Despite the fact that their golden boy is back, she still did the ritual alone tonight; he’s in some strange cursed limbo with Lethe while the board hems and haws, still needing his position and status reinstated. And it’s that delicate shift in the foundation between them, since she’s no longer trailing along after Darlington’s coattails. It’s different, somehow, and she’s still making up her mind how she feels about it. He’s not exactly her Virgil anymore — he’s her Eurydice, maybe, except she was smart enough not to look back. And she’s capable enough to do this shit on her own now.
Although tonight’s ritual went bad. Not hell hangover bad, not demon trying to kill me bad, but bad in that routine way of an ugly Gray busting through a ward. The shivers are starting to set in from that brush with the other side, a cold chill seeping into her bones and setting her teeth chattering. Alex slumps onto the front doorstep of Il Bastone, and doesn’t even have to fumble for keys; the door swings open for her, and she rests her hand against the jamb in warm gratitude, a hello, a thank-you.
The light’s on in the parlour. Darlington is still awake; probably still researching, still trying to learn whatever he can about demons.
She lingers. There’s a choice in the road here: she could stumble upstairs, maybe take a hot shower, try to wash off the smell of gravedirt and chalk, collapse into the Dante bed.
But she’s so fucking tired and she could do with a little company, so she scuffs her way into the parlour, where Darlington’s taken up one side of the sofa. It’s not as comfortable as the one she’d practically lived in at the Hutch, but it’s good enough. She wordlessly crosses the room, grabs a throw blanket hanging off a nearby armchair, and then collapses into that sofa. Burrowing her way into his side. Taking what warmth and body heat she can, and saying in a loose mumble, “You’re still up.”
Once upon a time, she would’ve been too skittish to be close to him at all. Standoffish. But some things change, after you’ve seen someone buck-ass naked and had their soul in your mouth and your hand’s still on the leash around their metaphorical throat. The physical boundaries between them have crumpled, torn through like tissue paper. She can still practically hear the sound of his soul if she tilts her head and reaches out her senses: steel ringing on steel.
affectionate physical contact. sometime post-hell bent.
Despite the fact that their golden boy is back, she still did the ritual alone tonight; he’s in some strange cursed limbo with Lethe while the board hems and haws, still needing his position and status reinstated. And it’s that delicate shift in the foundation between them, since she’s no longer trailing along after Darlington’s coattails. It’s different, somehow, and she’s still making up her mind how she feels about it. He’s not exactly her Virgil anymore — he’s her Eurydice, maybe, except she was smart enough not to look back. And she’s capable enough to do this shit on her own now.
Although tonight’s ritual went bad. Not hell hangover bad, not demon trying to kill me bad, but bad in that routine way of an ugly Gray busting through a ward. The shivers are starting to set in from that brush with the other side, a cold chill seeping into her bones and setting her teeth chattering. Alex slumps onto the front doorstep of Il Bastone, and doesn’t even have to fumble for keys; the door swings open for her, and she rests her hand against the jamb in warm gratitude, a hello, a thank-you.
The light’s on in the parlour. Darlington is still awake; probably still researching, still trying to learn whatever he can about demons.
She lingers. There’s a choice in the road here: she could stumble upstairs, maybe take a hot shower, try to wash off the smell of gravedirt and chalk, collapse into the Dante bed.
But she’s so fucking tired and she could do with a little company, so she scuffs her way into the parlour, where Darlington’s taken up one side of the sofa. It’s not as comfortable as the one she’d practically lived in at the Hutch, but it’s good enough. She wordlessly crosses the room, grabs a throw blanket hanging off a nearby armchair, and then collapses into that sofa. Burrowing her way into his side. Taking what warmth and body heat she can, and saying in a loose mumble, “You’re still up.”
Once upon a time, she would’ve been too skittish to be close to him at all. Standoffish. But some things change, after you’ve seen someone buck-ass naked and had their soul in your mouth and your hand’s still on the leash around their metaphorical throat. The physical boundaries between them have crumpled, torn through like tissue paper. She can still practically hear the sound of his soul if she tilts her head and reaches out her senses: steel ringing on steel.