#e. o'dea.

Rune was doing his best not to hover, but it was a fucking struggle.

Maybe it was the residual worry about his own siblings bleeding out around the edges — Mal was still missing, and Rune was getting to the point of fussing over Achara that he wouldn’t be surprised if she cut off all contact for the next two months until he evened out. He’d be incredibly guilty to admit aloud that Eilidh’s text was an effective distraction, but the moment he opened the door and saw the look in her eyes, any sense of relief vanished.

The guest room in his extravagant flat was already made up, if a bit minimalist and sterile — Rune couldn’t even remember the last time he had company that wasn’t his sister, which was exactly why he paced the kitchen while Eilidh took a moment to settle her things. It was rare that the two of them felt awkward around each other, but it was also rare that they spent much time together sober. Or vulnerable.

There’d been plenty of times over the past ten or so years where Rune had genuinely considered telling Eilidh everything. Separation of church and state was comforting to a degree — he enjoyed being able to pretend at a normalcy with her that he couldn’t with Malachi, or even Zoya — but there were also nights when Rune didn’t feel like hiding what was on his mind.

The feeling had passed, though, as it always did. Someday it wouldn’t, but that day wasn’t today. As it was, Eilidh was only aware of the failing health of Rune’s foster father as the source of his sour mood tonight. That being said, he probably could’ve just told her his hamster died and she would’ve rolled out the same level of enthusiasm to turn the night around, and that was what he always appreciated about Eilidh.

Hours and drinks and maybe a couple of pills in, and Rune was taking up far more space in the circle booth than strictly necessary with languid limbs and one arm draped around Eilidh’s shoulders — its usual, comfortable settling spot. His fingertips itched for a cigarette, but that would involve getting up.