Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Watch it, Goliath,” Glain retorts, as Thomas nearly backs into her. They’re both carrying boxes stacked full of Jess and Morgan’s possessions. Being made use of as the muscle for the house move.

That hits him too sharp and too deep for rationality, and he groans at himself.  

“I’ll do my best,” he responds, mild and easy because it’s always, always better backing down than starting a confrontation. 

He puts his box down carefully then immediately heads back inside, to try and ignore the spreading chill inside him at what his ridiculous brain perceives as a rejection; a criticism; a nasty dig.

And it’s none of those things. He knows it’s not. It doesn’t help.

He rescues Jess and Dario, who are trying to manoeuvre a wardrobe through a doorway too narrow for it. Hands Jess his screwdriver. 

He knows Glain would be horrified and guilty to know that he can feel exactly where the tears are buried, rising through the shivering, sharp ice inside him. But his brain is awful and terrible and he imagines telling her anyway, and the satisfaction it would bring.

(It wouldn’t bring satisfaction. He knows that. But the daydream helps, a little. Notice me. Don't notice me. A familiar refrain.)

He answers Nic’s call for assistance, and together they lift a cabinet. It would be much easier to dismantle that too, but he needs the strain right now to ease the tightness in his chest. 

Hard work done, there are two hours before they’re all due at Khalila and Dario’s for a lavish dinner. 

The sting is fading to numbness. He crashes on his bed, still with his shoes on. Maybe sleeping will help.

Wakes an hour and fifteen minutes later. He’s going to be late.

The sleep doesn’t seem to have helped much, he thinks sadly, as he shoves a fresh shirt on and drags a comb through his hair. Oh well. It’ll wear off. 

He realises too late that the sleep and isolation has, in fact, actively not helped when Dario makes a joke and it takes a massive effort just to smile. 

Dario stares straight at him, seeing it.

Thomas can’t bring himself to care.

God, he hates this bit. When it feels like there’s glass between him and the rest of the world. Hell, between him and the rest of him. When he can tell exactly how he’d normally react to things but he just … can’t, not without filling himself full of tearful, fizzing adrenalin from the effort.

And everyone can tell. And everyone is watching him, round the table, as he eats silently and manages small smiles for their jokes and their stories and their beautiful luminous love that he just can’t feel right now.

Morgan and Khalila are flanking him and that can’t be accidental.

He’s pretty sure everyone must be talking with their eyes, because Dario would have said something by now. Jess too. But instead it’s Wolfe who, in a quiet moment, raises his eyebrows wordlessly.

Thomas shrugs. He doesn’t keep his voice down. It’s low enough as it is right now, an effort enough as it is right now, and hell, everyone’s listening anyway.

“Just a silly thing. It’ll pass.”

Wolfe nods, and returns to his food.  

And gradually it does lift. The more he tries, the easier it gets, until by the end of the meal he feels better. He still can’t laugh, and his smiles still feel too wide and too still, but it’s better.

It’ll pass. This silly, tiny thing. His stupid brain chemistry. It’ll pass.

Chapter Text

Thomas? Khalila’s voice shook Thomas out of his thoughts. “I’m making myself a drink; would you like one?”

“Um.” Thomas rubbed his beard and tried to gather his thoughts. “Just a glass of water, please.”

He wasn’t doing very well at tracking time right now; she seemed to have only been gone for a few seconds when she returned with hot coffee in one hand and a glass of water in the other.  

“I thought we could both do with a short break,” she said. Her voice was cheerful but her eyes were serious.

Thomas shrank from her insight and merely said,

“Yes,” as he took his water.

They chatted for a while. Quite frankly it turned into gossip quickly, and while normally Thomas would be a little dismissive of gossip, it was nice to have a distraction from the fact that his mind felt like a progressively thinning glass sheet over a vortex.

Yes, the chat was steadying. Reassuring. So when she reached over to take his glass away, he said,

“Don’t be silly, I’ll do that,” and squeezed her hand as he got to his feet.

She winced and hissed and made an unmistakable if quickly aborted attempt to pull her hand free.  

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

He’d spent his whole life being aware of his strength in comparison to those around him, but the many ways in which he couldn’t trust himself after Rome meant that he regularly woke from nightmares where he had hurt or killed one of his friends.  

“I’m sorry!” His chair shuddered as he sat heavily back into it. Already he was finding it hard to breathe. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt-“

Khalila surged out of her chair and cupped his face with both hands.

“Thomas, it’s not you. That wasn’t you. You’re fine. You were gentle.”

So was she, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. He stared despairingly into her determined dark eyes. “It was only me,” she said firmly. “Just my hand. The burn scars are painful today. That’s all.”

He let her lead his breathing for a minute or two, until he stopped feeling like he was breathing through a straw, then he sat back.

She let her hands fall from his cheeks to his shoulders, and then along to grasp both his hands as she too regained her seat. It felt like her light touch was the only thing holding him in place.

It wasn’t me, he told himself, trying to embed the knowledge somewhere secure in his mind, as a foundation to build upon, but he didn’t have many stables places in there right now. So he gave up and turned it outwards. Distractions.  

“I didn’t know about your hands.” He could feel the different textures against his palm. He’d noticed them several times before, given how tactile she was, but he’d never really considered any further implications. “May I see?”

“Of course.” She released her left hand and laid it palm up on his knee. He leaned forwards for a better look.  

Her palm was criss-crossed with raised red lines. One thick line trailed down over the underside of her wrist, and seemed to pull the surrounding skin towards it like a snag in fabric. It was outlined by small, healing scabs.

“Is that the most painful part?” he asked, hovering his finger just over it.

She nodded. “It gets warm when it’s bad. And it itches, and I just can’t stop scratching.” She gave a little deprecating laugh and indicated the scabs.  

“Do you have any cream for it?” It was a stupid question. Of course she would have treatment for it. But … he remembered his mother fussing over him when he’d burnt his leg in hot water as a child. It was a better memory than most of what was in his head right now.  

“I do, yes.” As ever, her earnest expression made him feel like no question was too stupid. “And Dario does a truly fantastic hand massage.”

Thomas smiled. “Good.”

Chapter Text

Dario jumped as Khalila said a cheerful hello on her way to the bathroom.

“Morning,” he said, belatedly. Her footsteps stopped, and he winced.  

“Did you not sleep well again?”

The concern in her voice made him twitch. But then, everything was making him twitch, that was why he’d been sat here staring dazedly out the window since long before dawn.  

“Not really.”

The floor creaked, just once, as she clearly took a step forwards and changed her mind.  

“I’ll get you a coffee when I’m out.”

“Thanks.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

He’d been doing that all night as well – it was greasy now. He should join Khalila in the bathroom and clean up, but he’d got himself to the point where the thought of doing anything other than staying exactly where he was made anxiety pull tight and sore in his chest.  

Not that his current position was perfect. He wanted to be curled up tight, but doing so meant that he couldn’t sigh away new pulses of anxiety.  

She was out of the shower and moving around. He listened to every little sound as she made them both drinks. The sounds made his skin crawl, and the cogs in his chest crunch together.  

He accepted the cup she handed him. She didn’t let go of the cup – and he realised why a second later when he took a sip.

“That’s not coffee!” he snapped. Had she not instantly taken the cup back from him, he might have thrown it like a child.  

“It’s not,” she said calmly. She’d showered and her hair was damp and cold when it brushed against his arm. He tried to shift away from it. “It’s chamomile.”

“I know what it is! I don’t like it!” It felt like he didn’t have control over his own mouth. This was a horrible, ineffective way to burn off tension.  

“I know, darling. But I think you need it.”  The ‘darling’ set his teeth on edge, and the proprietary hand on his wrist made all the hairs on his arm rise.

He shook her off. He needed to keep the shredded vestiges of his control to himself right now.  

“Fuck off,” he mumbled, staring back out of the window. He wasn’t brave enough to look her in the eye while he was saying that. 

Of course, he wasn’t brave at all, that was the whole … the whole point.  

She sighed and stood up and he caught his breath against a painful wave of guilt.

Listened to her footsteps. Into the bedroom and out of it again.

He felt like he was shaking but a quick glance at one hand showed that he wasn’t.

Brain making absolutely everything up again, as usual.  

“Sorry,” he blurted as she approached again.  

“It’s all right,” she replied from behind him. “We’ll talk about it later.”

To his surprise, she put a pillow behind his head and a blanket around his shoulders.

Handed him the stupid tea again.  

“Khalila …”

She smiled at him, and something inside him loosened, just a fraction. Just enough for a deep breath that wasn’t a sigh and didn’t feel like it was straining against a cage. The blanket was warm and the pillow was soft.  

“I made the tea cool enough for you to just pour down your throat. Drink it, darling. Try to sleep.”

She got up to pull the blinds at the window and he was taken aback by a vicious surge of panic that slammed his throat shut and made him cough to try and hide it.  

“Kha-Khalila,” he spluttered, helplessly.  

“Blinds, blinds, one second,” she said quickly.

He hated himself for the worry that bled into her voice just then.

Well. Hated himself more.

“Right.” She climbed into his lap, with her legs over the arm of the chair, and curled up against him. It was a slightly awkward position but it made everything a bit better.

“Sorry.” He shut his eyes, just for a moment. “I don’t know what –“

“Yes you do,” she replied, her lips soft against his forehead. “This is the third night in a row you’ve barely slept. You’ve reached the point where you’re just anxious about your anxiety and everything’s feeding on itself. We’ll talk about it later.”

She raised the cup to his mouth. “Drink.” He did.

It was disgusting, as expected.  

“Good boy.”  He looked at her, and her eyes were wide and embarrassed. That had slipped out accidentally. His urge to snap back faded.

“Am I?” He tried to laugh but it sounded like a sob.

She had started massaging the sore spot on his chest and it was awful and wonderful at the same time.  

“Ssh. Yes, you are.” Her hair was dangling against his face, but it felt cool and refreshing this time. “Sleep now. Just sleep.”

And eventually, after several jolting, heart-racing false starts, like the ones that had driven him from their bed in the first place, he did.

Chapter Text

Morgan tried the door. It was open, despite the darkness inside.

“Khalila, you shouldn’t be in here,” she whispered to her friend’s back. 

“I know, thank you.” Khalila’s voice was soft and flat. And tired, Morgan thought, which steeled her resolve. She stepped into the hospital room and closed the door behind her. Khalila faded to a mere shape in the dark.

“Everyone’s worried about you. You need to rest.” 

Khalila completely ignored her words, reaching out instead to brush her fingers over the mattress next to Dario’s hand. 

“He woke up a few hours ago. They weren’t expecting it. Thought the sedative would hold him for longer.” She sighed. It rasped, just a little. “When he woke he was feverish, he was in pain, he couldn’t remember what had happened or appreciate where he was. He was so frightened.” 

 Her voice cracked into a sob then, and Morgan put her hand nervously on her shoulder. Khalila shrugged it away. 

“If I hadn’t been here, where I’m not supposed to be, they would have used several staff members to restrain him for long enough to shove more sedative in, and he would have fallen unconscious again knowing only fear. But I was here, and I could calm him.” 

Morgan had never heard her accent so thick, or her voice so cold and strained.

“So I will not leave here until he has returned to his senses and if you put your hands on me again, Morgan, knowing what you can do with them, I will do my best to stab you.” 

Morgan took a careful step backwards, and strained her eyes in the darkness to try and see what on earth Khalila could have to hand. 

“I won’t touch you again. I’m sorry.” That threat had sent her heart racing and her blood running cold because she could tell Khalila meant it. She’d convinced herself she was Dario’s only protector and everybody else was the enemy. All too clearly, Morgan could imagine a dismissive Medica assuming the threat was empty, or that the tiny girl in front of them posed no danger. Or worse, not even seeing her at first in the dark, and then making some kind of movement that Khalila perceived as a danger … “Please, put down whatever you’ve got. Please. You won’t be of any use to Dario if the Garda drag you away.” 

“I’ll kill a few of them first too,” Khalila muttered. Morgan’s breath snagged in her chest. Oh, this was bad. 

But to her surprise and utmost relief, Khalila turned and held out a purloined scalpel. Morgan took it, in a convoluted way that ensured their fingers made no potentially threatening skin-to-skin contact. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. Khalila sighed, a long, exhausted hiss, and bent slowly and awkwardly over to rest her head on her hand. 

“I’m not planning on killing anyone. I promise.” Her voice was slow and soft now, like it had been when Morgan had first entered. Exhaustion. Maybe more than that. “I’m sorry. I just …” She trailed off and didn’t finish. 

“It’s ok,” Morgan said, automatically. “Can I touch you? I promise I won’t drain your energy, or do anything with quintessence.” 

“Fine.” 

So Morgan gently took Khalila’s free hand and squeezed it. It was cold. They sat silence for several minutes. Morgan listened to the rattle of Khalila’s breathing and didn’t like it at all. The Medicas had treated the damage from her slicing chest injury, but, well, things could reopen, couldn’t they? 

“I’m worried about you, Khalila.” It was only essentially what she’d said when she’d entered the room, but they seemed to have reached an understanding now so she hoped it could go better this time around. “If we push these two chairs together, do you think you could lie down? If you wanted, I could stay here to watch Dario.” 

There. Several compromises, all at once. 

 Khalila made a thoughtful noise in response, then went so silent and still that Morgan wondered if she’d started dropping off to sleep there and then. 

“I’ll try.” Morgan let go of her hand and pushed their chairs together. They were wide, padded chairs that at some point somebody had obviously stolen from the corridor outside, and hopefully they would be satisfactory for a sleeping surface. 

Khalila started to lower herself down onto her good side, at which point the little tiny whimpers confirmed how much pain she was in. Morgan put a hand against her shoulder and braced it. “Can I help?” 

Khalila’s breathing was uneven. “I think it’s the muscular tension. If I try to relax, can you just … control the fall?” 

“Right. Yes. Of course.” 

That was much more difficult than it sounded for both of them and by the time Khalila was lying flat, she was crying. 

“I’m sorry.” Morgan stroked her head, and tried to rescue the utterly disarrayed headscarf, smoothing and tucking her tangled hair as best as she could. 

 “I’m the idiot,” Khalila said eventually. It was as if the pain had roused her a little. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I can’t leave him all alone, Morgan, I can’t.” 

She sobbed, and then caught her breath and reached for her side. 

“I know.” Morgan had a very bad feeling about how much pain Khalila was in. She slid her hand down from Khalila’s head, over her shoulder, and then onto her injured side. Sure enough, it was wet. “You know your stitches have gone.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Mm. That happened a little while ago.” She sounded woozy. 

“Khalila! You lost a lot of blood earlier!” 

“My husband lost his leg.” Ah. There was irrational Khalila again. Morgan double-checked that the scalpel was still in her inside jacket pocket, well out of Khalila’s reach. 

“I have a plan, all right?” She went back to stroking Khalila’s head. “Because you won’t be able to look after Dario if you’re too weak from blood loss, will you?” And from exhaustion. And low blood sugar and dehydration, most likely, thinking back to the sequence of events. It was a miracle she was still awake. “I want to go and get a Medica –“ 

“No.” Khalila tried to shove herself upright but halted halfway up with a yelp.

 Morgan kept stroking her head and shoulder, very gently pushing her back down again. “Let me finish my plan. I also want to go and get Santi or Glain in here. A proper guard, ok? So that you don’t need to worry anymore.” 

She kept her voice very low. Soothing. Channelling Annis. It wouldn’t be Santi, he wouldn’t leave Wolfe, but it sounded good. Glain was the obvious choice, although exhaustion was playing havoc with her cognitive function right now. 

Jess? Not in a million years. Khalila could wrap him around her little finger and they all knew it. If Khalila would accept an unfamiliar soldier that Santi vouched for, that would be ideal. 

“Once the Medica has sorted your stitches, and possibly a rehydration drip, we can discuss getting you a bed in here.” Her hand smoothed over Khalila’s skin, again and again. “That sounds like a good solution, doesn’t it?” 

Khalila made a muffled agreeing sound, then wriggled. It looked deliberate; using pain to wake herself up again. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Excuse me, at what point in that plan did I suggest that you were?” Morgan put her hand on Khalila’s cheek. “You’ll just stay here and watch Dario. I’ll go and sort everything out. I promise if anyone does anything they shouldn’t, I will knock them out.” She wiggled her fingers in front of Khalila’s eyes, and got a faint giggle in response. “Do we have a deal, my dear?”

Chapter Text

Khalila was familiar with the concept of akai ito, the red string of fate tying you to your soulmate, from her enjoyment of Japanese poetry, and she swore she could feel it pulling at her little finger as she walked the Library corridors in the early hours of the morning.  

The discussions about the future of the Library were over, or at least had been halted for the night. Nothing concrete had been decided on at such an early stage, but she was encouraged by how many high-ranking and influential Scholars seemed amenable to her words.

She had visited her family, made sure they were safe and housed in a suitable standard of accommodation (apparently Wolfe had organised that, she needed to thank him), and had a wholly inadequate conversation with them which would have to be expanded upon later. Her father and brother had been very concerned about hiding their bruises and hollow cheeks from her, and she’d let them maintain their dignity while bitterly laughing inside at how much worse she had seen.  

She had been good and dutiful and had done what needed to be done. Now, finally, praise Allah, finally, she was able to go to Dario.  

According to the messages in Khalila’s hastily borrowed Codex, Glain had taken it upon herself to guard Dario during the fight, and afterwards had dragged his protesting form to the Medicas, where he’d been ever since.  

Is he tired? Khalila had asked nervously, as soon as she’d left the rooms where her family was staying. Should I wait until tomorrow?

Get down here before I have to actually tie him to the bed, Glain had replied, in short, sharp strokes.  

And now here she was, coming into the Medica wing and signing herself in as a visitor, following the directions to his room.

Of course he has a separate room, she thought with a semi-hysterical little giggle. They’re lucky he didn’t ask for a whole suite and his own personal chef.

The corridor blurred into a twitchy smear of not-there-yet, but it was impossible to miss Glain standing outside the relevant door, in full guarding mode.

Khalila pulled her into a tight hug, which Glain allowed for a few seconds before disentangling herself. There were shadows under her eyes.

“Thank you,” Khalila said. Her voice trembled a little. “Thank you for looking after him when I couldn’t.”

Glain shrugged awkwardly. “I avoided strangling him, just for you.” She met Khalila’s eyes and gave her a quick nod. “I’ll be in the barracks quarters if you need me.”

“Get some rest,” Khalila called after her. She couldn’t see Glain’s face but she could imagine the eye-rolling reaction.

She opened the door. Resisted the wild, powerful urge to bound onto Dario's bed and wrap every inch of herself around him, and instead walked sedately to a waiting chair and drew it closer to the bed.

 He looked somehow better and worse than when she’d last seen him, in a cold flash of horror in the middle of a battlefield when she thought he’d returned to her just in time for them to die together. Cleaner, but quieter. Still horrifyingly battered.

There was an open Blank by his side. What could he be reading, at this time, with his injuries?

She made a questioning face at the Blank and he immediately handed her it, easily, as if they were still back in the Reading Room as brand new Scholars, with only the horror of Oxford behind them. Her eyes blur so much with tears that she couldn't see the words in front of her.

"Don't cry, bella." His voice held a rasp that she thought indicated exhaustion.

(She didn't want to think about what else might have roughened his throat.)

He took one of her hands and raised it to his mouth. It should have been lovely but all she could see was the red split in his lip, the dead nail on his hand.

Dario tried to get up from the sofa and winced. 

Khalila put her hand on his arm. “I’ll get up. What do you want?” 

He sat back and sighed. “Nothing. Stop hovering over me; I’m fine.” He hastened to take the sting out of his words by squeezing her hand.  

You’re not fine, Khalila thought, reluctantly sitting back. It had taken them nearly fifteen minutes to find a position where they could both be in physical contact on the sofa without Dario’s face blanching in pain.  

His skin was practically coated with bruises; blue-black bloodstains that told her a clear and horrible story. There was a fingermark on his neck, most of a handprint wrapped around both wrists, part of a boot-print on his cheek, the butt of a gun marked high on his bicep. 

That was just what she could see on his face and arms; from the ginger way he was moving and breathing there were lots more hidden under his shirt that he was refusing to remove in front of her.  

One front lower incisor was chipped and the corners of his mouth were sore and bloody; she very much suspected they’d forced the barrel of the gun into his mouth but he didn’t want to talk about it and the idea made her feel simultaneously light-headed and flat-out murderous, so she let him stay quiet. 

He had five stitches almost exactly along his hairline on the left side. There was still dried blood in his hair there, despite his strenuous, painful efforts to get clean earlier. She reached over to pick at it, and despite watching her approach he still flinched far too hard when her hand landed on him.  

He flinched, she apologised, he snapped; they’d been going on like this all evening.

“I love you,” she said, instead of apologising. 

He drew in a quick, sharp breath then let it out in a sigh that seemed to go on forever. When he spoke, his voice was thick. 

“Come here.” He gently tugged at her arm. She looked down at his hand; bruised, grazed, split knuckles, one nail dead and black.  

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. Her voice was very small.  

“Come on,” he repeated, and tugged again. She let him pull this time, and gingerly settled onto his lap. “You’re worth the pain,” he whispered, pulling her forwards until her lips brushed his. They kissed, gentle and tender. His mouth still tasted like blood.

Despite how worried she was about him, or possibly because of it, kissing him was wonderful. Being as close together as they physically could when they had been torn apart from each other so recently. Feeling the soft warmth of his mouth and the scrape of his stubble as proof that he was alive and safe and here.

She held herself very still and in very little actual contact, nervous of aggravating the unseen injuries under his shirt. Any weight on his chest was visibly painful.

He had no such concerns, and his hands were roaming deliciously over her whole back. One hand slid far lower than she would usually permit, and she tried to summon the will to tell him to stop, but thankfully he seemed happy to use her rear just as a convenient place to rest his hand.

‘Please,’ he whispered, as he put gentle pressure on her back to try and push her closer. 'You make me feel better.’

'You manipulative ass,’ she chided, carefully running her fingers through his hair. He smiled widely enough that it made him wince.

'You know me so well. My fiancee.’ He leaned up towards her and kissed her deep and hot, and she couldn’t help but respond to that. She tilted her head for a better angle, and to her horror her face collided with the swollen, bruised, apparently-not-broken part of his cheek.

He let out a dreadful stifled groan.

Ice gushed through every inch of her body and she tried to pull away, but to her surprise he restrained her with enough effort that she would have had to fight to get free.

'No. Stay. Stay here, Khalila, just…’ He guided her head to his opposite shoulder. She stared at the back of the sofa and listened to his suddenly ragged breathing and felt sick with guilt.

'I’m not going anywhere,’ she said as reassuringly as she could, and his grip relaxed.

She wanted to say all sorts of silly pointless things. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But she knew it would only frustrate him.

After a minute or so had gone by, his breathing steadied. She thought she recognised that pattern, though; it wasn’t peaceful.

'That’s made your headache worse, hasn’t it?’ She turned her head and body as carefully as she could. Yes, he’d gone white and still with his eyes closed, very much like he did during a migraine.

'It’ll die down,’ he said softly. 'Don’t go.’

If he said any more like that her heart was going to break.

'I won’t. It’s all right.’ She kissed a clean, clear patch of his cheek then settled her head with her lips next to his ear. 'Why would I leave you when I only just got you back? I thought I'd lost you.’ Her voice wobbled.

He made a faint agreeing hum. 'Didn’t think I was coming back. Thought I was going to be killed without seeing you again.’

'Ssh.’ She blinked tears out of her eyes. She’d been trying to ignore that herself. To stop herself crying, she recalled the information that the harassed Medica had sent them away with. 'Are you feeling dizzy?’

Dario sighed. 'My flower, I’m not going to suddenly worsen my concussion because you bumped a bruise.’ His hand was now resting on her hip, and he stroked it gently.

'Still.’ She took that wandering hand and kissed it. 'You need to rest.’

He grumbled in hoarse Spanish.

'If I come to bed with you, fully dressed, will you go to sleep?’

He opened his eyes and gave her a pale imitation of a leer. 'I’ll sleep with you anytime, mi amor.’

It took a few minutes for Dario’s headache to subside enough to allow him to stand, and by that point he’d lost the ability to pretend all the bruises and strains and things he wasn’t showing her weren’t affecting him. He looked washed-out and strained, and was gripping the furniture as he moved like his life depended on it. 

When he finally lay down, he virtually melted into the mattress.

“Oh God,” he mumbled, as she climbed behind him. “Why  did I not do this before?”

“You were trying to pretend you were fine.” She rubbed the back of his head soothingly, carefully avoiding a lump. “Now please just get some sleep.” She pulled the sheet up over him for the extra weight and warmth he liked, and he cuddled into it like a child. 

“As you wish.” He fell asleep within minutes and was soon snoring loudly. 

She’d watched him sleep for maybe forty minutes when there came a loud knock at the door, and both her and Dario’s Codices pinged from the other room. 

Dario woke up on the second knock, abruptly, calling out in confusion and fright and flailing at his covers. He tried to sit up but gasped in pain. 

“Dario, it’s all right. You’re in bed. You’re safe. Someone’s just knocking at the door.” She tried to tug him round to look at her but he was tight and tense and couldn’t be moved. “Dario. It’s me. It’s Khalila. Look at me, please.”

The relief on his face as he saw her hit her like a blow to the chest. “Ssh." 

She kissed his cheek and stroked the back of his neck. He clumsily gripped her shoulders and mumbled Spanish swearwords into her shoulder. 

She could feel his pulse racing. "I’m here. Everything is fine. Someone’s just at the door." 

His gaze gradually sharpened again, even as she felt tremors start to build in him. 

"Who is it?” He rubbed his eyes and looked with sleepy confusion at his shaking hands. 

“I’ll go and see. Lie back. You’ve had a shock.”

His mouth worked for a second or two, and his hands clutched her. “Be careful." 

She smoothed his hair down over his forehead and nodded. It was a valid concern. 

She checked her Codex. It was Alvaro. 

The door had a peephole, and she saw it was indeed Alvaro out there. He was flanked by Lieutenant Botha, which made her heave a sigh of relief. 

"Ambassador, lieutenant.” She nodded her head towards them. “What brings you both here at this time?” A pointed reminder.

Botha ducked his head back at her, a little lower. “My apologies for disturbing you, Scholar Seif. I found Ambassador Santiago wandering the ground floor courtyard;  he said he needed to find Scholar Santiago.”

She fixed Alvaro with a hard stare. “He’s not up for receiving guests right now, i’m afraid.”

“Not even family?” His tone was light and easy, but his eyes were intense, and his body language was a touch aggressive. 

Khalila raised her eyebrows. “He needs to rest.”

“May I come in and leave him a letter, then? And perhaps quench my parched throat while I’m writing?”

Khalila ground her teeth. She couldn’t say no to that without appearing very rude. Botha obviously sensed her discomfort, as he shifted his posture just a little, but Alvaro shifted his too. 

Even better! Now she had to invite him in to prevent a scene!

“Hurry up and be quiet about it.” May as well embrace the rudeness.

“I thought you had been recalled to Spain,” she whispered sharply as she closed the front door on Botha’s concerned face.

“The embassy was.” Alvaro’s eyes were still dark and intense. So like Dario’s. “I’m not here in that role.” He looked towards the bedroom. “Is he really indisposed?”

Anger flooded her. “As opposed to what?”

“Who’s there, Khalila?” Dario called from the bedroom. 

“Your second favourite family member, runt.”

“Varito!” Dario’s voice was suddenly sharper and more animated. There was rustling from the bedroom. “To what do I owe the honour, you piece of shit?”

Alvaro rolled his eyes, hard. “Don’t get up, you idiot. i’ll come in. Make yourself vaguely decent.” His gaze slid to Khalila, just a for split second, and she reflexively checked her headscarf.

“He’s fully dressed.” Khalila was vibrating with outrage. How dare he?

He had the grace to look embarrassed before he turned to hurry into the bedroom. 

There was a flurry of loud Spanish. She tiptoed nearer to see what she could make out, but then quite distinctly heard Dario warn, “Khalila speaks a bit of Spanish,” and the room fell dead silent. Signing.

When Alvaro eventually emerged, she shut the bedroom door firmly behind him and glared at him.

“What are you getting him involved in?” She barely recognised her own voice, it was so hard and low and sharp. 

Alvaro shrugged. “Right now, nothing. Merely an update on his health.”

“Don’t feed me that nonsense, Alvaro. I thought you had more respect for me than that.” She took a few steps closer, but Alvaro held his ground with ease. She felt very young and very small all of a sudden, and that only frustrated her.

“We’re not quite on the same side.”

He didn’t respond, which was as good as an agreement.

“How dare you try to make him choose his allegiance while he’s so vulnerable?” It was a strong word, but it matched Dario right now. 

Alvaro pulled a face that she couldn’t interpret. “I would prefer not to do this,” he said, finally, “but I must, as must he.”

Khalila read between the lines. Family loyalty. The king. She went cold inside. 

“He is a Scholar of the the Great Library; he has the freedom to make his own choices!”

His expression softened with a kind of pitying amusement. “And what is the Great Library right now, Scholar Seif?”

“That’ll do, cousin.” Dario’s voice was soft and exhausted and when Khalila spun around he was leaning heavily on the doorframe to take the  weight off his sprained ankle, but his eyes were hard and dark. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Who’s 'we’ in this?” Khalila snarled. Dario blinked at her tone and she saw the mask appear as he locked his expression down. 

“I’ll talk to both of you later.” He stood there and stared at them like a wonky statue until Alvaro bobbed his head and flicked a sign or two at him and turned to leave. 

“My sincere apologies for disturbing your evening, Scholar Seif, Scholar Santiago.”

The door closed behind him. Khalila turned to Dario, who was still regarding her with silent, toneless defensiveness. 

“What have you agreed to?” Her voice was high and taut with worry. “What stupid plan have you joined in with now, without telling me? Given I had to rescue us all the last time you did this!”

“Nothing, right now.” He closed his eyes. “It should help everyone out in the end.” He swallowed. Swayed.

Khalila watched him for a long second, suddenly suspicious of everything, but no, he couldn’t fake the grey pallor of his skin.  “Go to bed.”

He nodded, but didn’t move until she went to him and tucked her shoulder under his arm to take some of his leaden weight. Tried to soften her voice. Her fears. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“I love you,” he said beseechingly to her as they stumbled back to the bed. 

She sighed. “Yes. I love you too.”

You may love me, but where do your loyalties really lie, Dario?

Chapter Text

The door opened to the Media room, and Jess glanced over idly to see who it was.  It was Wolfe. He looked awful.

Jess didn’t manage to look away (too busy being slightly horrified) 

“You’re better, then.” Wolfe’s voice was awful too, he sounded weak and breathy and hoarse, not to mention completely stuffed up.  Jess nodded. 

“Your turn, now. Have you got what Santi’s got?”

“Shingles. No.” Wolfe sat down and tugged his Scholar’s robe closer around him. He lowered his head briefly and swallowed hard, which on first sight looked like he was suppressing a cough but Jess saw his fingers quiver and realised that he was probably suppressing shivers. His face was a blotchy mess of colour - not quite as obvious as it would have been on Jess’ chalky skin but there if you were familiar with him normally. Within seconds of settling down in his seat, his eyes had drifted shut and his mouth had fallen open. 

Jess looked away to give him some semblance of privacy, but kept him in his peripheral view in case he got too deeply asleep and started to fall off the chair. 

Several minutes later,

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” The medic was a loud, forceful Norwegian woman. “It’s Wolfe. Wolfe! Get over here so I can see what you’ve done now.”

Jess started to grin at the hectoring tone. The medic was old enough to be Wolfe’s contemporary; it might be funny watching him get a dressing down for not taking care of himself. 

The grin very quickly slid off his face, and he scrambled to his feet.

Wolfe’s eyes had shot open and he’d jerked with surprise at the medic’s voice, but his eyes had been bleary and his initial attempt to get out of the chair had been disorganised, so even though Jess knew he would hear about this later he had stood up to lend a hand.

He’d been expecting Wolfe to sway or stagger, not to pitch forwards like a felled tree!

Jess wasn’t in the right position with the right leverage to stop the fall and was only just fast enough to twist Wolfe so that he took the brunt of the fall on his shoulder rather than his face. 

“Shit!” He knelt down next to Wolfe and peered anxiously at him. Wolfe’s eyes were half open but not particularly focused, and the vague, panicked look on his face took Jess straight back to every nightmare he’d had about his decision to send Wolfe to the Artifex. “Wolfe?”

Wolfe’s gaze ghosted straight over Jess. “Nic?” 

“Jess,” Jess prompted. Seeing Wolfe like this was making him feel sick. The heat was actually radiating off him like a fire. “Jess Brightwell.”

Wolfe made a noncommittal sound of agreement. And then blinked. “Jess.” 

“Hello,” Jess said, inanely, and then didn’t have the time to make himself sound less stupid because the Medica’s footsteps were fast approaching. He quickly stood up and backed off to get out of the way.

“What have you done to yourself now, Wolfe?” The Medica sounded stunningly unsympathetic and actually nudged him with her foot. Her silver band slid down her arm and she pushed it back up again.

Wolfe curled himself inwards in a futile attempt to move away and said nothing. The Medica grabbed his hand and pinched the back of it hard enough to turn it momentarily white. The skin stayed tented. Wolfe let out an outraged pained noise and rasped, “Get off, Ingrid.”

“No.” She kept hold of his hand as he weakly tried to pull it away, and looked at his nails. “When did you have last have anything to eat or drink? No, don’t even bother answering that.” She sounded furious. “Get up.”

Her aggression was making adrenaline rush over Jess in cold, painful spikes. He told himself he was being stupid. 

They were all dealing with inappropriate this is not actually a fight or flight issue situations. Doors slamming, raised voices, large groups of people looking at them … not dangerous, but it felt like it. He usually dealt with his by sparring with Glain, or running until he fell over. 

He looked around. They were the only two people left in the waiting room. He shoved his hands into his pockets, so that he could clench them into fists without her seeing. 

Wolfe rubbed his face with one hand, and rolled onto his back. He seemed uncertain what to do after that. 

All Jess could see when he looked at Wolfe sprawled on the floor was Wolfe on his knees in front of the Artifex with that desperate, half-mad look in his eyes and it was not helping the adrenaline situation. 

“Why are you wasting my time and cluttering up my waiting room?” Medica Ingrid nudged him with her foot again. Except this time it wasn’t a nudge. 

Something sharp popped in Jess’ chest. He took one step forwards to rebalance himself and said, “Hey!” 

It wasn’t supposed to be a shout but his blood was up and he’d pitched it like he would to carry over the sounds of fighting. His hands were out of his pockets all of a sudden. 

Ingrid jumped. She turned to face him, and before he could find the correct words to replace the desire to attack her, she started speaking in that fast, furious voice.

“What, soldier-boy?” 

(Jess’ out-of-date bronze band didn’t even work anymore, but he kept it on for the sake of feeling a fraction more normal in this new abnormal Library, and she’d obviously noticed.)

“Do you know how much Medica time he’s used, over the years, when the only thing that’s ever wrong with him unless he’s recently been to a war-zone is an absolute deliberate inability to take care of himself? He only turns up when he’s like this, when he can’t function anymore, and then we have to waste time and resources treating him! It’s the flu this time, by the look of him, and he’s going to need to be in here for hours to fix the dehydration he could have prevented himself! Just because he was a gold band Research Scholar doesn’t mean we’re all his servants!”

Her diatribe had strangely calming effects. Not least because he could absolutely see her argument. She was missing something though, in her attempt to justify this, and he was just going to … point it out. 

“Do you normally kick your patients when they’re too weak to get up?”

She opened and closed her mouth twice, with no clear result. Then, finally, “I’ve known Wolfe for twenty years!” 

“So you’ve said.” Jess breathed in and out again. “Would you kick him if he was well enough to stop you?” His heart was pounding like a drum. “Would you kick him if Santi was here instead of me?”

She bristled like a cat and he silently begged her to make just one aggressive move.

“Jess.” Wolfe’s voice startled him. Then the tone startled him more: it was gentler than Wolfe’s voice had any right to be. He looked down. While they were arguing, Wolfe had dragged himself into a sitting position up against the wall. 

He was experiencing another attack of the chills, bad enough that his teeth were chattering, and it took him several seconds to get it under control this time. But his eyes were clear again, and so intent that Jess kept looking when he wanted to look away, until Wolfe rubbed his face with both hands and right at the end of the gesture flicked his hands out from his chin.

Thank you in sign language, so small and indistinct that Jess had nearly missed it.

“That’ll do, Brightwell. Off you go." Cold, crisp and dismissive. 

“I think I should stay while she treats you,” he said stubbornly. 

“She’s not an enemy, Brightwell.” A tinge of that softness in his voice again, but then, “She’s just an irritant.” Sharp, precise, cutting words. 

Ingrid visibly flinched and gritted her teeth at the casual slap of Wolfe’s habitual, whiplash cruelty.

Jess’s protective urge subsided a little at that. Wolfe could be unbearable. They all knew that. Maybe he’d over-reacted. “Sometimes you don’t help yourself,” he grumbled at Wolfe. He could feel himself going red. 

The corner of Wolfe’s mouth twitched, even as he waved Jess away again. 

Chapter Text

Wolfe’d kept his wineglass on him for something to fiddle with, but he’d also turned down the last three attempts to top him up because he was clear-headed enough to know that he was only one or two more drinks away from starting to shout and throw things.

It wasn’t that he was angry, as such, although he always had a good well of that to tap into for material, but he was on edge. Raw. Twitchy. Almost frantic with the need to pace. He couldn’t do that, though, because Santi would see and come over, and he was damned if he would spoil Santi’s enjoyment by needing to be soothed like a fucking child.  He really wanted to just be on his own with a book to distract himself, but there weren’t any Blanks in the room and Santi had given him a disappointed look when he’d tried to bring his own. He didn’t want to go back home, because sitting alone and drunk with a raw, whirling mind in the house from which he had been snatched was a recipie for disaster. So he just lurked at the back of the room and hoped that he was giving off “grumpy Wolfe hates parties” vibes rather than “teetering on the edge of of anxiety melt down for no logical reason” Someone approached him and he gritted his teeth. Khalila.  

“Come to drag me back to the fun?” His voice sounded bitter but steady. Good. 

“Not if it’s not fun for you,” she said quietly. He barely suppressed an unexpected shiver at the contrast between his anxious state and her calm tone. Then Dario and Santi let out a roar in unison at a move Jess had made and he did flinch at that. Knew she’d seen it. Instead she just nodded in his peripheral vision and said, “It can be difficult being sober at parties.” 

He turned to look at her, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not sober, Seif.” 

She smiled. “I am. And you, you’re the other type of sober at parties.” He snorted at that, which was undignified. 

“Santi wouldn’t let me bring a Blank.”

“Why aren’t you playing?” She nodded towards the table. “It’s a good game. Engrossing.”

Something in the way she said that scraped away his newly won composure. “Why aren’t you?” he shot back. He was gripping his empty wineglass so hard that it made his hand ache. “Don’t want to spoil the competition?” 

She laughed off his jibe. “I admit, it wouldn’t be fair now they’ve had as much to drink as they have.” She settled on one of the chairs he’d been too restless to sit on, and watched them play.  

Wolfe realised that he was rubbing at the scars on one forearm. “Shit.” If he was already at the stage of subconsciously irritating his scars he was a good bit further down the rabbit hole than he’d thought. And still no clear way out. Good news; he might be past the stage of ranting and throwing. Bad news, he might be well on the way to curling up in a chair and falling so far inside his own head that only Santi could fish him out again.

The urge to escape started crawling under his skin again, like ants. He tried not to scratch. Tried to think. There wasn’t even a window in this room that he could stare out of. Nothing. An irrational desire to smash the wineglass he was holding popped into his head. Fantastic.  

“Scholar Wolfe?” Judging by the tone in Khalila’s voice, it wasn’t the first time she’d called his name.  

“What is it?” She didn’t react to his angry tone of voice, just tilted her head and patted the chair next to her invitingly. 

Out of all other options, he sank down on the chair. He hadn’t realised how much tension he’d been holding in his legs until that bled away and the release very nearly made him drop the wineglass. Hastily he clunked ti clumsily it onto the small coffee table, then let himself sit back in the chair. 

When he shut his eyes the world spun a little, but it was bearable.  

“It’s healthy to admit when you’re struggling,” she said, quietly.  

“Oh, fuck off, Seif.” He scrubbed his face hard with both hands. He didn’t exactly feel guilty for his choice of language, but he definitely did feel glad Dario wasn’t there.  

“No,” she replied. He expected her to immediately keep pushing, but to his surprise several minutes passed with neither of them speaking. He kept his eyes shut. This wasn’t going too badly. Faking being asleep was the perfect defence against prying eyes, and Khalila’s presence beside him seemed to be calming the frantic, wriggling anxiety. “Would you like to go for a walk?” she asked. 

He pulled himself out of the dizzy bubble he had started to sink into, and repeated her words to himself.  

“No.” With a rare honesty he added, “Don’t want Nic to worry.” He curled his hands up inside his sleeves. “It’s nothing specific. I’ve never been good at parties.” Her silence was like a string, leading him drunkenly onwards. “Not good at doing nothing, these days.” 

“So you need a distraction.” The tone of her voice made him open his eyes and look at her curiously. Then look again, with more interest, at the strange, almost shy expression on her face. 

“What are you thinking?” He propped one elbow on the arm of the chair nearest her so that he could lean in. She looked away from him, and pulled a Blank out of her robe. He made an embarrassingly eager noise and reached for it like a child. 

“Nope!” She held it away from him and popped the ‘p’ in 'Nope' hard like Jess did as she quickly pulled up the text she wanted. Paused and took a deep breath. “You’ll want to look at this once you’ve sobered up, I expect, but I don’t see the harm in giving it to you now too.” Handed it over. 

Wolfe took it, distantly recognising his drunkenness in his altered sense of touch. Scanned the text briefly – an academic paper on an area outside of his Artifex specialty - then did a double-take.  

“Yours?” Her face was an amusing picture of embarrassment. 

“It’s not submitted yet.” Her hands squirmed in her lap. “It’s not my first piece. I wrote two during our brief time as functioning Scholars after postulancy. But … I would be honoured if you would review it for me, Scholar Wolfe.” 

He sat back. Nearly dropped the Blank. Laughed in a short, sharp bark. “I’m too drunk for this, Khalila.” He shook his head. “And I’m a bastard of a reviewer. Made a lot of enemies of a lot of idiots that way.”  

“I’m not an idiot.” She looked him straight in the eye then, and the mix of pride and fear on her face made him feel strangely teary. He really would have to process this situation properly once he was sober.  

“I’ll need a pen.” 

She shrugged. “Just tell me it. I’ll send it to you properly tomorrow.” 

He laughed again. “You don’t want drunk, unfiltered commentary.”

She shrugged again, and spread her hands and leaned back in her chair in a move she had definitely picked up from Dario. Her eyes were nervous but her smile was wide, and despite himself he found himself smiling back. They were Scholars, he and Khalila, in a way that Dario and Thomas were not.

Chapter Text

Khalila yawned and flexed her hand. It was cramping and the scar tissue was alternating between a constant ache and stabbing pain. She’d been working on this particular document for thirteen hours and hadn’t slept in twenty ... she checked the clock, which took longer than usual ... twenty seven hours. Had probably managed 10 hours over the last three days. 

Her eyes felt ht and gritty but the last time she’d rubbed them she hadn’t got clear vision back for nearly five minutes. 

She couldn’t afford to waste that time. This had to be finished and ready to formally submit to the negotations by eight o’clock in the morning. Which was ... three hours away. 

Her stomach swooped in fright, which made her feel sick.  

"Are you still up?"

She jumped again at Dario’s voice, which sounded deafening in the silent room. Oh, she felt so sick. She pressed her hand against her lips and breathed carefully through her nose. 

Dario was stood in the doorway, his face soft and scrunched with sleep. 

"Sweetheart ..."

Before she could think, he had closed the distance between them and pulled her head against his warm chest. 

She struggled free.  

"No, Dario. No. I need -“ She shuddered through another wave of nausea. “I need to get this done. I only have three hours!” 

He put his hands on her shoulder and rubbed them. It was soft and warm and lovely, and made her desperately want to lean back on him. 

“Stop it,” she pleaded, her voice cracking in the middle. Once she started crying she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop. He obligingly lifted his hands away but stayed close behind her.  

“What have you still got left to do?” he asked in a sleep-roughened voice. 

She rubbed her painful hand with her other thumb and tried to think. Couldn’t seem to get her concentration back at all. 

“Khalila?” 

“I’m thinking!” she snapped. Racked her brain. “Just the reccomendations to redraft, and then copy up the final version. I can get it done in time.”  

I can, I can, I can. I have to. 

“A suggestion,” Dario said, cautiously. 

“What?” That was almost a snarl, and she buried her face in her hands and tried to breathe normally.  

“How about you have a coffee and take a twenty minute nap - no, listen, listen.” He put his hands back on her shoulders as she opened her mouth to protest. “Take a nap, and when you wake up it will be your usual time for the dawn prayer, won’t it? And then you finish what you need to finish and I’ll copy it up.” 

Khalila tried to consider this, over the whirling unfocused panic that was making her tremble. Dario did have gorgeous penmanship.

 “I didn’t do the night prayer,” she whispered, suddenly, and the shock of it finally pushed her back against Dario’s torso. “Dario, I didn’t even ...” 

“Ssh.” He kissed the top of her head. “You can combine them, can’t you? When it’s a genuine once-off mistake? Anyone would look at you and know this is an emergency.” 

I’m fine. They were empty words, said on absolute autopilot, and both them knew it.  

We’ll do that, then, Dario said, returning to his previous point seamlessly. She didn’t feel equipped to argue. To do anything other than lean back against him and shut her aching eyes.

She woke quite suddenly, with her heart racing and panic sloshing through her veins like icy water. 

Opening her eyes hurt, and her limbs felt like lead, but she wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep feeling like this. Hopefully doing more work would calm her down.  

Dario made a grab for her as she hurried out of bed. She ignored him and whatever he was saying. Standing upright had made her stomach do somersaults, and if she opened her mouth she was certain she’d be sick.  

She felt like she was floating as she walked to her desk, or maybe walking on a ship. While drugged.  

Dario appeared and grabbed her elbow. She turned to him. The nausea had faded, just a touch. “Is this what being drunk feels like?” 

He put a warm hand on her cheek and she fought to keep her eyes open. 

“Probably quite similar, my love. Come back to bed. Please.” 

She wanted to, more than anything, but her heart was still writhing inside her chest.  

A knock at the door made them both jump. Dario pressed her down into her desk chair, and she let him because the shock had made her legs weak. 

“I’ll see who it is.” He went to the door and peered through the peephole. He cursed. 

“Who is it?” 

He ignored her and opened the door a crack. “If you want her, you’ll have to come back later.”  

“It’s urgent.” 

That was Wolfe. If Wolfe said it was urgent, then it was. Adrenalin drove her to her feet. 

“I’m coming!” she called. Dario slammed the door shut and put his back to it.  

“No, you’re fucking not.” His expression was fierce.  

She didn’t have the energy to glare at him, so she just stared. 

“Dario, that’s not helpful.” He stared back at her, his dark eyes glittering with emotion. “Look, the quicker I start, the quicker I finish.” That got through to him; he nodded reluctantly. But his eyes widened as she moved for the door. “You’re not covered,” he said urgently. 

She stopped. Her mind spun uselessly. Where had she left her headscarf? She couldn’t remember. He reached for her and kissed her forehead. 

“I’ll get you a new one. Wait for me.” He was back in what felt like seconds with an old red one that she’d retired due to it looking shabby. Where had he found that? Well, she felt shabby right now, still in yesterday’s crumpled clothes, so maybe it was fitting. 

She hurriedly wrapped it round her head. There were definitely bits of her hairline showing. She didn’t care. The question of whether she even needed to wear it in front of Wolfe and Santi was an ongoing one anyway. 

“What is it?” she asked, opening the door to Wolfe. His eyes widened when he saw her, so perhaps she looked almost as bad as she felt. He didn’t look much better; his grey hair was in complete disarray like he’d been running his hands through it all night, and his face was drawn.  

“Meeting. It won’t take long,” he said, instead of answering her question, and angled his body as if to leave with her at his side. 

Dario put a restraining hand on her shoulder and leaned over her head. “She can barely think straight. How will that be helpful?” 

Wolfe gave him an odd smile. 

“Duty calls, Santiago. Niccolo’s feeling much like you right now.” 

Khalila didn’t like the way they were talking over her head, so she shook Dario’s hand off and walked into the hallway. “Let’s get it over with, then.” 

She was back to manic by the time Wolfe guided her through the door and into Dario’s arms, two hours later. 

“If anyone comes for her again tonight I’m slamming the door in their faces and stabbing anything they try to obstruct it with,” Dario warned.

“Oh, get over yourself, Santiago.” Wolfe’s voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. 

“Just because you push yourself to the breaking point doesn’t mean she has to!”

There was a pause. 

“We’re doing what needs to be done.”

Her head was fuzzy and ringing. She watched herself as if it were a play at the theatre. Pushing free of Dario and pacing the kitchen until she was dizzy, details of the extremely confidential negotiations spilling from her lips into Dario’s ears. Heart racing and racing. 

“Dario,” she pleaded eventually, holding the back of a chair so tightly that her hands hurt, not even certain what she was asking for.  

“Finally,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, then pulled her into his arms and across the room. She concentrated on keeping her feet underneath her. 

Then the bed was suddenly there. To her dull surprise, he lifted her onto it.  She wriggled disapprovingly. 

Even rolling onto her side felt like too much effort, but she had to get back up again. He stroked her face and neck, and she nearly cried at how it felt. 

“Easy, my love.” 

“I need to get changed,” she mumbled. “And write notes.” 

“I’ll take care of that. And the notes too – I’ll scribble everything you said on a bit of paper and you can look at it later.” 

She pushed at him and made a complaining noise. 

He sighed, said, “Do you know what? This works when you do it to me,” and unceremoniously lay down on top of her. “Fight me if you want.” He kissed her neck.  

It did help. How strange. It gave her somewhere unyielding to put her frantic, fragile energy, pushing against his heavy body. It drained the adrenaline out of her, bit by bit, until every single one of her limbs were useless and her heartbeat was slow again.  

She drifted off while he was rolling up her dress to remove it, even as goose-pimples spread over her exposed skin. Roused briefly again as he climbed in beside her and curled around her back and legs. Warm. Safe. Time to sleep.

Chapter Text

It was half for safety and half for camaraderie, but the end result was that a lot of the Library occupants now ate at the same time. The Obscurists had started it, because it was what they were used to, and the High Garda had happily joined in for the same reason, but at first the only Scholars who joined them were Khalila, Dario and Thomas, who had recently finally received his gold band.  One by one more Scholars had joined them. There would always be the loners, of course, and the ones who complained (probably quite correctly) that the mass-produced food wasn’t a patch on the meals they could order to their residences, but eventually the huge dining room probably held more than half of the Scholars.

To absolutely no-one’s surprise, Wolfe was one of the Scholars who chose to keep eating meals on his own the majority of the time. What had surprised Jess, though, was the fact that Santi was the opposite way around and ate communally more often than not.

“I’m a soldier,” he’d just said with a shrug when Jess had asked. “I like the group atmosphere. It’s not like I don’t see him when I go home again.”

It was a typical night in the dining hall. The seven of them were sat together, with Jess, Morgan and Santi opposite Thomas, Glain, Khalila, and Dario. 

Jess had made the mistake of trying to match Thomas drink for drink. Thomas had about double his bodyweight to soak up the alcohol, and more importantly had spotted what Jess was doing and upped his drinking with a grin. So now Thomas was pink in the face and Jess felt like there was a thin layer of glass between him and the rest of the room. 

One of the small side doors to the dining room opened, and automatically Jess glanced in that direction to see who it was.  

It was Wolfe, slumped heavily against the door-frame. He looked like he was blind drunk, and feeling ill with it. 

“Nic? Nic!” He managed to slur even those two syllables. 

Jess’ stomach twisted with violent second-hand embarrassment. Wolfe was going to be humiliated if someone told him about this tomorrow morning. 

His mind whirled as he tried to decide what to do. Should he go to Wolfe? Cause a distraction? 

Other minds were working far faster than his that night: Santi got up from his chair so fast that he knocked it into the wall behind him, where it clattered to the floor, and moved towards Wolfe so quickly that he was nearly running. Interested Obscurist heads followed him as he passed.  

Wolfe tried to walk towards Santi, but swayed and fell against the wall, sliding down it to land in a heap. The deathly silence of hundreds of those interested eyes fell upon the room, and Jess broke out in a cold sweat. 

At the same time, there was an almighty crashing, shattering sound from Dario’s end of the table. 

“Fuck!” Dario shouted. 

Despite himself Jess looked towards the sound, and saw that Dario had shoved his wineglass and the heavy crystal decanter off the edge of the table. As he watched, Dario slid off his chair and landed heavily in the shards of broken glass. He shouted out again, this time in pain. 

“Dario, you idiot!” Khalila shouted. Her voice was carefully pitched to be much shriller than usual - a suitable reaction to someone whose partner had just fallen into glass but also another sharp, distracting sound. “Medica, we need a Medica over here! And a broom! Don’t pick it up with your fingers, Dario!” 

A few Medicas stood up. One of them sighed. People were starting to laugh. 

Jess tore his gaze away  from the attention-grabbing scenario just in time to see Santi hauling Wolfe to his feet. 

He also saw the Obscurist sat next to Morgan stand up. She had long braided red hair which was going grey, and she opened her mouth to spit a tirade of Spanish at Dario that was so fast Jess only caught a few words. None of them were complimentary.  

Dario started yelling back at her. Jess hoped the edge of hysteria in his voice was faked.  

People were starting to shout variations of, “Shut up, I’m trying to eat here!” 

Glain got up from her seat next to Khalila and made a very, very good show of slapping Dario. Only from his angle could Jess see that she’d slapped her own hand, hard enough to send a crack rippling through the room. Everyone quieted, and Khalila took the opportunity to demand a Medica again. 

Glain helped Dario up onto his chair. Jess saw that he was bleeding and white-faced, and rolled his eyes even as his stomach dropped. It would be so like Dario to accidentally stab himself in the kidney.  

“You ok?” he called across the table, pitching it loud enough that it was all part of the act while looking straight at Dario to make him see it was a genuine question. 

“Fucking fabulous, scrubber, what do you think? I have glass in my arse!” Dario shouted back. But his hands said, Is Wolfe ok?

How the fuck should I know? Jess signed back? (Well, the actual signs were more like a very emphatic “I don’t know,” but he hoped Dario got the jist). 

Annis got up and crouched next to Jess, facing Dario.  “Sorry for the yelling, Scholar Santiago.” There was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes, and Dario returned it with a bewildered smile.  

“I’m sure it helped. You’re Annis, aren’t you? Helped Morgan get everyone out? I’ve heard of you.” There was a tone to his voice that made Jess realise they’d clearly heard the same rumours about Annis. Probably none of the others had; they didn’t hang out with disreputable company. 

He glanced sideways to see if Morgan had heard Dario, hoping she hadn’t, and thankfully she was fiddling with her Codex script. 

Annis’ lips thinned slightly. “I was a good friend of Keria - Wolfe’s mother. Thought I’d join in with your little distraction. Happy to help, I’m sure.” She moved as if to stand and leave. 

Jess slightly averted his eyes because he had had too much to drink not to think about the graphic barracks descriptions of the body shifting underneath the white Obscurist robe, even if she was old enough to be his grandmother.  

Shit, that made it worse. 

“Have a drink on us,” Glain said, fast enough that it was clear she was trying to halt Annis, and pulled out the hip-flask that Dario had been trying to get a sample of all evening. “Nice to see Dario put in his place.” 

A more genuine-looking smile slipped back   I hope Christopher’s soldier boy sorts him out. It’s not fun seeing someone you care for in that state.”

Jess’ mind reeled at the concept of Santi being casually referred to as “Christopher’s soldier boy.”