#threaded through.

He's been up for hours. Partially because the pain is more than a little bothersome when he refuses the take anything stronger than ibuprofen — but mostly due to the upheaval his injuries have caused. Whether it is worse that he truly meant it was nothing or that their two definitions of nothing never seemed to align. Edwin has never been a fool, even if he's acted it. He knows the distress she's feeling first hand; he's been intimately acquainted with it since the first night she came home with bruises. He's bitten his tongue more than a few times on the matter. It was his duty to love, to support, to heal. It was not his place to determine what was best for her, she is her own person with her own agency and he has never for a second thought otherwise. He has worried after and feared for and that was where the line of his opinion was drawn. She had respected his privacy and he respects hers.

Except — except now he has to provide a reason. Moira had never denied him the bare minimum of truth when he'd asked for it. She'd given it a name. It was just that he has to operate under rules he didn't make — he will have to answer to something worse than the bad end of a knife if he doesn't play his cards carefully.

He's been walking around a pot of coffee for the last forty minutes. There is a box of breakfast pastries on the coffee table keeping the pot company. Secrecy and lying have never equated in his mind - omission had to be purposefully avoidant to fall under a lie. There are landmines every few steps forward. So he makes due with what little room he has and sets his mind to a plan.

Being a tattoo artist falls under the same umbrella as being a bartender. He'd be willing to bet that he's heard more about most clients' personal lives than their therapists. Probably easy to assume someone named after the infamous inferno wouldn't judge too harshly — and for the most part they're right. The people who have made the mistake of becoming his friends are not awarded the same courtesy; he will let them behind the curtain of his genuine thoughts. Usually, anyway.

This city is a cesspool. A hideous amalgamation of godly vice and human depravity. It lives in a world already reborn and struggling to cope with its previous demise. It ushers in a burgeoning age of monsters. They all rot under the sickly glow of neon lights, running through the streets and gathering in dark backrooms. Crime runs rampant and the gods reign over lesser kingdoms now. They fight each other as they always have but now with the bloodied hands of mortal men at their beck and call. Being cast from their heavenly thrones has only changed the location of their plague. Hades' plight is that of a reaper. Even in earthly punishment he cannot rid his hands of death — so he grants it. For a price. One must adapt and so he has.

Days are less burdensome than the nights. The ugly white light of the sun beams down and bakes the pavement dry. It smothers the choking streets in warmth and brightens the poisonous black waters of the cannels into murky glass. Styx water flows through them. Hades hasn't see Charon since The Falling but he must be out there somewhere because he always delivers his end of their bargain.

Hannah isn't the best in the business but her reputation has opened a number of interesting doors and this is definitely one of them. "Hello, I'm Hannah Monroe. I understand we'll be working together, Ms. James. It's a pleasure to meet you," she extends her hand with her greeting, a perfect picture of London professionalism. She'd practiced on the car ride from the airport to her hotel - having spent the last few years almost exclusively working in Paris over the pandemic she'd fallen into the habit of French and as someone who thinks out loud with her colleagues, it was one she needed to be mindful of. Cases like this are few and far between and she prided herself on being meticulous under regular circumstances.

Sometimes the world opens up and swallows him whole for days at a time. Read that again. Concerning? It should be. He would be concerned if at any point after the world spits him back out again he could remember the reason why. Don't think too hard about it. He is an unreliable narrator. One of those people who can paint a phrase as if it were a picture but who also believes the stars have teeth and they frequently use them to chew on his dreams. Believe it or not, he is sober. Just probably damned. Do with that information what you will.

Not even a morsel of surprise can be conjured up for the company nor her greeting. There isn’t a need to ask because she will tell him without a nip at the bait but he asks anyway. Sort of. “I bet I would believe it,” is what he actually says but it means the same thing. His vowels drag a little longer than he’d usually allow, too tired to edit down his home town inheritance. He unfolds his book from a painful contortion and sticks his receipt between the pages to keep his place.

What has actually changed in five years? Not much more than his willingness to put in the effort required to legitimately call them friends. She wasn’t saddled on his handlebars by means of daily transport to work but that wasn’t to say it didn’t still happen on occasion. Neil feels that probably has more to do with his change of occupation than anything else. If he was still delivering flowers the change would hardly be noticeable. Except that it is. He can not recall the moment that anticipation tipped over into expectation. Even harder to name is the moment the latter morphed into routine. He runs, starts the coffee before his shower and drinks it when he gets out, he works, he runs, he showers, he slumps into this very chair, he waits for her, they walk home together. It varies fewer times than it doesn't. Most of the time he's even content.

The prospect delights him. It is one of the better parts of being a morning person: having first pick of the worms, so to speak. "I'd never turn down a trip to the farmer's market," he hums, "there are some bostin flowers in bloom this time of year."

To be looked after and thought of with such thoughtful consideration is not standard for him. Luka spends too much time away with the flora, his relationships with people is often a bit lapsed. His long time best friend is a vagabond, the friend he works part time with at the music store is quieter and more antisocial than him. When he does carve out time for others, he spends it trying to be useful; to make that time worthwhile. It is not her first act of kindness or consideration toward him He knows she is thoughtful — he has seen it in all of her actions. Kind people are like that. Somehow it still surprises him to be the recipient.