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Darius places his hands against his back and stretches, groaning when something shifts and cracks uncomfortably in his lower spine. “Ugh. The little brat is finally asleep.”
“Mm.” Alador doesn’t look up from where he’s hunched at his work desk, fiddling with some sort of bit or bob. From where Darius is standing, he can’t quite see his face, but, well, that might just be the goggles fixed over his eyes. With a sigh, Darius traces a small, lazy circle in the air. A thin trail of purple sludge snakes through the air and snatches the screwdriver right out of Alador’s fingers. “Hey. You’re off hours.”
A low, questioning whine is the answer Darius gets, work-worn fingers squeezing the air for tools that are no longer there. Darius tries not to cringe; while he’d had his suspicions before, now he’s pretty damn certain he’s well on his way to having two brats for the evening.
He bites back another sigh as he pads across the room. While Darius is known for his world-class dramatics, applied anytime and anywhere, he’s had to learn to reel them in. For Hunter, for Alador. It’s difficult to read the tone of air, especially when the source is displeasure. He gently touches Alador’s back. Easy, gently. “It’s time to rest , Lala.”
“But…” Alador doesn’t say anything more, just letting his voice fizzle out into the nether. He tilts his head back to look at Darius, and it’s clear as day the tired confusion left behind.
Inwardly, Darius curses. It’s difficult enough to root Alador to an anchor on a good day. On a bad day, or a day where he’s interrupted, when he’d already been so lost in his own head? Impossible.
Good thing Darius thrives on taking the reins.
“Come on, Lala.” He makes the effort to pitch his voice lower, gentler, but he’s not sure it makes a difference. As far out to sea as Alador is, he’s also pliant as the goo they use with their abomination magic. Careful, shape the experience. Lace it together with invisible intent. Don’t let it collapse. He helps Alador ease himself off the Titan-forsaken scrap of splintered plank that Alador insists is a workbench, leads him to their shared room. If Hunter needs him, Darius’s palisman will let him know.
First, off with that hideous brown rag that Alador calls a jacket and Darius calls an affront to living creatures everywhere. Next comes swapping out shirt and pants for pajamas. They go through the motions easily enough. They’ve done it before. They’ll do it again.
The first and only hitch comes when Darius tries to take Alador’s goggles. “ No .”
Alador’s voice is barely a mumble, but it stops Darius short. He appraises the bedraggled rat of a witch sitting in front of him. Deciding it’s not yet worth it to argue, Darius waves his hand and crosses over to the bureau. He’s not sure when it happened. But at some point, one of the top drawers had become dedicated to Alador’s sock collection.
And oh, what a sock collection it is. Darius is met with pools of color and patterns and fuzz as he yanks the drawer open. It doesn’t really matter, but he pauses to consider before finally choosing a cheery, simple yellow. A garish color if you ask him, but Alador always had been an odd sort.
“Here we are, poppet,” he says, kneeling in front of the other. He’s careful as he slides off the threadbare slippers Alador refuses to let him replace, and even more cautious as he slides the socks into place, mostly because he doesn’t want to think about how the ice-cold digits are going to dig into his calves searching for warmth in a few short minutes.
Alador smiles and wiggles his toes. “Cozy.”
It’s a simple word, meaningless, really, but one that Darius holds close nonetheless. He would never admit it, but Alador’s presence is something that is highly valued. Something solid, something constant. Well, less than so, considering Alador’s flighty nature. But he knows when to be .
Darius pinches his toes, prompting a small smile from the other. “Alright, pipsqueak, scoot.” He pushes himself up, pretends he doesn’t feel age in his bones, and waits for Alador to do as asked. Of course, Alador makes a mess of the blankets and sheets as he does so, and now Darius does sigh, only because Alador laughs.
He makes short work of straightening the bedding out again before sliding in next to Alador. “Come here, brat.” Scarcely a moment passes before said brat is nestled snugly against his chest. “There we are,” Darius croons. He runs his fingers through Alador’s hair, grimacing at the greasy feeling. Tomorrow, he’ll have to coax him into washing his hair, a dreadful act that, when Alador is small, somehow manages to leave not one but both of them soaked. Like a feral cat, really.
But that’s a problem for tomorrow. Now, Darius takes the chance to swipe the goggles and set them aside. Alador whines quietly in response. But he does nothing more than settle further in Darius’s arms.
How Darius had ended up with two brats, he’ll never know. But, surprisingly, he doesn’t really mind. And that’s something he’ll never change.