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He’s mangled and bruised with four more steps to go, staggering as he navigates the dimly lit halls to the apartment door. The wall’s a crutch and with every second or third footstep, he winces, and restarts his breaths, cursing the past Kieran for not getting the apartment closest to the stairs.
As he turns the corner, he suddenly straightens in a desperate attempt to feign healthy status to the familiar figure standing outside his door.
He pauses, partly to catch his breath and compose himself before approaching her, partly using the opportunity to watch her from a distance.
She sighs, then glances down at her watch then back up at the door as if debating whether to knock or if it was too early for him to be home.
What a rare sight to see her so calm and patient.
Usually, she surrounds herself with the noises from work at the police station or their latest excursions and those were the typical forms she took. Sporadically, a third form, the rawest and bare, in his bed. It was his personal favorite, but a side she’s never eager to share. A side he’s not willing to expose for fear of never getting the chance to see her again if she realized how far he had fallen for her. This selective sharing made him feel as though he met her in parts and had to discover all sides in time to see her full picture. So he took every chance the saints gave him to soak in her little pieces.
If only she hadn’t noticed him standing there so soon.
Her first reaction? A cold scowl that corrugates her skin near the lips and eyebrows. She doesn’t say anything but shifts her eyes to his side, then to his leg, then back up to his face. He meets her gaze and offers a weak smile, wincing from his bruised cheek. In response, she rolls her eyes making her way toward him, and then she slides her arm underneath him, supporting his weight as they move to his home.
Damn it. The façade didn’t work.
Although she never asks where he’s been or what or who causes the injuries, he’s been around her too long to know those types of questions are the ones she keeps to herself - these are the ones that are currently written into her furrowed brows. He’s been keeping this act up for too long, sometimes disappearing for various consecutive nights and not mentioning a thing. What she doesn’t know is on those nights, it’s often not by choice that he’s not home, but because he was probably knocked unconscious in some abandoned factory. Or that one time he passed out from pure fatigue from overestimating how many hours he could stay up and still function. But hopefully, that never happens again. And hopefully, she never finds out.
They pass the living room then the kitchen where the patching usually takes place and instead she guides him to the bathroom, narrowly missing the corner of the table. He also made a mental note to remind her later that he was just injured, not a museum artifact and she didn’t need to move so slow. (But later, when a light punch to the gut wouldn’t cause more internal bleeding).
He notices too late that she wasn’t the best navigator. He groans as his already bruised face rams into something.
“Quit walking into walls, Keiran”
He can’t believe that he, with all his injuries, is to blame for where she is walking him into. (Walking was a softer way of describing their movements. Lauren was more dragging his body if anything because he could barely stand on his own, much less navigate the apartment.)
Once they enter the bathroom, she lowers him to the tile muttering something about his smell as she turns on the water for the bath. She proceeds to tug the hem of his shirt over his head, discarding it somewhere off to the side. If he was feeling slightly better than ‘corpse risen from the pit of hell’, he might’ve teased her about wanting to see him naked. In truth, he teases her first so she won’t find out how much he’s willing to go to see her another day.
However, he’s barely grasping his soul as he is and something feels off about her tonight. As she removes the rest of his clothes, he feels like slapping himself with how obvious it was.
She’s gentle.
When has Lauren Sinclair ever been gentle to him? Even getting sewn up by her was painful. Well, more painful then it should be.
When has she placed him into his bathtub? When has she ever stripped in front of him without any greater intention? Or slipped into the tub beside his fractured skin? Or taken the washcloth into her hands to clean him from the impurities?
It’s almost embarrassing but he’s in no position to argue he can bathe himself. He’s too weak and too vulnerable to do anything except be grateful that she’s here to take care of him this time around. She washes his body in slow, delicate strokes, cautious of the wounds and bruises though wishes she would press harder or else they would be here until their skin wrinkled under such prolonged contact with the water. But his body’s his enemy, wincing or inhaling sharply anytime she passed too hard over the sensitive skin.
“Want me to stop?” She tilts her head to read his expression but he’s avoiding her eyes.
He shakes his head. It could mean he’s purple all over by morning but he wouldn’t waste a moment like this.
She hummed in response and made no acknowledgment to the speed of his heart rate that he's certain she can feel through his back or that his ears matched the red shade of his cheeks. Instead, she continues the gentle strokes with the cloth along the sides of his stomach, cautious of his wounds.
He loves when she finally gives attention to his hair, massaging by expanding and compressing her fingers against his scalp. He assumes this must be the euphoria the dead feel once they’ve reunited with their maker. The combination of the calming rhythm and being safe with Lauren, almost lulls him to sleep. In that moment, he vaguely recalled something about Lauren’s dark-haired friend teasing her about preferring men with longer hair, but he’s forgotten what her response was. Apparently, it was enough to stop him from taking scissors to his own.
Once she finishes with his hair, she allows her fingers to slowly trace those scars on his back that follow invisible lines to nowhere.
Yeah. Something’s definitely off.
How dare she take an opportunity like this to take advantage of him.
How he would much rather her have dropped him on the kitchen floor and left for him to take care of himself alone. At least then he would know what to do, how to react.
As if it helps the situation for her to place her most delicate lips to the nape of his neck or rest her cheek in its place. The movements were very familiar, her arms gliding around his waist, her skin on his. He’d already grown accustomed to her ways of saying ‘I’m glad you’re not dead’, her body communicating what her mouth didn’t allow.
He feels feverish, right underneath her face. Her touch was almost numbing whatever pain he was feeling and he’s discovering new lashes that adorn her eyes every time she blinks.
He takes in every part of her touching him like her little hairs escaping from the elastic she used to tie it up. Or her legs uncomfortably tangled, pressed at the base of his spine
Her exhales.
Her fingertips.
Her cheek.
The corner of her mouth.
Her heartbeat.
Her collarbone.
Her breasts.
…
...Oh shit.
“Hey...”
“Hmm...”
He took a heavy breath, voice soft.
“Don't go falling asleep on me, again.”
She lets out a puff of air against his skin. Some equivalent of a laugh, he guesses.
He leans back to move her off though, instead of reclining out of his reach, she molds her body to allow his back to rest on her folded leg.
The side of her face is squished against her other knee. Her left-hand holds the edges of his face, occupying itself with removing hair that sticks to his face or brushing down his misaligned eyebrows. Her eyes, half-open and clouded with thoughts, lazily trace the length of his face from his eyes to his nose, to his forehead, to his chin, never missing a detail. Up then down. Down then up. Regardless of any anxiety printed on her brow and the matching stoic curve of her mouth, she still looks so regal and fair.
His fingers reach up to gloss over her cheeks, not holding like hers, more dancing on the edges of her jawline.
“Is everything alright?”
She doesn’t respond to his question, her eyes continuing to follow patterns on his face, memorizing each feature, each turn, each scar. How did she manage to get so distracted, consumed in her reverie?
It shouldn’t have surprised him when she lowered her face and touched her lips to his.
It was odd how despite having kissed her many times before, her mouth still felt foreign against his, almost like they were two young idiots exploring each other’s bodies in the privacy of their minds. He always craved her kisses - hell, he craved any attention from her - but those were other boundaries he was too timid to approach. He supposes that her behavior was reticent for a reason, that perhaps she wasn’t wanting more than the occasional intimacy out of a dedication to her work. Undoubtedly, she must've felt the social pressure to all but abandon her career so she could get settled and raise a family, as was expected from the matriarchs of the world that had to contribute some level of stress. Nevertheless, finding a partner was one of the least of her worries.
He wonders if he’s holding her back from anything. She could have a home, maybe sharing it with a loving, stable, partner. Maybe even a higher position on the force, at the rate she worked at. Yet, she chose to bathe with a broken man and acquainted herself with a murderer. When they’re drenched in each other's scent, two tangled bodies riding off of their high, his mind pushes back to her reality and regrets his actions with her.
But it’s she that’s seeking him out. Isn’t it?
She’s the one touching him.
She’s the one prompting for ‘just one last time’ before betraying that statement again and again and again.
Then why does he feel guilty? Why does he feel he’s keeping her there, burdening her with carrying him out of the water to re-dress his wounds? Why does she smear ointment on those hideous green and purple blotches? By what chains is she bound by when she’s cleaning the lacerations that she had nothing to do with? It’s her decision. Her actions. Her motives. Nothing was forcing her to be present, no knives, no chains. Just Lauren.
If their roles were reversed, it would make complete sense. He’s him and she’s her.
That’s it.
That’s all the logic he’s able to cogitate with the exhausted mind.
He’s on the verge of passing out before he, gracefully, collapses face-first into the mattress. Vaguely watching Lauren’s cleaning, he thinks of the overwhelming list of things he wants to tell her. Everything bubbles down into his mouth, tongue ready to speak, ready to tell her how the last mission went and how he thinks he has a lead and how he wishes she would stay tonight. But, he’s reminded of the harsh memories of how he’s abused her, even tried to kill her - that he tried to kill her - and burrows any hope of talking deep within his skull as he shoves his face further into the pillow. There wasn’t much he could do to help the situation. Every time he wants to reach out to comfort her, he can’t bring himself to even touch her. Every time he wants to tell her how stunning she looks or even asks about her day, his tongue becomes useless. If he can’t communicate through movement or speech, he’s better off dead to her.
“I didn’t fix you up just for you to suffocate yourself in bed”
“Mphh” he turns to face her “I’m so glad you’re concerned for my health. What would I do without you?” He grins, not needing to see her face to know she’s rolling her eyes. She shuffles around the room, getting dressed or relocating random items before finally turning off the lights.
He’s caught off guard the instant she slides under the covers, so he focuses on tiny details rather than her being. Like the difference in their weight and how she’s actively avoiding falling slightly toward him, the temperature rising underneath the sheets, his wet hair splayed on the cotton, or how she’s wearing his shirt and how amazing she smells. Her proximity is no help to the tachycardia he still can’t seem to manage from their kiss. He turns away from her, needing space to breathe, hopefully making her more comfortable. However, there’s only enough space on the mattress for lovers, not for too-complicated-relationships.
He’s so ready to tell her ‘thank you' or to show some action of gratitude but the tangled mess of words sits futile in his mind as he’s overwhelmed with the need to rest.
He wonders if she’ll actually fall asleep this time or if she’ll stay up thinking about whatever it was she usually thinks about. Her mind had seemed preoccupied earlier yet it was nothing he would ever dream to ask about.
“I’m pregnant”
Oh.
For all the reading he’s done, books and people alike, Kieran could never properly read Lauren. He had been around her enough to know how she would react to things or what temptations she was more likely to fall into or how he should react to her. Understanding how she functions, on the other hand, that is a completely new subject uncharted by him. When she gives him this new information he malfunctions and against every prior desire to restrain himself, he moves to hold her. His arm slips around her waist, hand splayed across her lower abdomen, looking for signs of life.
His forehead rests on her collarbone.
“Congratulations, Miss Sinclair.”
“Keiran I haven’t deci-”
“Just tonight.”
He's begging
She presses her lips together. Exhales through her nose. There’s that signature eyebrow crease.
She tentatively puts her hand over his and repeats it back.
“Just tonight”
She gives in.
For the first time, in a while, he feels the pain of his suffering, the consequences of his actions, and conscious of his mortality.
He feels human.