he's wearing, shining on his hair. He's grown it out a little longer, now, and the fringe of hair that falls over his eyes feels like a piece of himself wrestled back from where it had been locked, deep inside him.

His gloves are his favorite thing about the chair, actually. Black and slightly rough-textured, with metal pieces that glint in the sunshine, they go to his middle-knuckle on his fingers, slightly compressing and helping them stay straight without pain.

Even when he doesn't need the chair, he wears the gloves sometimes, just for how the compression of the fabric soothes the aches he's long since accepted.

"Jameson, slow down!" Allyn is panting, half-jogging, and he only reluctantly slows to a more manageable speed, then stops, jerking back on the wheels and spinning in a circle, making them jump back with a shocked laugh to avoid being hit.

They poke the back of his neck affectionately once he stops, and he grins, slightly one-sided thanks to the fading scar that still leaves its permanent mark in his cock-eyed expression.

"You nearly hit me!"

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No... I'm not."

They laugh, and their laugh has always been sparkling. "You're going to end up flying off a cliff one day in that thing, you know." Their long red hair is braided, thick and wavy, halfway down their back. In a long draping gray shirt over what they determinedly call 'jeggings' ("they're leggings, Allyn, just call them leggings"), they look like the sort of statue come to love he thinks they really might be.

"Nah. I'm better at this than I am at actually fucking walking."

The park is full at this time of day, and Jameson watches from the corners of his eyes the children playing on the playground, shrieking like wild monsters as they chase each other around, parents sitting nearby with hot cups of coffee calling out encouragement. There are people playing frisbee off to one side, too, and some who have settled blankets out, laying together or alone, reading or writing or just enjoying the sun.

"Oh, here looks good." They point at a spot in the grass off to the side. "Don't you think?"

Jameson looks sidelong up at them, eyebrows raised. "You feel like pushing me through the grass?"

"Of course I do." They close their hands around the handles at the back of his wheelchair and sometimes it feels like they're touching him, like the chair is a part of his body, and the affection bleeds through the plastic and metal and rubber and makes its way under his skin. He shivers at the pleasant little flip inside of himself, as Allyn takes over and pushes him off the sidewalk with a little dip downward, then with a grunt of effort they both work to get him through the grass to the spot they've chosen.

Allyn drops the backpack to the ground and digs the blanket they had somehow managed to stuff in there out, spreading it flat on the ground. Then they pull out a thermos, and a book, while Jameson sets the brake on the chair.

"Do you need help to get up?" Allyn asks, but there's no pity there. It's just a question.

God, how nice it is that it's just a question.

"No, I can handle it." He pushes himself up, and his knees and thighs protest - they're definitely pissed off today, hence the chair in the first place - but he makes it in a stumble to the blanket and then roughly sits down. He takes a drink of the hot coffee from the thermos, and then watches as Allyn settles themself.

He lays down, his head in their lap, and closes his eyes as their long fingers run through his dark hair.

His legs stay slightly curled, off to one side - they won't straighten all the way out today, and despite the painkillers he took this morning they're still throbbing pain that makes its slow way up his spine.

Still, he isn't forcing them to do too much, so he can ignore it and lay here, content with the heat of the sun and Allyn's hand on his head. They scratch at his scalp, just a little too harshly, and he makes a soft sound of pleasure in his throat, tipping his head back, encouraging them to maybe get even a little rougher.

The little laugh they give in return warms him deeper than sunlight ever could. "Hush. Maybe later." They pick up the book they brought with them. It's a large-print mystery novel they got at the library, and they've been slowly working through it, reading aloud to Jameson. He doesn't remember a single fucking word. He just likes hearing their voice. "It's easier if I read out loud, do you mind-"

"No. Do it."

They start to read, halting and uncertain, and he lets the rush of the water of their voice move over his tongue, the taste of rain. Slightly grassy, something not always pleasant except that it's their voice, which makes it better than actual rain could ever be.

The painkillers sometimes make him drowsy, if he doesn't keep himself constantly moving. Settled here in the sun, slightly curled up like a cat, and with their hand in his hair and their voice in his ear and in his mind... it's easy to feel himself start to slip, and let himself go. He opens and closes his hands, just to feel the wrinkles of the thick fabric of his gloves, the push of it against his twinging fingers.

Allyn pauses, finger pressed to their place on the page. "Do you want to get lunch, after this?"

He'd thought they were out of their fucking minds, Jake and Nat and Dr. Masood, when they'd suggested the fucking chair. Even more the first few months when every use made his shoulders hurt like hell. But after a year with it and on a day like today, he couldn't go anywhere without it.

"Sure," He answers, voice soft, barely audible. "Keep reading, though, first."

They rest their hand on his side, and start up again. Rainwater washes over his tongue, even as the sun warms every bit of his body, even his aching legs.

🍳 - Breakfast in bed

"This is the worst coffee I have ever had," Antoni whispers into Kauri's ear after taking a sip, forcing himself not to wince. "This is like water!"

"I know, I know, but they meant well, I swear." Kauri's coffee is more milk than coffee anyway, and he takes big gulps of the mostly-warm-and-not-hot-anymore liquid.

"It kind of tastes scalded, right?" Jake's voice is a low mumble, too.

"A little. Scalded and like water, both." Antoni sighs, and takes another sip. "How did they manage that?"

"Who knows?" Kauri responds casually, leaning into Antoni's side. "Coffee, what looks like... peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and like little potato circles that are still cold in the middle. All for us. Breakfast in bed."

"Why?"

"I know, I'm suspicious, too," Jake says, under his breath. "What is this about?"

Allyn appears in the doorway, smiling. "Is it good? Do you all like it?"

All three of them smile back and thank Allyn profusely.