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At this point, Adam is seriously tired of the phrase “your hands are so cold.”
It’s one of the more unfortunate things to follow him from the bathroom into everyday life, like his passionate hatred toward fluorescents and catlike aversion to being submerged in water. Those he can deal with; through a combination of sheer willpower and an inner voice (that sounds an awful lot like Scott) that effectively shames him into not wussing out, Adam finds he can push through almost anything. It’s much harder, however, to try and push through the physical demands of his body.
He just can’t seem to get warm anymore. The cold is constant and dense, echoing from deep in his bones out to the pinkened tips of his fingers. Any time he shakes hands with anyone, or accidentally makes contact with a cashier doling out change, it’s always the same words, accompanied by a mildly offensive look of dismay on their face.
Your hands are so cold.
He usually stuffs (clenched) fists into his pockets, mutters something like “Maybe I’m cold-blooded,” and hopes one day it’ll sound as wicked and action hero-ish as he thinks it will. He’s still holding out.
It’s also what makes him appreciate Amanda’s quiet company even more. They’re side by side on his ratty couch, knees draped in blankets as light from the TV shines a hole through the opaque darkness of the living room. Neither of them pay much attention to whatever game show rerun is airing. Their thumbs brush as he passes back the half-empty bag of Doritos, and she only bristles slightly at the touch. Small victories, Adam thinks, but you gotta start somewhere.
He probably shouldn’t be so grateful for her presence.
He hated her at first, naturally—it was easy to hate everyone when it felt like the whole world was bent on putting him down like a mad dog—but when he woke up in some makeshift hospital bed, unchained and alive, he could have kissed her for just getting him out. And yeah, he kind of wanted to. But that was then.
Now she checks on him every so often, brings him snacks and off-brand energy drinks and stays to make sure some of it goes into his mouth. In return, he’s stopped asking where she goes home to afterwards.
(He shouldn’t be so grateful, and yet he is.)
Adam’s eyes started burning a few minutes ago, meanwhile the poor old heater is making a sound eerily similar to a death rattle. Not much he can do about it at the moment. Shivering, he stuffs his hands under his armpits in a futile attempt at absorbing body heat.
Without looking away from the screen, Amanda silently reaches into her hoodie pocket and pulls out some kind of small mesh pouch.
She presents it to him. He stares.
“What.”
“For your hands.”
Adam blanks for a second. He’s not sure where this is going, but he trusts her, so he extracts one freezing arm out of the covers to take the thing anyways. An instant warmth spreads through his palm and he marvels. His mind goes to those icy winter mornings when he'll stand sock-footed in the kitchen, pouring a fresh mug of coffee just to thaw the horrible numbness in his hands. The heat is wonderfully similar.
“Thanks,” he breathes.
Her eyes flit briefly to him. “Don’t mention it.”
Enough said.
Adam shuts his hanging mouth and clutches the pouch protectively to his chest. It’s a bit damp, which he didn’t expect, but soft and squishy enough to fidget with. He tends to feel better with his hands occupied. The tension in his body begins to melt away along with the frigid strain in his limbs, the stiffness of his fingers. Hell, his body temperature might even be trying to reach a normal human level.
As he sinks deeper into the cushions, suddenly quite sleepy, he tells himself that gratitude has nothing to do with it.
He glances at Amanda and thinks he might see a flicker of emotion in her eyes.
But then again, they might just be reflecting static.
*
Sleep doesn’t come easy to Amanda. It hasn’t for a long time.
She’s made a habit of keeping herself awake, partly on purpose and partly by circumstance; there’s simply too much to do during the night to find any meaningful rest, from stakeouts and checking on John to making last-minute refinements on her designs. It’s hard to find a moment to catch her breath, let alone close her eyes long enough to make a difference. So she chugs anything with enough caffeine to keep her going, and when she inevitably crashes, crashes hard.
The nightmares roll in after that.
She’ll wake up sweating through the sheets in her little room, choking down mouthfuls of air as the walls loom tall around her, then stumble out, dazed, into the echoing silence of the safehouse. It' comforting to know that it’s only her shadows, not the dead’s, that walk there.
Adam helps a bit too.
She selfishly holds tight to the strange understanding they find in each other. They share similar tastes in music and schlocky films, in cheap thrills and spiky women. A tacit agreement underlies their interactions: I won't bring up the past if you don’t , and it’s worked for them so far.
(She doesn’t say how much she needs him more than he needs her. It’s clear enough.)
Now he’s drifting off beside her, looking entirely serene and painfully young. How he ever came to relax this much around her, she has no idea.
He blinks one eye open. “Are you watching me sleep?” a muffled voice speaks from under the blanket.
She leans back. “Sorry.”
Adam pushes himself onto his elbows, forcing Amanda to suppress a laugh at the spectacular bedhead on display. “Shit, it’s late. You sure you want to walk home right now?”
“Pretty sure I can handle myself.”
Adam shrugs, as well as anyone half-reclined can shrug. “I know. Just saying you can crash here tonight. No biggie.”
She presses her lips together, considers. It’s not a good idea to stay for a number of reasons, none of which she could adequately explain without destroying the peaceful stasis of their relationship. It’s already reckless of her to involve herself in his life with all the danger and pain that follows at her heels; to exist even on the periphery is to invite bad things, and yet he offers her sanctuary. It’s absurd.
Of course, she can’t tell him any of this. Instead, she says, “You’re not coming on to me, are you?”
Adam makes an offended noise. “You wish,” he grumbles, the tips of his ears turning red, and buries his face emphatically into the couch.
She does laugh at that.
Maybe a few minutes won't hurt.
Though she doesn’t think she can sleep with all the artificial energy running through her, she lets her head tilt back and curls her legs comfortably underneath her. Lulled by the soft drone of the TV, her eyes slide over the bachelor-pad clutter of her surroundings: posters peeling off the walls, haphazard stacks of DVDs in the corner, photographs scattered onto every flat surface. Though she’s never been one to hold onto many possessions, comparing this to the emptiness waiting for her at home twists an uncomfortable knot in her gut. It’s so far removed from what she knows—filled top to bottom with Adam’s things, signs of his passions and habits. Somewhere to call home despite his frequent complaints and shitty neighbors.
No blood. No screams.
No ghosts.
For a second before the full extent of her exhaustion catches up to her, Amanda wonders how anyone could ever wish for anything more.
Liquid black seeps slowly into her vision, carrying with it the imagined feeling of being held. She allows it to happen. Just this once.
The nightmares are a no-show.