Line’s not a big city, but it’s a city nonetheless, so the streets aren’t exactly deserted. But it’s late enough that he can walk without having to dodge around people, and there’s nobody out on the street corners handing out flyers or advertising anything. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just walks, aimlessly, almost sleepwalking.

His pace slows outside a boarded-up storefront, and after a moment he realizes that it’s the antique store, the one that had been full of Gates. Now it doesn’t look like it’s full of anything, inasmuch as he can see inside at all. Abandoned. Except—the door’s hanging open, very slightly.

Frowning, Ryuuga pushes the door open very gently, expecting to find a stray dog or a homeless person getting out of the open, or maybe a teenager screwing around. Nobody. Just a few larger pieces from the shop’s inventory, covered in dusty sheets.

There’s a light on in the next room of the shop.

That room’s been cleared of stock entirely, and in its place are a black couch and a small table on which stand the one lit lamp, a paperback novel, a steaming samovar, and an empty black mug.

Jinga beckons from one end of the couch, smiling. “Evening, Ryuuga. I was wondering when you’d get here.”

Ryuuga stares, feeling like he just missed the bottom step of a basement staircase. His hand hovers over the hilt of his sword, not quite grabbing it. “Jinga.” The Horror’s holding something in one hand, and he squints at it, trying to see if it’s a weapon, and it’s— “You drink coffee?”

“I love that that’s what you’re focusing on, really I do.” Jinga leans forward slightly and pats the couch next to him, like someone inviting a pet to come to them. “Come on, sit. It’s not a Gate, I promise, it’s just a couch.” He takes a sip of coffee. “And stop grabbing at your sword like that, I’m not here for a fight.”

Off-balance, Ryuuga continues to stare for a moment, hand still hovering, and then takes two strides to get to the couch and sits down with a thump. Jinga nods encouragingly at him. The hair on the back of his neck stands up. “Were you waiting for me here? How did you know I’d come?” The couch is, unexpectedly, comfortable; he settles back despite himself, feeling the exhaustion start to set in as it hadn’t when he was back at the shop trying to sleep.

“I didn’t.” Jinga takes up the empty mug and pours him a coffee, which he accepts without thinking. “I come here when I’d like some time to myself. You didn’t think I spent every waking moment in my wife’s company, did you? But I thought you might come eventually.”

“Your wife…” Ryuuga looks around. “Where is she?”

“How should I know? We’ve each got our own entertainments to pursue occasionally. Drink your coffee, it’s very good.” Jinga’s fingertips rest for a moment on Ryuuga’s arm in a gesture which might be flirtatious if this were a social occasion, but which…still seems flirtatious now. “I promise I didn’t poison it.”

Every shred of good sense tells Ryuuga not to drink. If good sense were in charge tonight, though, he wouldn’t be sitting in the first place, he’d already be fighting. Actually, he wouldn’t even be here, he’d be back at the shop, getting what sleep he can. But he’s not there, he’s not sleeping, he’s sitting in an abandoned building next to a genially-smiling Horror with his sword still in its sheath at his hip.

“Go ahead. Drink.”

He takes a sip. The coffee is dark and sweet and full of spices and it coats his tongue and makes his throat prickle, and it’s extraordinarily good—the best coffee he’s ever had, although he’s not exactly a coffee drinker as a rule.

Jinga’s watching him thoughtfully, and after a moment says, “You know, I didn’t expect you to actually drink it. It’s pleasant, isn’t it? The spices. Have another sip.”

The second sip is better, longer, with the first sip still fading on his tongue and paving the way for renewed sweetness.

“You’re good at taking orders, aren’t you? At least when they come from the right person.”

There’s laughter in the back of Jinga’s voice, and the hair on the back of Ryuuga’s neck is standing up again, and his coffee mug falls to the floor and shatters, splashing his boots. “What did you do to me?”

“Nothing. I just told you to do something, and you did it. It was all you.” Jinga smiles, slow and easy. “Anyway, that’s what knights are supposed to do, isn’t it? What they’re told? That’s where the word comes from, y’know. Means servant. Someone who takes orders from the king.” He reaches out and very gently trails a knuckle down the side of Ryuuga’s face, and Ryuuga—doesn’t bat his hand away. “And since there’s only one king in this room, it stands to reason you’d do what comes naturally.”

Ryuuga’s mouth still tastes of coffee, and even with the caffeine he’s so tired. He says, slowly, “I’d thought your hands would be cold.”

“Did you?” Fingers stretching out, the unexpectedly warm palm cupping his cheek. “Aren’t you exhausted, fighting all the time like you do?” The smile is so close to his mouth, the ghost of Jinga’s lips brushing his. “I could make this so easy for you, Ryuuga. Why don’t you put your head in my lap, and when you wake up the weight of all that responsibility will be off your shoulders.”

Ryuuga’s so tired that he’s swaying, and it’s almost a tempting offer, but as he drifts forward his mouth does touch Jinga’s, and the feeling of Jinga’s teeth as he starts to laugh is like a bolt of lightning. He’s on his feet in seconds, stumbling, nearly slipping in the spilled coffee as shards of the broken mug crunch under his feet. One hand goes to his sword, but good sense finally has the upper hand, and good sense says that he’s in no shape to fight anyone, and so he runs, cursing himself the entire time as Jinga’s rich, delighted laughter follows after him.

He gets back to the shop and there’s Yukihime, still awake, polishing something else—has he ever seen her sleep? She looks up with a frown as he stumbles in and closes the door behind himself, eyebrows drawing down in concern, and leaves her polishing behind to take his coat from him and tch at the coffee on the hem. “When the Devil comes courting,” she says, very softly, “he offers you what you want.”