“Can you blame me?” He adds.

It's then that they open their eyes, looking at it with an eyebrow raised. But it's smiling, bright as the dawn and the day, welcoming like the morning bird’s call.

As he leans forward, hand gently on her thigh – Skizz learned a long time ago not to touch higher – that smile on his face, she shifts backwards with a soft groan.

“Bad pain day?” It says softly.

“You caused this.” They add with a slightly pained laugh.

And then they’re both laughing, mischief high in their tone.

“Do you want me to make breakfast? Make up for what I did last night?”

“I would love that.” She says in mock annoyance, but she already knows that Skizz sees it as soft. Some kindness under the surface that’s only seen by some.

“Want me to carry you?”

They shake their hand, tentatively sitting up with a groan. “It doesn't hurt that much. I can walk on my own."

There's a hand on her side again – the one that’s fully intact – as Skizz places a soft kiss on her cheek. "Rest a little bit, okay?”

“I don’t need rest, love.” They hum, turning to kiss him.

It rests its head on her shoulders, looking at her with big, blue eyes in an all too begging sort of way.

“No, Skizz.”

Skizz’s sigh is exaggerated as he leans back, looking away with that same expression.

“Skizz.”

“I wanted to make you breakfast in bed!" Skizz complains loudly.

"Sweetheart, you know I don't like to eat in bed." They point out with a smile.

His feathered tail flicks with annoyance until he sighs, giving up on the fight.

The zombie slides out of bed on wobbly feet, slowly shuffling over to where she put her crutches the night before. She quietly thanks her partner's patience, the angel already dressed and in the kitchen by the time she's left the room.

Sunlight filters through the windows of the small cabin, dancing over feathers and skin and hair, illuminating every inch of the open space that Skizz has made and each inch that the now wingless angel takes up. It wasn't just for them, Cleo knows that, but it never stops the feeling in their chest.

It makes her pause, even just for one moment, to question her heart and how cold or rotten it might truly be.

But they watch it, hear it's soft singing, smell the rotten flesh it chose to cook with. And it chose that, chose them, chose learning new things to accommodate their specific needs.

She's walking again, moving to stand comfortably next to Skizz as he continues to sing something.

"Clebert, the bacon’s almost done already so do you–"

"I thought you wanted me to rest." They say with a laugh.

"You looked like you wanted to help." Skizz says with a smile.

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "Fine, if you insist."

Their partner looks proud of himself, the feathers on his cheeks and ears fluffing out before laying back down.

She slips off one crutch, putting it to the side as Skizz hands them an egg.

There isn't a lull of silence that follows as they cook, instead there are jokes and laughter and teasing. Skizz telling her that they'll need makeup, Cleo helpfully reminding it that they bruise easily.

It’s less of a quiet thing, not even a gentle thing, but it feels like home and safety and warmth as Skizz looks at her with a smile and leans down to kiss her as he chuffs. There’s a hand in her own once she’s done, calloused and scarred, but soft.

They don’t say “I love you”, at least not that often, but with moments like this does it even have to be said?

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