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A little self-indulgent ficlet, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cicirossi, set somewhere before the start of Scars.
*****
He was stiff and sore and exhausted. He’d deny it, if anyone asked, but no one did. They just kept coming and taking and asking and needing and talking and ….
Not just humans. Not just the apparently endless stream of customers and deliveries that flowed through the shop. Not just Katie, on the phone from her sickbed, laughing herself to coughing fits at his grouchy tone. No, it was the faei too – the youngsters he was tutoring, their parents, their friends, that little pissant Mackenzie and his never ending stream of ‘just wondering’. Even Kael, in the dark early morning, shivering when a rain squall hit the window. Not quite hiding the reproach in his eyes when he’d done something wrong earlier, in the shop. Whatever.
He was exhausted, every muscle in his being ached, and the narrow stairs to their shabby front door took an effort of will to climb. If he allowed himself to think for even half a heartbeat about all that he had to do before he got up to repeat this day over again, he’d never make it home.
The door ghosted open at the brush of his hand. A slice of golden lamp light escaped, carrying with it warmth and the scent of rosemary, cider, fresh bread, home. His heart sank. An image, vivid as day, on the inside of his eyelids, of Kael, waiting, eager, and needing thank yous and soft words to be happy.
He drew breath, drew focus, and squared his shoulders.
The kitchen was empty – the table laid for one, the oven and the lamps both simmering low, and the teapot laid up ready, with the kettle keeping warm on half a hob. Total darkness told him that the workroom was deserted, and curiosity pulled him past the table.
The bathroom door was ajar, but the steam-softened air promised hot water and sweet herbs. The tingle along his skin when he leaned on the doorjamb would be wards breaking, he reasoned slowly, taking a second to assemble the clues. When he did, he had to smile. Ginger for warmth and lavender for sleep. Preservation wards to hold the water’s heat until someone broke them, coming in to bathe.
He stayed put, letting the warmth creep into him and gradually focussing outwards until he could make out slow regular breathing and a sense of presence from their bedroom. He drooped against the wall for all of three steps, letting inertia drape him against the other door. It was too dark to see, but he could feel Kael, fast asleep, as clearly as he could the gloss slicked woodwork against his back.
His knees still ached, and his shoulder where Zazz had thrown him wrong, his finger tips sore from thread and scissors, but the tension was easing, and the dull ache behind his eyes was less, and the cold hopelessness in his chest was warming to nothing.
cicirossi, set somewhere before the start of Scars. *****
He was stiff and sore and exhausted. He’d deny it, if anyone asked, but no one did. They just kept coming and taking and asking and needing and talking and ….
Not just humans. Not just the apparently endless stream of customers and deliveries that flowed through the shop. Not just Katie, on the phone from her sickbed, laughing herself to coughing fits at his grouchy tone. No, it was the faei too – the youngsters he was tutoring, their parents, their friends, that little pissant Mackenzie and his never ending stream of ‘just wondering’. Even Kael, in the dark early morning, shivering when a rain squall hit the window. Not quite hiding the reproach in his eyes when he’d done something wrong earlier, in the shop. Whatever.
He was exhausted, every muscle in his being ached, and the narrow stairs to their shabby front door took an effort of will to climb. If he allowed himself to think for even half a heartbeat about all that he had to do before he got up to repeat this day over again, he’d never make it home.
The door ghosted open at the brush of his hand. A slice of golden lamp light escaped, carrying with it warmth and the scent of rosemary, cider, fresh bread, home. His heart sank. An image, vivid as day, on the inside of his eyelids, of Kael, waiting, eager, and needing thank yous and soft words to be happy.
He drew breath, drew focus, and squared his shoulders.
The kitchen was empty – the table laid for one, the oven and the lamps both simmering low, and the teapot laid up ready, with the kettle keeping warm on half a hob. Total darkness told him that the workroom was deserted, and curiosity pulled him past the table.
The bathroom door was ajar, but the steam-softened air promised hot water and sweet herbs. The tingle along his skin when he leaned on the doorjamb would be wards breaking, he reasoned slowly, taking a second to assemble the clues. When he did, he had to smile. Ginger for warmth and lavender for sleep. Preservation wards to hold the water’s heat until someone broke them, coming in to bathe.
He stayed put, letting the warmth creep into him and gradually focussing outwards until he could make out slow regular breathing and a sense of presence from their bedroom. He drooped against the wall for all of three steps, letting inertia drape him against the other door. It was too dark to see, but he could feel Kael, fast asleep, as clearly as he could the gloss slicked woodwork against his back.
His knees still ached, and his shoulder where Zazz had thrown him wrong, his finger tips sore from thread and scissors, but the tension was easing, and the dull ache behind his eyes was less, and the cold hopelessness in his chest was warming to nothing.
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