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She sees him the moment she opens the door, and she is struck again at how he does not belong. He should be in his libraries, in an ornate chair with a grimoire in his hand. Instead, his throne is a green and white striped wing chair. Instead of dark magics, he studies a brochure for a botanical garden, snagged from the display near the elevators. She should take him there if she can find it, because although he does not belong and may never, this is his world now. He should at least know that it holds more than metal and stone, blood and death. There is beauty, too.
He looks up, tucking the folded paper into his pocket, and she knows in that instant that he wants to see it but will never say so. She makes a mental note to check the hours that it's open.
“I wasn't sure which bed you wanted,” he says. “I thought perhaps I'd take the one closest to the door, so I might be between you and any drunkards, thieves or anyone else that might be stupid enough to stumble in.”
“You seem to think that's a common occurrence,” she replies.
“I lived in a palace among a people who were always celebrating one thing or another. I learned very early on which nights to lock my doors…as well as which nights not to.” His grin is only a little wicked.
She lifts an eyebrow but will not play along. Not tonight. “And what if they come through the window?”
He leans back, hands behind his head. “Then I'll have a front row seat to what I'm sure will be quite the entertaining spectacle. I'll count either one a win. So which will it be? I've tried them both, and they seem to be the same, but the choice, as always, is yours.”
“Wherever you are,” she says. “If that's all right.”
His smile this time is softer. “Of course. You're ready now?”
She nods, suddenly too exhausted for anything else. He stands and walks around the end of the bed nearest the window, shifting pillows and lifting blankets. She slips beneath his arm and between the sheets, and he climbs in after her and sits with his back to the headboard. He carefully tucks the blankets around them both before turning off the lamp. She rests on her side with her back pressed against his thigh.
“You don’t have to stay all night,” she tells him. “Just until I sleep.”
“As you wish.” He runs his fingers through her hair, soothing her as best he can. Her body resists, still clinging to the hurts it received in the hours before. Jim and Beth. The diner. The house. The realization that the woman who lived there is dead and gone and has been for some time. He feels her tension, she is sure, because she hears him searching for his phone with his free hand, flipping through the screens until he finds the books she saved while she waited for him to finish his shopping. He picks one at random and begins to read, knowing that it doesn’t matter what it is or where he starts. His voice rises and falls, smooth as silk and soft as the rush of waves on the shore. The heat of his body soaks into her shoulder blade, his fingers are in her hair, his calm washes over her. The words begin to blur, and she sleeps.
It is in the heavy darkness of the hours before dawn that she wakes again. There is a familiar weight along her ribs, a whisper of breath near her temple. She runs her fingers gently along his arm, which is wrapped tightly around her.
“You stayed,” she says, not knowing if he hears her or not.
“I came back,” he replies, his voice still more than half asleep. “You’re not the only one who dreams. Sleep, elskan. Morning comes too soon.” He hugs her closer, pulling them both further beneath the blankets, and already his breathing is steady and even once more. She does as he asks, and as she falls back into a dreamless sleep, she thinks perhaps this might be where he belongs after all.