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Waxillium Ladrian was used to a great many things, but walking into his bedroom to find his wife underneath the mattress was not among them.
“I assume you have a reason for this, Steris?” he called, hanging up his suit jacket.
“Yes,” she replied. She held her head up, which stuck out from underneath the mattress. “I find it comfortable.”
“Well, all right then.” Wax tugged his cravat undone. “Are you going to need any help getting out?”
“No, I’m quite capable of removing myself. Thank you.”
Wax nodded and returned to the business of undressing.
“You’re not going to question me further?” Steris tilted her head.
She didn’t trust acceptance. She was Steris, and that was enough for Wax, but for others it had been something to break her of.
“You seem to have the situation under control.” He shrugged. “If you’re comfortable, you’re comfortable. I might ask you to move later when I care to be on the mattress.”
“Of course,” she said.
Half-dressed, he sat at the desk and began pretending to understand the papers on it for him. He nodded along at the blur of household affairs, moving them over to where Steris could actually handle them later, and then moved on to his own business: papers from Marasi and the constabulary. Things were relatively calm in Elendel lately, leaving little for Wax to do. Sometimes these updates felt like scraps given to keep the dog out of dinner, or busywork given to a toddler who insisted on so-called helping.
Steris leaned over his shoulder, arm draped around his neck.
“I am sure,” she said, “something is going to blow up within the month and deliver you once more to the heat of the chase. There is a reason I have been hounding you so about the sofas.”
“But I don’t care what color the sofa is,” said Wax, leaning back into his wife’s arm.
“Oh,” she said, “the color of the sofa doesn’t matter. It’s the color of what Wayne is likely to stain it with I care about.”
He thought about that. “You never can tell with Wayne.”
“An obviously stained sofa gives a poor impression of us.”
“But an accurate one.”
“Highly.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Still, a thin veneer of respectability keeps some doors open. You should be fitted for a new suit while there is still a lull in exciting crime as well.”
“What’s wrong with my old suits?”
“I believe,” Steris said, “the lapels are of the wrong cut now. As well as the fact that half of your suits have been burned, shot at, soaked in rivers, and otherwise abused.”
“Occupational hazard,” said Wax.
“And replacement of clothes is a hazard of my occupation. Have you ever noticed how often I purchase new dresses? It’s a horror.”
“I thought that was just what women did.” Wax thought about it for a moment. “I’m an idiot.”
“At times, yes.”
“Thank you for being supportive.”
“I am nothing if not a dutiful wife.”
He turned his head, and she took the invitation for a kiss.
“You’re more than just ‘dutiful’,” he said, running a hand through her loose hair.
“Waxillium Ladrian, you are the only person who has ever accused me of that.” She spoke softly, and he was suddenly aware she might burst into tears.
“Well,” he said, suddenly standing and pushing his chair in, “I’ll accuse you of being a kind and loving wife as well, Steris Ladrian.”
She raised her chin. “Then I am afraid I must accuse you,” she said gravely, “of being a kind and loving husband.”
“Not a dutiful one?”
“I am afraid you fall very short in that regard.” She took his hand. “It is most refreshing.”
He pulled her into his arms, feeling the soft, bare skin of her shoulders. She wasn’t a different woman when she let down her hair and took off her gown— in fact, she was more herself, and that was why he loved her this way most of all. “I do try to be,” he said, softly.
“In your own way, you succeed,” she agreed, head against his chest. “As I said, I adore you for it. It reminds me that there is more to be.”
“Hmm.”
He brushed a lock of hair out of her face, and kissed her. Her breath caught, every time. Steris pressed in deeper and harder, and when she pulled away he could almost feel her shaking.
“I love you,” he said. He didn’t like to say it often, but Steris… he always wondered if she truly knew.
“Yes,” she said, slowly and in half a daze. “Yes, you do.”
He took her hand, and led her to their bed.
“I love you too,” said Steris.
“I know you do.” He reached out to touch her hair again, smiling. “Steris?”
“Yes?” She sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for the bedside lamp as Wax arranged the blankets.
“We need new sofas.”
“They were all exploded, yes.” She pulled the blankets over herself and curled into his side. “I believe that qualifies.”
“You’d like them to obscure whatever it is Wayne will put them through.”
“Well, I might be a little unfair in singling him out. You are also remarkable at dirtying sofas, and at times my sister as well.”
“Steris,” he said, thoughtfully, “let’s go out and buy some incredibly ugly sofas.”
“Inspired.” You could take the tone as an insult, but he knew better. “The most garishly-patterned sofas in Elendel shall be ours, then.”
He gave an amused hum, and held her a little bit closer. Her head was tucked into the crook of his neck, one hand just above his waist.
I could get used to this, Wax thought, as if he weren’t already. Somewhere he had become almost domestic, almost settled. It was odd, and oddest of all, it wasn’t unpleasant.
It was because Steris was like him. An outcast. But she had learned to cope, and now she was teaching him. Together they could pretend to care about the color of the sofas and the cut of his lapels, and he could almost learn to like it. At least it was alongside their truth, where they were what they were and accepted each other without reservation.
“Steris?”
She raised her head slightly. “What is it?”
“You find it comfortable under the mattress.”
“Yes, I do.”
He felt her tense, and ran a hand down her arm. “Weight?”
“I find pressure… calming.”
Wax nodded. He was silent, for a moment. He moved slightly, until Steris was beneath him instead of at his side.
Then he tapped weight.
“Oh,” said Steris.
“Too much?”
She reached a hand to take his tight. “No. I believe it’s ideal.”
“Good,” he said. “Good night, Steris.”
“Good night, Waxillium.”
Now this was domesticity he could get used to.