testing 123
Summary: After the events of bon appetit, the DA has some questions. (Vampire!Damien AU)
Pairings: Damien/DA
Warnings: mentions of blood, coercion, damien being a minor punching bag, adultery
buy me a coffee?
@opprose @statictay @volbeast @otterlyinluv @mirrorslament
“It’s a bunch of flowers.”
“Yes!” The DA smiles at him over their notebook, pen poised to take notes. They already have half a dozen filled pages, and their enthusiasm hasn’t diminished one bit. “Specifically, roses. Careful of the thorns, I couldn’t get all of them off in time.”
Damien fixes them with a raised eyebrow, but he can’t stop a slow smile. It’s just too contagious. “You want to see how I react to roses but you’re worried about me getting pricked?”
It’s a guilty pleasure, really, teasing them. They close their mouth against a prepared response, a little wrinkle forming between their brows as their eyes flick away. “Well,” they mutter, and oh, how wonderful that embarrassment sounds. “We haven’t gotten to that part, yet.”
He grins. “And you care about me.”
“Just sniff your flowers,” they bite back.
He’s pleased enough to catch the beginnings of another smile, and it’s enough to help push back the beast that craves the additional warmth emanating from them. He’s fed, and it’s them.
It’s just some flowers. He puts his nose to them and takes a deep breath.
—
It started when they came to the counter and slammed down a thick file.
“Sorry.” They wince, looking over the cool gray stone. Befitting the material, the counter is unharmed, and they breathe a sigh of relief. “Yes, well, I have some research.”
“Clearly.” He looks over the folder, eyebrows raised in surprise. Thick might just be an understatement; from the looks of it, his friend has amassed a small library’s worth of documents and notes in a stack rivaling the length of his thumb. Hand- or type-written, it’s a lot of effort put in. “What caught you so, this time?”
It’s hardly unusual for them to get caught up in a deep dive of research. It served them— and him, if he’s honest— quite well in university. Hours of lectures and coursework and other responsibilities cut true study time short. Law school is an unforgiving mistress, but with a pot or three of strong coffee or tea and his friend’s unusual quirks, it seemed far more manageable.
If, perhaps, at the cost of said friend’s well-being. Not that he could stop them if he tried, and he has.
Now, it’s thankfully more often relegated to just passing fancies, with the occasional case. Learning about the intricacies of literary symbolism, about animal communication, about the names of both stars and plants… at least this kind of study brings a smile to their face to accompany their dark circles.
Not unlike the one crossing their face now, really. “Something quite important, actually. All of this“ — they slide a hand over the folder to demonstrate— “is a week’s study of… your condition.”
The last few words come quietly, their smile fading with a furtive look around at any potential bystanders— of which there are few in the mostly-empty luncheonette. Damien’s hearing, however, is finer than it ever used to be, and he quickly swallows a burning mouthful of black coffee to avoid drawing any other attention with a spit-take. “Excuse me?”
He knows they know. As much as they pretended to not remember that hungry, desperate night, they did. They still do. Why else lower their voice? Why else make up so flimsy an excuse as thorns?
Loathe as he may be to have his constituency know, everyone’s quite well aware that their mayor is ill, in need of regular medication. His meeting with that journalist made that certain, and they’re the one who suggested it; protecting his medical history can’t be part of their agenda.
Thorns could never explain the scarring below their sweater sleeve, a crescent of wrinkled skin slowly fading back to normal.
He saw it once, their sleeves still rolled up from a trip to the restroom to wash their hands, and his stomach turned so severely he had to excuse himself. They haven’t had their sleeves up since around him— why, if it were thorns?
Some may find them unreadable, especially at the poker table, but they’re an open book to him. Their eyes always give it away.
The only question is: why bring it up now after such a lie?
“I’ve told you, there’s no cure,” he says, but the DA quickly waves him off.
“Not a cure. And I know it’s… not just some sickness. That it’s…” Finally, they look uncomfortable, easing into the seat next to him. He watches their fingers drum and pick at the edges of the folder, their heart a touch rabbit-fast with their shame.
“I know what happened,” they say, after long seconds of silence. “The night of your party.”
As suspected, and— as they’re clearly willing to share— he asks the questions on his mind. “Why tell me otherwise? Why wait until now?”
After a moment, their fingers stop drumming, and they turn those so-sharp eyes to his— an unusual gesture, from them, and all the more sincere for it. “I didn’t want you to feel bad for what you had to do.”
Damien could laugh, and he could just as easily cry. Once again, it’s as he initially thought: his friend— his kind, generous, compassionate friend— knows him well. They know him well enough to know how he’d torture himself for it.
Though it didn’t fool him, he didn’t self-flagellate. Too much.
Rather than either extreme, he settles for a soft sigh, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from tugging up. “You know I wouldn’t have, if—“
“I know,” they reply quickly. Their hand edges for his forearm, but their pinky doesn’t even brush his sleeve. “You’re the model of martyrdom, Damien. I had to make you— and there won’t be any more of that, thank you very much.”
He hums around another sip of coffee— much cooler this time. “I have plenty of, ah… medicine. Of course not.”
“Not because of your drinks. Because I’m donating— and that’s non-negotiable,” they add as he opens his mouth to protest. “I saw how it made you feel. Like you used to, before all this. It’s not unlimited, no, but… sometimes. Once a week, maybe.”
“A month,” he counters, automatically, and feels sick at still allowing it at all. If he were stronger, if he were less desperate, he could say no altogether; as it is, though, he remembers the sweet taste of their blood, the rush of energy akin to a sugar-high and the smooth warmth of their skin under his mouth. He can’t turn it down.
That, and they used their lawyer voice. As it always was in debate and in court, it commands a room.
“Once a week.” Their brow furrows just a touch. “I’ve made up my mind.”
As his resolve crumbles, he once again sighs. They don’t get to have an endearing little wrinkle to their forehead; it’s tantamount to cheating. If he held no respect for their actual skill, he’d account all their triumphs in court to that exact face.
“Once a week,” he grumbles, and doesn’t miss the cheery grin that instantly replaces their frown. They know it works, the bastard. “So, what about all of this, then? Your research?”
Their hands pat at the counter, eyes bright. “My research, yes! I will say, it was more fun than usual— lots of mythology from all over the world. I have my notes, some type. I wish it was easier to copy things over; typing directly from the books takes forever.
“But anyway,” they continue, shaking off the tangent, “my reasoning was to ultimately find out as much as I could. The only issue is, this was only thought to be fictional of late. A story made up for whatever reason. That means there’s no way to tell what’s true from what’s false.”
“You could ask me,” Damien points out, raising his cup and idly browsing the menu board. He doesn’t need to eat, but it’s nice now and then. “You always do enjoy a primary source.”
They make a little frustrated groan, and their chair squeaks beside him as they shift around. “I do, but there’s a problem. How do you know what’s true?”
That draws him away from the board, only to find them looking. Intently. “I would hope I know what my condition entails. What do you mean?”
“What I mean is: can you turn into a bat, and have you tried?”
They ask so seriously, so focused on him, that he can’t help a laugh. A loud, sharp, bark of a laugh. “I’m- I’m sorry,” he stammers, aware of the attention he’s drawn from the few other patrons of the lunch counter. “Just— really? My friend, you know something like that isn’t possible.”
He has to clench his jaw at the new rush of heat to their face. No time to hunt, no time to feed. He had blood meal before he even came here.
“Is it not?” The little wrinkle has returned, and they jab their folder with a finger. “I didn’t think this sort of condition was possible until a few weeks ago, and here we are. You aren’t dead, obviously, but we can’t know for sure what’s possible until we try.”
It sends a prickle up his spine, finding the mad gleam in their eye. It’s the same as just before those long research benders, the look when they find something that catches their interest. Their brilliant mind at work, chomping at the bit to put all the puzzle pieces together.
It’s endearing, impressive when he sees it in action. Right now, on the other side… it’s a little bit frightening.
“I’m not certain if I want to be subject to whatever you have in that folder of yours,” he says, eyeing the folder warily.
For its part, the folder sits there, full of paper. God knows how many hypotheses, as well.
“If… you don’t want to, that’s alright,” the DA replies, sounding quite not alright at the idea of shelving their insatiable curiosity. “I could always manage to find someone else.”
Damien’s stomach goes cold.
Someone else is the person who pulled him into a dark alley and fed until he lost consciousness. Someone else is the people, ashen or pale, who only met with him under cover of night and spoke of humanity as their free lunch. Someone else is dangerous, and if their blood is half as sweet to them as it is to him…
That’s a dirty trick to suggest it, if it’s even a trick at all.
“No,” he chokes, then clears his throat. His friend might be excitable, but they regard him as most dear. They would never hurt him in the name of science. “No, I’ll do it, but it can’t be all at once. We do still have lives, my friend.”
They perk up, a wary hope in their eyes. “Are you sure? I know I can get excited—“
“I couldn’t be in better hands,” he assures them with a smile. “You’ll only have to be a little more patient than usual. Do you think you can manage?”
His friend huffs, shoving at his arm and turning to the menu board. “I can be patient,” they grumble, though their tone remains soft. “I’ll buy your lunch. As payment.”
“But I don’t need to—“
“You were considering it. You usually get rye bread, don’t you?”
The sandwich doesn’t satisfy as it once did, but it’s still pretty good. After all, it’s a (relatively) free lunch.
—
So that’s how he finds himself outside their home, anxiety churning with a good dose of hunger in his gut.
Yes, hunger— their damn insistence on being his source once a week means he’ll have to do this every time he goes to see them. Every time they do these tests, he has to…
He swallows, wincing at the growing sharpness of his teeth. He’ll never be used to that.
It’s only a few hours of his time, if that. It’s less than a dozen feet away, just up their slightly-uneven steps. The stone remains solid, though, and the rest of the place— from white wooden railing to yellow numbers marking their address— is welcoming as ever. Any other day, any other reason, and he’d gladly climb up.
What if it was? Just a social call, stopping by for the pure joy of it— they’d putter around getting tea, wind up on the back porch so as not to be disturbed. The old greenhouse sits back there, a bit more worn but still in use, and he remembers drunken and/or youthful dares to scale or pull up on the old tree; its tallest branches loom over the roof, casting the whole thing in dappled shade and sun.
Thoughts of his college days… now he really is stalling. Rolling his neck to ease out the anxious kinks, he makes the journey up those crooked steps.
He barely has a moment to knock when the front door swings open. “I was wondering how long you’d stand there,” the attorney says, ruffled and bright-eyed. “What, is my house sacred ground?”
They grin, and his scoff comes as more of a laugh. “Only to some, and to others the very opposite. I was just reminiscing, actually.”
“Dangerous pastime,” they muse, and their grin softens with nostalgia. “You know, I could come up with another round of tests based on university, alone. If you’re at all interested.”
God knows what all that could entail: drinking, partying, stupid dares that somehow didn’t get them hurt or worse. Algebra. He can’t stop a shudder. “How about we stick to the first round, hm?”
“Fine, fine. I have stations set up for that, anyway.”
Stations. They’re taking this very seriously, aren’t they?
Or perhaps they aren’t— they step back from the door, but they don’t scurry off in whatever direction holds their first test. Instead, they stop a few feet back from the door and watch him expectantly.
He blinks back, mystified. “Do you… still need more time?”
“No.” Still, they watch him. Faintly smiling. Waiting.
But for what? Damien eyes the door, then the frame, but all seems clear; even if they weren’t, the DA is quite unlikely to hurt him, especially right out of the gate. That gleam in their eye, though, indicates that this— whatever the subject— is a test.
Oh. He gives a sigh and walks through easily. “You know,” he says, removing his shoes to set neatly by their own pair, “I think my cover would be blown wide if I couldn’t enter buildings uninvited.”
“Someone holding the door for you is an invitation, isn’t it?” They hurry off to some corner, and his sensitive ears catch the sound of pen-scratching. “People were happy to with your cane.”
Fair enough, but the cane he can’t imagine being that much of a factor. His status as candidate and then mayor, however… “I think that misunderstanding just came from good manners. I wouldn’t just barge in somewhere I wasn’t sure I was welcome, even before all this.”
They raise an eyebrow and gesture to their home at large with one hand.
“I’m quite welcome here, and you know that. You’re the one who said so.” He smiles at them as he approaches. “Perhaps you jeopardized your own test before you even knew you’d hold it.”
“What?” They look down to their findings, written in their messy scrawl, stark black. After a beat, they slowly turn back to him, eyes wide with dawning horror. “Oh, god. It can’t be— if that’s the case, then—“
“Alright, hold on.” Damien cuts them off as gently as he can, one hand resting lightly on their shoulder. “I was simply teasing you, though I apologize; I didn’t expect it to upset you so. Take a deep breath for me?”
It can take some time for this method of his to work, especially when they’re deep in the throes of anxiety, sometimes several minutes.
This time is no exception, as they look to their other notes frantically, breath coming shallow. “What if the whole experiment is— If I have to redo everything—“
He doesn’t miss the slight note of anger amidst the upset. If it’s directed inward, rather than at the circumstances of poor forethought, then he must redirect this as quickly as possible.
With a slightly firmer squeeze— only a fraction, because he’s stronger with his affliction and their shoulder now feels remarkably fragile— he tries again. “My friend,” he starts, coming down slightly to look at them, though their eyes refuse to meet his, “it’s alright. Your plans can move forward. Take a deep breath and relax.”
He doesn’t expect much from it, if they’re really that far gone. Luck must be on their side, however; they take a deep breath just as he finishes his sentence, tension in their shoulders leaking out.
It’s… quite quick.
Was it truly luck, catching them at the right time, or..? He draws his hand back with a troubled frown. “How… how are you feeling?”
“Good.” Even they sound a little disbelieving, blinking as if they’ve just woken up from a nap. “That was… a little strange.”
His stomach twists, and it’s certainly not from hunger. “Yes, it seemed to leave rather quickly.”
Surprisingly, they shake their head. “No— well, yes, but not just that. When someone tries to talk to me when I’m panicking, they feel far away. Like I’m underwater, or they’re in another room.
“But you,” they continue, “when you spoke, it… it was like you were right here. In my head, and—“ They quickly cut off, lips pressing together as a spike of warmth and spice floods their scent.
Spice is new. Spice is interesting— or would be, in other circumstances. He hadn’t meant it. He wouldn’t dare with them, not on purpose, not casually. Is that how it feels when he suggests, purposeful or otherwise? “I… I apologize. I’ve never heard it from the other point of view; I assure you, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You didn’t mean to?” They peer up at him, brow furrowed— solving a puzzle, he knows, even if one he hadn’t meant to give them. It’s clear when the pieces fall into place, because their eyes grow wide— and far too excited. “You can do that? Actually?”
He grimaces, flooded with shame as the memories of his first few months come to the surface. “I try not to. It isn’t right, however fascinating you happen to find it.”
“I agree it’s not something you should do, but you must admit it is fascinating.” Their prior panic seems like hours ago, vanished in the wind as they hurriedly scribble in their notes. “Spiritualists and magicians wish they could do what you do— and if I give you my consent beforehand, it isn’t really that bad, is it?”
To anyone else, perhaps it might be alright, but he knows how far their curiosity might push them to go. That, combined with a suggestion… “I would still rather we not. I’m sure you have plenty of experiments in that notebook of yours that don’t require you to be under.”
The attorney huffs— he almost certainly catches a ‘boring’— but they dutifully turn to another page. “Fine, no hypnosis. In that case, I hope you’re hungry.”
Once more, his stomach turns with hunger and nausea. “I… listen, I’m not sure if I can drink your blood. I know I have, but—“
“I’m not talking about blood.” His friend smiles, wide and mischievous, and his heart sinks. “I’m talking about garlic.”
—
Only half an hour later, he’s on the couch and clutching his roiling stomach. It isn’t the worst stomachache of his life— he came down with a rotten stomach flu in his childhood, and he was in bed for weeks— but it’s none too pleasant, either.
He burps, grimacing at the well of bile in his throat.
“So…” His friend gingerly steps forward, a glass of bubbling Bromo in their hand; they quickly hand it over when he holds out his hand. “Shall we mark that one as a yes? A maybe?”
Mood soured, just like his stomach, he sends them a baleful look over the glass of antacid. “I want you to eat a portion of that meal and then tell me how you feel. I think it might be insightful.”
“… No.” He catches the scribble of a pen over the sound of the bubbles; from the length of that pause, he can guess it wasn’t just a refusal to partake.
His mood can’t stay so bad for very long, though; in short order, they’ve removed the offending dish and come to sit with him. Their eyes are so apologetic and concerned— almost hyperbolic, really— that he can’t help a laugh. “You’re forgiven, you know.”
“Are you sure?” They twist their fingers together, with a soft pick at their fingernails. “You know I would never—“
“Of course I do.” He nudges them with one knee, a friendly little bump. “I also know you’re a far better cook than that. How many cloves did you use, by chance?”
“Normally? Three. This time…” They start to smile, just a little. “I just doubled it. It wasn’t exorbitant— still a lot, but not unreasonable.”
He nods, somewhat relieved— the food likely won’t go to waste, then. “… Do you think you could make that for me, sometime? Without the double garlic? I liked the dish, otherwise.”
It gets them to launch into a wonderful description of their method and ingredients, all traces of guilt long gone. He just sits back with a little smile, soaking it in.
—
“Can you turn into a bat?”
“No.”
“A wolf?”
“No.”
“A bunch of snakes or insects?”
“Where are you getting all this? And no.”
“Books. A cloud of mist?”
“N- well, you know, I haven’t really tried that one. It might be possible.”
“Really?”
“No.”
—
He outright refuses to lift them when testing his strength— citing danger but really he can’t hold them and not begin pining too much to be functional— but he’s happy to lift their dining table or their icebox at their direction.
They do not look at him as they take those notes.
His speed comes second, before they move onto senses.
He was never the fastest of his circle, though certainly a contender for strongest; now, though, he can make it to their back fence and back in a matter of a few seconds— and without being winded.
“You think you’re distance, or sprint?” They ask when he comes back, jotting down his time.
“I don’t have much reason to run,” he says pointedly, “so I can’t say for certain.”
They hum, jotting down a note. “We’ll hit the trails next week. Less suspicious to your constituency.”
—
Testing his senses is a bit more of what he expected of today, but it’s no less of a challenge; it is, in every meaning of the word, a test.
They leave touch and taste alone because he hasn’t found much change in either, but the others are fair game.
—
They put his eyesight up against a set of increasingly smaller targets, even going into their backyard when he can describe a small stamp in detail at ten feet.
He mentions a cluster of some type of egg under the leaves of one of their flowers. When he goes into detail, they stomp over to their shed, launching into a stream of language so out of their usual vocabulary that he can’t help but to double over in laughter.
—
His hearing comes next, again an increasingly quieter sound at greater distance.
“I don’t know how better to test you,” they complain at the end, though mildly. “I’ve done all I can think of. Do you have anything to add?”
Damien considers for a moment. “Your neighbor is having… an awful lot of fun next door. Suppose her husband has the day off?”
“No, but her friend is over, I saw her walk up the—“ They pause, looking to him with wide eyes.
He can only look back with a similar expression. Finally, after turning his hearing back towards his immediate vicinity, he says, “Good for her.”
“Good for her.”
—
Smell comes next, and he stops them before they go too far in explaining their criteria.
“I haven’t found a lot of change in objects, exactly. Say, food— your food— is about where it used to be. Flowers and other smells, too. The only difference is… well, living things.”
“Interesting.” Their eyes shine. “So you can smell creatures better, but nothing else?”
He nods, a mite uncomfortable. “For… hunting, I would presume. Further and with more… depth, I suppose.”
They just scoot closer with their notes, eyes fixed on him and a smile growing.
He sighs, but it doesn’t stop his own smile. “Alright, I’ll see what’s close.”
After a cursory sniff— and a moment to parse it all, as he still isn’t the best at it— he begins. “You have a bevy of birds up in your tree, though it wouldn’t take a good nose to tell that. Like feathers and eggshells, fresh air.
“The cat behind your shed isn’t alone— there’s another that smells like meat and fur, and there’s… a milky scent. I suppose there are, or will be, kittens soon.
“And you—“ He stops himself, swallowing hard. “That’s all.”
“No, it’s not.” They’re certainly sharp, though he never doubted that; they’re still in the middle of writing down supplies they’ll need for a litter of kittens. “You started to talk about me. What do I smell like?”
Why talk about that when he could go crawl into a hole? “Like… a human. How a human smells.”
They don’t say anything, but the look they give him over their notebook says more than they could possibly with words.
“Alright, alright. Like… spring.” He struggles against rising heat in his face, resolutely not looking at them. “Sun and grass and flowers. Honey, a bit, perhaps.”
“Fascinating…” It catches his attention, and their face is soft, full of wonder when he looks. “Where do you suppose that comes from?”
Damien shrugs. “You garden an awful lot, which I imagine has some influence. It may also simply be you. If someone’s rotten, they kind of smell like it. And I find if I don’t care for someone, they don’t smell so…”
They start to smile— too impishly for his liking. “So you think I’m nice and you care about me.”
“Yes, I do.” It’s one way to handle their teasing— accept it right as it is.
The smile grows bashful— just as their scent grows a little warmer.
—
Finally, a return to the rose. He’s been put through the ringer enough, today, and it’s the final test— or so they’ve said. Nothing to do but dive in.
It’s pleasant enough, as roses go. Fresh from his friend’s back garden, a bit of morning dew and soil to offset the floral sweetness.
Too cloying to be them, but it reminds him of their springlike scent regardless.
One of the soft petals brushes his nose as he takes a deep breath, but he pays it little heed; that is, until he pulls back, and the tickle only intensifies.
“Well?” They lean forward, pen poised over their notes, tense with anticipation. “How is it? How do you feel?”
Damien scrunches his nose, sniffs in order to quell the rising pressure, but there’s little use; in a matter of seconds, he turns aside to sneeze, and violently. “Ah,” he breathes, sniffing once again around watery eyes. “My apologies.”
“You’re blessed. Are you allergic, now?” They look a little too excited at the prospect, scooting forward a bit closer; he can’t even be sure they realize they’ve done it.
He shakes his head, laying the rose back down on the table between them. “No, I don’t think so. A petal brushed my nose, is all.”
His friend gives a quiet, affirming hum, then scribbles one last thing into their notebook before closing it firmly. “Alright, then we’re done for today. Let me get some supplies together for your meal.”
Right, his meal. “About that—“
“You’re eating.” Their eyes snap to his, that stubborn determination once more arresting him where he sits. “I’ve put you through enough, and on an empty stomach. You deserve something that will actually nourish you.
“Besides,” they continue, setting aside their materials and standing, “I’ll need you at your strongest for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” He raises an eyebrow. “What, pray tell, is tomorrow?”
At that, they smile. “I have to make a comparison against today. Hungry versus well-fed. I know you’ve noticed some differences— you act a bit different, depending on how hungry you are.”
He hadn’t considered that, but it makes sense. His friend is nothing if not thorough— and quite observant. “If you really insist,” he replies weakly.
They come back with some bandages, pads, and alcohol, setting them neatly aside. “I healed up pretty quickly last time,” they comment as casually as you please, rolling up their sleeve. “Still, it never hurts to be a little more careful about it. Whenever you’re ready, Day. I trust you.”
It’s so soft and earnest, coupled with their warm little smile when he glances up from the bared skin of their arm. Monster or not, he isn’t sure he deserves them.
They take the bite as well as they did last time, with the smallest grunt of pain and a spike in their heart rate, but they don’t try to move away or flinch. Rather, they sit patiently as he drinks, eyes tracking somewhere beyond his shoulder.
He shouldn’t get used to this— not too used to this, anyway— but it’s difficult not to sigh in pleasure. Disgusting as it may be, the coppery flavor of blood almost seems as an undertone to the smell of their skin; warm, it’s like drinking from a cup of spring, the bright flowers and soft grass rejuvenating him from the inside out.
He could swear he tastes honey on his tongue.
It’s hard to pull away when he deems it necessary, but his stomach is comfortably full; besides, his friend’s tracking seems a bit slower, now. He pulls back and quickly reaches for the medical supplies.
“Huh? Oh, you’re finished?” His friend blinks down at him, hissing at the sting of alcohol on the punctures. “Sorry, I must have… lost track of time.”
“Which means I stopped a little late,” he mutters, carefully winding around gauze. “How are you feeling? You ought to have something to eat; I’ll make it for you.”
“You didn’t stop late.” They fix him with a stern, though not unkind, look. “You wouldn’t hurt me. You’re full enough?”
He pins the bandage in place, itching with the urge to roll down their sleeve for them, if only to no longer see the dressing. “Yes, plenty. … Thank you.”
“Any time.” They reach for and squeeze his hand with a smile. “Before you make me my favorite lunch, because I know you will, make sure to wipe your mouth? You have a little…”
“Oh, yes, I will.” He should have expected as much; feeding isn’t the neatest of affairs. “I’ll also be rinsing, I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. In fact…” They tilt their head, gesturing back down the hall. “I have an extra toothbrush. It’s all yours.”
His heart skips before he can rein himself in. It isn’t in that way, and yet… their expression is almost too inscrutable, as if they’re at the poker table and waiting for him to call.
He could do it, couldn’t he? Call and see their hands played? But… well, he was never a risky better.
There’s a reason they always win.
“That’s very generous of you,” he says, instead. “Sit tight right here, I’ll be back with lunch.”
If he didn’t bet how they’d have liked— hoped— they don’t show it. Instead, they just smile up at him over a sandwich made to their tastes fifteen minutes later.
Maybe tomorrow there’ll be another chance.
