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There’s no good reason for Damien to not be out of bed at this point; the wrap of bandages cinched tight around his wounded ankle is mere technicality, the broken bone and flesh no more than a pink new scar above the deep ache of the stiffness and disuse. He still has a limp – just a slight one, nothing he hasn’t managed before – so he makes sure to slip from the sheets of Rilla’s cot with little more than a whisper. The floor of her hut creaks traitorously underneath his uneven weight, but he manages to shuffle out from the little room for her inpatients undetected, slipping down the hallway.
The restlessness in his veins has come to a boil, a tension he rolls out from his neck and shoulders. He sees the light from Rilla’s kitchen, takes the chance of upsetting her by being out of bed for the delight of her company; the banter it could warrant would be a balm to his addled mind at this stage, having run its laps to the point where his boredom is driving him to madness. So when he turns the corner, opening his mouth to greet her –
He stops in the doorway, equal parts cautious and enraptured by the sight of her. She’s hunched over the counter, her inquisitive eyes hidden behind the glare of safety goggles. His silence is less than elective, of course – he knows better than to interrupt her when she’s this absorbed by her work. From the way her nose is mere inches from the glass of a beaker, the way baby hairs fan around her and catch the dim light in a little corona of gold around her face, he can tell this work has kept her for hours, at least, and he would loathe to tear her away for something as trifling as his mere company.
He doesn’t mourn the fact, content to lean in the doorframe and watch. The bend of her fingers in their careful procedure, her gloves and her goggles pressing gentle indentations into the soft darkness of her skin, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek and the crease of her brow, every inch of her stiff and deliberate in utmost concentration – his mind screams in verse, already racing to put the words together before he can scramble to a desk to pen them down, and his voice threatens to betray him by expressing fondness in the only way he can –
His mind is brought to a halt by the soft clink of glass on glass. There’s the soft fizzle of gas in the solution she’s experimenting with, a layer of clean bubbles on its surface. It’s a rather unremarkable sight, but Rilla gasps, her hands moving to cover her mouth as her eyes grow wide with surprise.
She staggers back with a little hop that almost makes Damien giggle with amusement. The gasp in her throat escalates, something between a squeak and a yelp and a scream that he supposes sounds something like a yes! before it all but dissolves with the inability to contain her excitement.
She overflows with it, vibrating through her frame like a current that neither her body nor mind can completely comprehend. She buzzes with it, beams like warm sunlight, and Damien feels his aching heart stumble as she releases her delight in the frantic tremble and flutter of her hands. His own fingers itch to take up his quill but he can’t tear his eyes away for the world; the way her hands blur in their flurry, from her waist up to the sides of her head by her ears and out again, the twitch and flicker of her fingers as if plucking the strings of her bandolin – thoughts of hummingbirds and bumblebees flood his imagination, the flap of her hands like that of wings, dancing around his Amaryllis and her brilliance and her joy, and the connection makes him bubble with adoring laughter before he can stop himself.
“Oh-!” she starts, her braid whipping around as her head snaps to the door. Her beakers clatter noisily, and she lunges to save them in the knick of time before taking a step back from the doorway.
“Oh, Saints above-! Love – oh – my apologies-!” Damien sputters, stumbling forward belatedly at the prospect of broken glass before his attention back to her.
“Uh,” Rilla presses her fists bashfully against her chest, her eyes darting around the room, the breathless flush of her cheeks reddening with her chagrin before she composes herself. “Hey, you – should – shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Damien can barely answer her, laughing with joy and limping a few steps forward to wrap an arm around her shoulders. He has half the sense to be mortified, to spew apologies at his intrusion, but is mind is still dancing with verse and rhyme, of rosy fondness and Rilla’s wide smile – the blur of energetic wings, of iridescent feathers, pollen and honey in the summer afternoon –
“A success, I assume?” Damien chimes, pulling her close at her volition - as if he cares for or understands the experiment, as if his attention is on anything but her. She doesn’t meet his eye, her smile demure, but it twists with satisfaction as he presses a firm, loving kiss to her temple.
“It was,” she singsongs, bouncing a little in his arms.
She fully turns around, kissing him on the cheek as she returns the embrace, and Damien’s heart soars like a songbird when he feels the same careful, excited movement of her hands as they hug around his waist.