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They got back to their hotel room in the small hours and the sound of the door clicking shut felt like a heartbeat. Her head was throbbing with something very much like a headache, and when he took her hand, she closed her eyes and let him lead her to the bathroom.
They said nothing together, but even if either of them really felt much like talking, it wouldn’t have been necessary anyway. He undressed her quickly, himself just the same, disposed of their clothing and started the shower and got them both underneath it, all in the blink of an eye. He took care of her, was what happened, and she leaned into him, pressing her forehead against his shoulder as he carefully washed her skin and hair clean of blood.
Back out of the muggy comfort of the bathroom, he wrapped her up in towels and robes and his arms, took her to the little loveseat at the end of the bed, sat down and welcomed her crawling into his lap. She wanted to burrow down in, to wrap herself up in the scent of his clean skin and the gentle vibration of his chest against hers. She could fall asleep like that, so easily, and she had in the past. Like when they’re tired, when she was being pitiful and he would indulge her.
It was different that night though.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, her breath going suddenly shuddering when he curled his hand over the back of her neck. His palm was warm, his fingers firm.
She’d taken to categorizing things like this: a good death was a quick one, or a clean one, or one that didn’t take long to heal from. A bad death was none of those things. A bad death was the death that lingered, the death that set off that deep inborn existential terror that even an immortal couldn’t fully shake. She’d had a few bad deaths. So had he. Hell, they’d had a couple bad ones together. That night was--
She pressed in tighter against him, seeking the heat and pulse of his throat, slid her arms into the curtain of his bathrobe and clutched greedily at his skin. He made this soft noise, this low hum against her temple. He’d held her together as her body knit together. Her spine snapped back into place, sinew stretching together and winding around bone, arteries filling back up like a river after a thunderstorm. And through every last agonizing renewal he’d held her together. The first thing she saw when her vision blurred back into focus was his face so close, so near-- the expression in his eyes indescribable.
He squeezed the back of her neck, gentle and reassuring or reminding, his thumb dancing along the edge of her towel and hairline, and then he murmured the first words since they got there. “Sleep?”
She nodded with as little movement as it took to answer him. He lifted his other hand, the hand not cradling her neck, and skated it over the towel covering her hair. It took effort but she let him unfold the towel away and replace it with something silk, and then he lifted her up, carried her to bed, got them into bed, went through all this routine they’d gone through countless times by then. She couldn’t settle down. She wanted to crawl into his chest and hide behind his heart and never come out again.
He untied his robe so she could do her best at it, wrapping her arms and legs around him, hiding her face against his warm warm skin. He’d held her together, kept his promise, and he’d been right there with her so the first thing she saw was the agony on his face as he waited for her to come back.
“Book,” she said weakly, muffled in the hollow of his throat. He shifted, read her mind and her heart, and got her onto her back, opened her robe too so she could feel the length of his body pressing against hers. It make her shiver, made her dig her nails into his shoulder. He ducked his head and touched his forehead to hers, rubbed his nose along hers, settled between her thighs. Every soft vulnerable inch of her skin felt suddenly so drawn to every soft vulnerable inch of his that she couldn’t even begin to tell him about it. He’d held her together but for a moment before she’d died, she’d thought... She’d thought she’d never see him again. She never wanted anyone but him to get near her neck again, never never never. She wasn’t sure she could even bear wearing a necklace anymore.
He curled his arm beneath her, between her back and the bed. “My love,” he said, so quiet, voice wrapped up in the language he’d spent most of his mortal life speaking. He said her name too. She could only kiss him in reply, holding so tightly to his back that the effort it took for him to position his hips against hers, to sink his body into her body and complete the circuit of their connection, left him panting against her mouth so quickly. Having him inside the sanctuary of her body calmed her mind enough for tears to start building in her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured in vain against her lips. He didn’t move, just held her, and she cried quietly, thinly, feeling the tracks of her tears tickle at her cheeks, brush along the shared corners of their mouths. “You’re safe, my love, you’re safe.”
She was, she was. She knew she was. He cupped the back of her neck again, so safely, and leaned down to kiss her pulse: once and twice and a third time, at least, following along with her heartbeat.
“Don’t move,” she whispered. He kissed her skin again, inhaled sharply when she swallowed. “Book...”
“You’re safe,” he repeated, voice rough. “Nile.” He shifted, pulled her body firmly against his, sliding their skin together in a way that would have made her moan any other night. All she could manage right then was to bury her hand in his hair.
She thought of a good death, like the one she hadn’t even noticed until she woke up with a bullet clattering down from the back of her head. He’d been there for that one, too, and even though... Even though she would call it a good death, the expression in his eyes had been indescribable.
She wanted to stay exactly as they were, until they both fell asleep, and she wanted to wake up with him so heavy and safe and hot on top of her, his hand covering her neck just as it had been as he’d held her together, and then...
“Please speak,” he begged softly, so quiet against her throat. “Just my name, please, darling.”
“Sébastien,” she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut when he kissed her again. “Sébastien,” she said again, a little prayer just between the two of them. “Love you.” It felt as important as the first time she’d said it, and when he responded so easily, a routine they’d gone through countless times by then, she pushed her hand up over his scalp, nuzzled her nose into his damp hair, and began to feel something like relief.
He turned his head, pressing up into her hand, and he said, “I felt you die.” She closed her eyes, curled her leg around his. “I feel it every time.” His voice was thick, tired, his breath curling across her throat. “I can’t...”
“We can,” she felt shaky, “we can stop for... take a break, we need a break.”
He nodded, pressed his lips long and warm to her pulse, and she hugged his neck and closed her eyes and focused on the wisps of his hair tickling along the sides of her nose, between her brows.