[Tawny Vokes]

All things considered, Tawny had found sleep easily enough. Noah had already been in that downward spiral as they'd exchanged their goodnights, his slip from wakefulness made smooth and easy by his inebriation. She'd expected it to be more difficult for her — as acclimated as she was to counting her bedmate's breaths, waiting for them to grow heavier and regular so she could slip from their grasp. But hardly any time had passed between her whispered words to him and sleep. She might have chalked it up to the absence of her gift, but she'd felt it slip back to her minutes after she imagined Noah fell asleep. Even then, she hadn't felt the need to pull away or feel concerned.

Despite his warnings, her dreams hadn't been terribly alarming. The core of them had been borne from her own subconscious; ordinary and familiar scenes and faces with only the occasional unknown that she could hardly acknowledge while asleep. At one point she'd walked the forest with someone who was almost Matty — was meant to be Matty, but the details of him had been skewed in that peculiar way that wasn't uncommon in dreams; a younger version of him perhaps, not quite recalled perfectly. The trees around them had been old, looming, and dense enough to make the dream feel almost nightmarish; dark and dangerous. A girl — blond-haired, features indistinct — hurtled past them with a mocking giggle, twisting back to cast them a cold, smug look before disappearing into vagueness amidst a thickening fog. The dream grew colder as the dreamscape whittled down to little more than a choking mist. She called for Matty, for the girl, then for anyone, as she ran, directionless and shivering.

She'd awoken from that one, suppressing a shiver even as her mind quickly acknowledged that she was very much warm and safe in her own bed, Noah pressed beside her. She'd blinked away the lingering alarm, tucked further against him, and slipped off almost as easily as she had before, soothed by his presence in a way that she'd purposefully forget upon waking. The rest had been things she might have seen herself — club scenes and strobing lights. Dingy, dim-lit bars. Friends she knew mixed in with people she didn't. More than a couple of faces looked upon her with a level of threat and hatred that she wasn't accustomed to. A woman with bright red hair, beautifully coiled, pressed against her at one point, smiling wide, her eyes bright in a way she found equal parts predatory and endearing. There were only a few scenes and things that Tawny knew — even in sleep — weren't hers. Some because she subconsciously knew she could attribute them to Noah — could recognize his living room and had seen his hands whittling before. Others because she had no frame of reference to create them herself — such as a large, open church hall. Dust swimming, suspended, on the stale air, illuminated by sunlight slanting through decorative glass, broken by a looming, dark-haired figure that Tawny couldn't approach — couldn't make her limbs move well enough to reach out to.

When she blinked her eyes slowly open again, this time she was aware of the faint, morning light slipping through her curtains. It lightened the room, casting stretching shadows across her ceiling. Her eye drew to the window first, lingering drowsily on the way the light appeared to lap greedily at the edges of its pane. There were the faint sounds of Downtown awakening; muffled and ignorable, as accustomed to their greeting as she was. She listened absently and allowed the noises to waken her gradually — let her mind shaken to full consciousness while she tried to think over what she'd seen. Tried to pick apart what was hers and what was Noah's before the recollection of them slipped from her entirely, as dreams and nightmares oft did.

Finally, she drew her awareness to the man beside her. As forewarned, in sleep he'd ended up latching on to her; an arm draped across her middle and tucked against her side comfortably, as if he'd pulled her against him during the night. His face was slotted against her neck and shoulder and she could feel his breath against her skin, measured and even. On her other side, Myrtle was curled in a tight ball, tail laid over her nose. She flicked an ear, as if somehow acutely aware of Tawny's brief observation.

Tawny shifted experimentally in Noah's grasp, pulling gingerly away — just enough that she could turn her head to study his sleeping face. He looked serene and calm, but still positively ruffled. Hair thoroughly mused, though it had been even before they'd found her bed. Darkness clung below his eyes, beneath his long, dark lashes, and she wondered if it was due to the drink, or if... perhaps... he hadn't slept well. The thought provoked a tiny dip in her chest but she smothered the ache immediately, forcibly smoothing her brow as soon as she felt it crinkle. She considered lifting a hand to brush the strands of faintly-curled hair from where it obscured his eyeline, perhaps trace her knuckles lightly across his jaw and watch in featherlight anticipation for his eyes to flutter open. But she sucked in her bottom lip and only blinked at him appreciatively.

Then her power returned to her. Upon waking, she hadn't even noticed that peculiar vacancy in her head. But now, as the gift snapped back to her, she felt her mental muscles twitch in reconciliation. Too slow — no longer asleep, Noah's memories tugged at her viciously, forceful once again. There was a flash of her — head tipping back and mouth parting around a quick inhale as Noah bent to press his lips against her shoulder. Tawny forced herself away with an inward shudder and, immediately, there was an answering absence in the back of her skull as the power slipped away once again. She exhaled shakily. Moving as inoffensively as she could, she shifted from beneath him, breath held in anticipation for any answering lurch to his demeanor or grunt from his lips. She edged the cat from beside her and retracted her legs from where they'd entwined with his. Then she stepped out of bed, swiped her phone from the nightstand, and slipped silently from the room.

She freshened up in the bathroom. Scooped a cup of breakfast kibble into Myrtle's bowl. Redid her hair, tying it in a loose knot atop her head. Only a couple of minutes had passed when she felt her gift settle once more within her. She welcomed it back with inward resignation, akin to how a weary mother might beckon home a troubled child, and then smiled weakly at herself in the mirror and stepped away.

She lifted a hand to stifle a yawn, blinking tears from her eyes with a small shake of her head as she crossed the living room and into the kitchen. Operating on autopilot and muscle memory, she started the coffee to brew and plucked her mug from its place in the dish strainer behind her. Her mug, not only because it was the one she used and rinsed every morning, but because it had been a gift from her father when she left for college. It pictured a cute, cartoony cat stretched peacefully across a number of open books, next to a steaming cup and above pretty, flowery script that read 'BOOKS, CATS, AND COFFEE'. It was a wonder the mug had survived all these years. The handle — etched with cute, sketchy plants, most of them worn to non-existence — showed evidence of being broken off and glued back on more than once. For her houseguest, she pulled a less special — but similarly cat-adorned — mug from the cupboard above her.

Across the den, the ferrets watched her intently, their squirmy bodies nearly vibrating as they barked at her in low, impatient chirps. She turned to them and shucked her shoulders with a dramatic and overexaggerated 'tsk'. "Ugh, my poor darlings," she cooed softly, keeping her voice quiet as she swept over to them. "Leaving you until after the coffee, just what was I thinking?" She pulled open their cage and they fell over one another in their scramble to get out, immediately leaping at her hands and gnawing at her fingers while chittering their excitement. She batted them around for a moment before kicking a cat toy across the floor for them to skitter after.

Returning to the kitchen, she pulled open the freezer and took out a packaged pair of chicken feet, placing them in a bowl of water to begin thawing. Her lips upturned and she snorted to herself as she imagined Noah dragging himself groggily to the kitchen and wondering just what she had planned for breakfast. Some people liked chicken feet and it was considered a staple delicacy in other parts of the world, but she'd be surprised if he'd ever tried them. In any case, they were a weekend treat for her stinky boys. Not intended for them.

For them, it would just be eggs and toast. Nothing fancy. He was hungover — from her experience, it was best to keep it simple and small. Maybe some fruit to liven him up. She pulled open the fridge and collected a couple of eggs, a carton of blueberries and — after a thoughtful, humming pause — a single avocado as well. They would be turning fairly soon and the potassium would be good for him. She deposited the fruit on the counter, poured herself a cup of coffee, added a dash of creamer from the fridge, and then took a moment to pull her phone before her.

Before she could navigate to her music library and pick out a fitting playlist for the morning, her eye was drawn to the unfamiliar thumbnail presented by her camera roll in the screen's bottom right corner. Turning to lean against the countertop, she sipped at her coffee, pulled open the Gallery app, and flicked through the images Noah had managed to snap the night before, brow quirked and lips pulled tight to keep a chuckle contained. With a derisive snort, she set the blurry one of him narrowly escaping Myrtle's wrath as her lockscreen wallpaper. Perhaps he'd notice and would have the decency to feel a brief moment of shame. Though she imagined it was much more likely that he'd shimmy his shoulders with self-satisfaction and tease her for it. In any case, she'd change it back to Lark and Finch after a couple of days. She navigated to her music app, set a playlist to play (the volume low enough not to disturb), and abandoned the phone again.

She washed her hands, pulled out a pan to set on the stovetop, then gathered the rest of the meager ingredients — bread, butter, and salt and pepper. She washed the fruits, pitted and sliced the avocado, pulled out the proper amount of bread, and readied the toaster. Humming along to her music, she dolloped some butter into the pan and raised a hand to flip on the burner — then paused, outstretched fingers curling back into her palm.

She supposed she should wake him. Let him groan and moan for a while — get his bearings without letting the eggs grow cold. With a resigned tilt of her head, she stepped from the stove, gathered a couple of aspirin from the cupboard next to the fridge, and grabbed a warm bottle of water. Then she crossed the living room again — carefully and expertly sidestepping the wrestling ball of ferrets who (unfailingly) hurtled directly in her path — and slipped back into the bedroom.

Noah was as she left him, perhaps adjusted only a bit in her absence, and she watched the faint rise and fall of his form for a moment before her gaze drew to the cat balled up beside him. Apparently whatever misgivings and lingering disdain Myrtle might have harbored from the night before couldn't outweigh his warmth and protection while she dozed. Tawny's lips quirked wickedly. If it had been any other day, she might have leaped in beside him, shaking and forcing him awake by being as loud and annoying as possible. But she supposed he was in for a rough morning. Hell, the fact almost encouraged her — let it be a lesson in overindulgence. But alas, too considerate this time, she only settled her weight on the edge of the bed beside him, placing a hand gingerly on his shoulder and blocking the teasing, tingling sensation of his memories beneath her palm.

But oh — he was so warm. She felt him infinitesimally stiffen under her touch. Heard his breathing shift to something sharper and more aware. She gave his arm a light squeeze and quieted the urge to make him scooch over so she could tuck herself in bed behind him; suppressed the immediate want to press herself against him and leech up all his warmth. "Morning, sleepy. I brought you some aspirin."


Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Sleep came easily, but convincing it to stay wasn’t always so simple.

His slumber was interrupted multiple times. Nothing new, nothing to stress about; he had a proclivity to waking frequently anyway. If he hadn’t had so much alcohol lingering in his system, holding him under, he likely would have woken much, much more, stirred by cars and the occasional too-loud pedestrian – sounds he wasn’t accustomed to after years of West Hook’s relative silence.

The first time he’d roused, he’d blinked half-heartedly at the faint glow of a streetlight seeping through her curtains. He’d shifted impossibly closer to nuzzle into his bed-fellow’s neck, closing his eyes as he took a deep inhale of her sleepy scent. The thought that he could get used to having her warmth beside him in the night, that he would yearn for it when they were apart, had crossed his mind. And then the enormity of that thought sunk in. His throat tightened. Something dark flinched and paced within him, demanding action – though what, exactly, he couldn’t say. To leave, to stay, to take… thinking about it required more power than his sleep-addled, wary brain could provide, so he chose not to. He only clutched her closer, struggling to return to sleep until he eventually, reluctantly, had to reposition himself away from her skin. And when he slept –

The dreams were strange in their normality. Everyday moments, tilted somewhat. His father, telling him to stop jumping on a bed – but with an altered, softer face, his hair not so blond. And he was weirdly nice about the whole thing. Concerned. But not in the angry way that Noah recognised – the one which dripped with frustration, betraying his concern was more for himself and how something Noah did might reflect on him. There were probably other people nearby, making him monitor his tone. Maybe whoever lived in the bedroom; Noah didn’t recognise it.

He ran down streets late at night, his bubbling laughter oddly youthful and feminine. His companion – a grinning, curly-haired boy – caught and twirled him, pulled him close with a cheesy line that had Noah snorting and accusing him of watching way too many rom-coms. Abruptly daylight, his companion became someone else. His eyes were narrower with deep circles beneath, the curls upon his head straightened out, lighter in colour and worn in a somewhat floppy style instead. This person was vaguely familiar in a way the other boy hadn’t been, but Noah couldn’t place where he’d seen him before. They were joined by a dark-haired girl soon after. She looked as exhausted as their mutual friend but her smile was fond and the three of them trudged into a coffee shop together, slumping down in a corner seat once they’d gotten their orders.

He spoke in hands to a much younger, blue-eyed boy as they picked out paints and canvases from an arts and crafts store. In Tawny’s apartment, the same boy coated his canvas in black and dotted a swathe of stars across it, softly explaining what a globular cluster was. He disappeared a while after. Noah went on to start (but not finish) several other paintings, only stopping to hurriedly pick up Lark and clean off his paws when he dashed across the palette he’d set down. A girl, older and baring some resemblance to the previous boy, appeared at the door, barging in and ranting about her mom. She softened with the offer of ice cream and a movie, and they bundled up on Tawny’s sofa and snickered about the horrors of high school.

Noah thought he saw Tawny herself at one point. He followed her figure into a room that reminded him of the office he’d once glimpsed in her memories. But it was brighter, more colourful in a way that Noah felt was meant to appeal to kids, and when she turned he was faced with a different pretty brunette. She smiled. Spoke to him as if they’d been friends for years. Though, for some reason, she felt the need to tell him about gifted. He almost laughed, amused by the notion that he of all people would need explaining to; he’d probably played with more gifts than she’d ever seen. But despite the urge to tell her this, to tell her that he already knew about gifts and that keeping them secret really wasn’t as crucial as she implied, he held his tongue. She was so soft and gentle. Gave him candy (he was a sweet tooth, sue him) and let him hug her (he didn’t stop to think about why he would do so or why he was so much shorter than her; in dreams, some things just made sense). So he figured he’d indulge her, let her say whatever she believed if only to keep her good favour. He didn’t want her to start freaking out on him like his mom would have.

There were other flickers. Mere fragments, too brief to be acknowledged or understood. And eventually a voice coaxed Noah awake.

Without the protection of his lids closed over them, light sliced mercilessly through his retinas. He winced. Groaned as he turned his face into his pillow, hiding from the brightness of the room. He registered the hand on his shoulder and inwardly snarled at the touch of an unknown, but he couldn’t muster the strength to shrug it off. He hadn’t planned on waking so early – not that he knew what time it was. His head felt thick, steeped in a heavy, throbbing fog, and his stomach was a sensitive pit wailing its wish to stay empty for the rest of his life. His dry mouth and parched throat were the icing on the cake of his misery and every part of him begged to go back to sleep, to stop feeling any of it, as was his usual solution. It was almost customary to lose a day to his bed when he drank too much. The accepted price of karaoke.

But he wasn’t in his bed and he wasn’t alone. His awareness of his surroundings and of the events of the previous night slowly sank in. He shifted onto his back, cracking an eye open to squint at her. Tawny. Perched on the edge of the bed beside him. The corners of his mouth lifted – for only a second.

“Why are you there?” he groused, voice so thick with sleep that it was almost unintelligible. “You should be –” He despairingly patted the empty space where she’d lain the night before, blinking blearily as he noticed her cat (Merry? Myrtle? He was sure it was one of those) curled a little further down. Huh. He almost felt proud for having achieved that – not that he’d intentionally done anything to inspire such trust. But the feeling was far outweighed by the disappointment of not having Tawny nestled against him, of not having the chance to run his fingers through her hair as she slept, haloed in golden sunlight from the window. To watch her eyelashes shiver, to hear her mumble incoherently, half-awake, as she tucked herself closer to him with a soft sigh that fanned across his neck. His chest twisted. He hated himself for it. It was a ridiculous thing to long for.

Christ. He was going to have to leave her at some point. Why wasn’t it acceptable to take her with him?

He should feel embarrassed, he supposed, for how he’d arrived. Turning up drunk at her apartment hadn’t been the sparkling, flawless reconnection he’d envisioned. And yet it hadn’t gone badly. While inebriation could have blurred her expressions – made him see amused smiles in place of fearful ones, mistake panicked appeasement for reciprocated teasing – he couldn’t have imagined the feeling of her fingers stroking over his scalp, nor the feeling of her seated upon his lap as she kissed him.

He licked his lips, both at the memory and the sight of water in Tawny’s hand. His dehydration reared its head, refusing to let any other need to speak over it, and he slowly (slowly) forced his torso upright. Every nerve whined in protest. His stomach shuddered. The room spun and he clutched his head, waiting for the world to stop being a tilt-a-whirl, then finally reached for her offerings – gulping down the aspirin and the entire contents of the water bottle as though he’d been travailing the desert for weeks.

Emptied, the bottle was set on her bedside table. His arms slid around her middle and he grumbled wordlessly, his eyes slipping closed as he tipped forward to press his forehead to her shoulder, cool against his skin. A non-hungover Noah might have taken the opportunity to drowsily lap at her throat again, try to tempt her into shedding her pajamas. But as it were, he didn’t have the energy. At least he was touching her.

“I can’t believe you would wake me up at this ungodly hour. Worse – you would wake me up at this ungodly hour and not be in bed with me.” He gave the tiniest shake of his head. “That’s criminal. Where is your sympathy? Your shame?” He lifted his heavy head to look at her, displeasure evident in his scowl. “I deserve reparations.”

His arms tightened their grip, pulling her with him as he fell back against the pillows. The weight of her on his chest was good but it wasn’t nearly enough, not with her legs still swung over the side of the bed. He needed to feel the whole length of her pressed against his body, entwined with him, unhindered by bedding.

“You have ten seconds to get under the covers,” he told her, relinquishing his hold as he struggled to tug down the duvet pinned between them. “Otherwise I’ll resort to drastic measures.”


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Noah stirred, shifting to stifle a groan into his pillow, and then was still once more. A beat passed — just long enough that Tawny briefly wondered if she'd have to try to wake him again. Perhaps more firmly. She considered whether or not his long, alcohol-fueled night of fun would make him unreachable today. Unwilling to budge for hours longer. Maybe she should just let him be, lest he woke up worlds unfriendlier than he'd been the night before. Content herself to the living room instead, tying up the loose ends of work with a movie playing softly in the background; quietly passing the time until he eventually came stumbling out. Generally, she wouldn't be so kind — she'd done more than enough already. It was time for him to leave. But the idea of Noah being an exception, perhaps just this one time, felt more amusing than irksome.

Before she could truly consider leaving him the medicine and slipping away, Noah stirred once more — rolling over to squint at her. He mumbled something unintelligible and patted the bed beside him, his voice and his words garbled by sleep and ache. She raised a brow amusedly as he slowly pulled himself to a sitting, took the aspirin, and gulped down the entirety of the water she'd brought him. Then his arms settled around her and he pressed his forehead into her shoulder, his skin hot against her arm.

Tawny blinked, an amused breath puffing from her nose while a faint smile twitched at her lips, somehow feeling uncertain. Had he been anyone else, and had the previous night progressed like most others, she might have been quick to slip from beneath the touch. Hasten him out of her bed, into his clothes, and out of her apartment with half-fibbed exaggerations about all the work she had to do over the weekend. See him off before he got the wrong idea or made himself too comfortable.

But that typical urgency was curiously absent, replaced almost entirely by a soft curiosity to know how he'd slept. What his dreams had been like. If he was always this slow to wake or if it was simply the hangover. Perhaps it would have been easier if she had slept with him, to usher him out the door in the morning. A box checked and hunger quelled; no follow-up questions or aimless ponderings necessary. Certainly no breakfasts.

He spoke again, his arms tightening around her to pull her down against him as he fell back. The tease smoothed her precarious thoughts away, as quickly and effortlessly as they'd bloomed, and her lips tugged into a more certain grin as she settled comfortably against him and offered a soft snort. "I'm sorry, but — my shame? You deserve reparations?" She interjected a small, incredulous scoff. Despite the chiding quality to them, the words had hardly left her lips before she was pulling her legs over the side of the bed and slipping beneath the duvet, resisting the instinctive urge to press for the particulars of what his 'drastic measures' could possibly be. Especially in his condition.

"How about my continued hospitality and general good company, hmm?" She mused archly, burrowing beneath the blankets and — before she could even think to hesitate — turning to tuck herself against him. She pressed into his warmth, grazed the top of a cold foot down his shin, and stifled an appreciative hum into his chest. She contented herself for a moment in acknowledging all the places they touched, each one emphasized by the incessant tug of his memories, like phantom fingers ghosting across her skin between them. With a long, exaggerated exhale, she tried to press herself impossibly closer and denied them, letting him keep his memories to himself and her memories to herself. Choosing to focus instead on the firm, present feel of his body braced against her.

She stilled, letting her body go lax, and imagined herself slipping back off to sleep. Perhaps she had woken too soon. Perhaps it was the perfect morning to sleep in, after all. But after a moment, she (almost reluctantly) pulled back just enough to tip her face and peer up at him. Allowed a hint of smug challenge to tug at her brow. "Or I think I have an old trumpet in my closet. I can dig that out. See if I remember how to play. Your choice." She didn't have a trumpet, of course, but some child on her apartment floor did, and Tawny couldn't count how many times they'd driven her (and Myrtle) up the wall with their practicing. A couple of times Tawny was almost moved to join the cat in caterwauling their displeasure. What an exquisite torture it would be while hungover.

"No?" She jutted her bottom lip into a pout that quickly smoothed away as she pulled further back and propped an elbow beneath her, resting her temple upon a closed fist while she lifted her other hand to him. "Fine. Hospitality it is, then." Her gaze flitted from his face to observe her fingers as she drew them in a slow, curious draw across the hard plane of his chest, tracing the patterns she'd longed to the night before. "How did you sleep?" She asked, drawing her eye back to his while she tried once more to recall any of his memories that'd bled into her sleep. They felt far away already, just out of reach. Faded memories of faded memories that she just couldn't hold on to.


Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Tawny scoffed at his dramatics and threw teases right back at him, making his chest ache with a warmth he couldn’t put words to. To his delight, she solved the issue of the blanket separating them and slipped under the duvet with him, and he curled his arms around her and exhaled a small, soft chuckle as she snuggled into his embrace. The coolness of her skin almost warranted a playful whine. Maybe even a yelp as he pretended to squirm away. But his hangover hurts were still a little too present to play around much and, more importantly, he wanted to warm her; she could leech the heat from him as much as she liked. Could stay pressed against him forever, as far as he was concerned.

He closed his eyes, dipping his head so his lips brushed her hairline. "I know, I know – I take it back, you’re very good to me," he murmured. He stroked his fingers down the notches of her spine, pleased to feel her body relax. He could have easily fallen asleep like that. She fit against him like she belonged there, and the throbbing ache in his chest got worse. He would never, ever stop wanting that closeness.

She shifted slightly, and he cracked his eyes open to see her peering up at him as she threatened to disturb his peace. In another circumstance he might have snorted, amused by the mental image of her playing such an instrument. As it was, he balked, appalled by the idea of her pulling from his arms to purposefully aggravate his headache. He was very relieved when she showed mercy and decided against it, yet she shifted further away from him and before he could whinge and drag her back to his chest, she propped her head up on her fist and asked how he slept.

Oh. Oh. For a moment he’d completely forgotten what their little slumber party had risked, far too distracted by his hangover, by the sight of her perched on the bed, the feeling of her pressed against him. His dreams (faint, faraway things he scarcely remembered) made so much more sense within that context. But his dreams weren’t the risk.

His stare, already fixed fondly her face, lost some of its sleepy glaze and flit searchingly across her features for any hint of nerves. For an indication of wariness or suspicion – anything to suggest she’d seen something that caused her discomfort. And yet… she was still there, wasn’t she? She wasn’t flinching from his touch. Hadn’t slipped from the apartment while he was dead to the world. She was in bed with him, watching him with eyes like a summer sky while her fingers slowly trailed over his chest. He wondered if she’d felt his heartbeat quicken.

Sufficiently mollified, Noah gently took her wrist, stroking his thumb over her pulse point while he guided her hand to cup his face. Still foggy with alcohol and sleep, he tried to wake his brain enough to give her an answer that was longer than one word. Something honest; she deserved that. “I did wake a few times,” he confessed quietly. Her skin was soft against his cheek. “But that’s normal, I don’t often sleep through an entire night. My sleep schedule sucks.” He chuckled as he turned his face into her touch, eyes slipping briefly closed as he pressed a lingering kiss to her palm.

He returned her hand to his chest, happy to let her resume her tracing if she wished. Though appreciative of the view he had of her neck, he wondered if she would mind if he released her hair from its bun and buried his fingers in it. “I slept well. I’m more than comfortable here. In fact, you could hire me to be your professional bed warmer and I’d happily do it for free, especially since we’ve established I’m the one who owes you reparations. In this economy, that’s a steal. My services would fetch a high price at auction, y’know. I’m a highly sought-after man.”

Grinning, he shifted onto his side to mirror her position (and he winced, having to press pause for a split second as the sudden movement disagreed with his sensitive stomach). “Memory-wise…” He intentionally trailed off, eyeing her slyly as the hand not propping up his head found her waist. He suspected she was as eager to know how he’d found the experience as she had been when he’d first used her gift. Unfortunately, there was not much he could report. He sighed wistfully though his smile remained. “It was like you said: dreams. I really thought I’d remember more.” He wished he did. He wanted to know everything about her. If he wasn’t so content with what he was already looking at, he might have asked her to share her gift at that instant and let him in again.

He blinked at her curiously. Would he still feel hungover while he was coasting through her memories? Or would doing so provide some respite, some brief neutrality within his body before he returned to the present and his headache returned in full force? And could he not remember the dream-memories well only because he was drunk? Did she remember much more of their night-trading than he did? Or was his experience the norm?

He hummed, deciding to pester her with questions later. For now he ought to try remembering his dreams and identifying anything that seemed out of place. “Right… I think… there was a lady explaining gifts to me, which I mostly remember because I thought it was funny. I didn’t recognise her, so – maybe that could’ve been one of yours? She was nice. Brunette. You were young, I think – it’s always hard to tell since you’re so much closer to the ground anyway.”

The height joke was entirely necessary. Partly because he found it funny, mostly to remind her that he was stupid, harmless Noah. Just in case his next question (one he both dreaded and hungered to know the answer to) made her reflect on how not harmless he was. “Did you sleep okay?” he murmured. He very much liked the idea of her sleeping peacefully, feeling safe and warm with him beside her, but maybe that was unrealistic. “Was it…” Was it what? Exceedingly violent? Disturbing? “Anything that needs explanation?” He almost asked if she needed ‘context’ but then the wording would be too similar to their initial foray. His eyes flit briefly to her neck and his stomach twisted once more. Not because of the hangover, but because of how he’d once thought of breaking it. Breaking her. For something that seemed so insignificant now; he had seriously considered cutting her life short to protect the murder of a useless, smug, waste-of-space nobody who couldn’t even afford a nice hotel to die in.

And at that moment he remembered how he'd let slip that his threats were only bluffs. Tawny knew she was safe now. Knew there would be no shady figures to stalk her home if Noah were to be caught. And he was… glad. Glad she would no longer worry. Glad she would no longer be made paranoid by incompetent postmen. Perhaps it was foolish but he trusted her now more than ever, should have trusted her from the start but –

Could he continue trusting her?

He supposed, in some ways, it was more a question of whether she could continue trusting him. Whether she would collect one too many fragments of his life and start to think that maybe the shards were sharper than they initially appeared. Maybe he wasn’t safe. Maybe he was dishonest. Maybe accidents happened a little too frequently to be called such. And with that in mind, the only solution he could see was to make her like him too much to ever consider telling. He couldn't undo what was already buried in the ground but he'd be more careful in the future. Be less aggressive. Seek peaceful resolutions where he could. He would make her forgive him for the earlier wrongdoings and make her believe he was a different person back then. He'd changed. Repented. Some people liked that narrative, didn't they? Maybe… maybe he could make her love –

His throat tightened as it had in the night, and he forced all such thoughts from his head, choosing to focus solely on her in the present moment, on however she responded. The theoreticals and ‘what-ifs’ only made his headache worse, and he direly wished the aspirin would hurry up and kick in.


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

As Tawny peered up at him, Noah's eyes slowly cracked to meet her stare. The dark depths were lazy, mired still by the remnants of sleep, and she tilted her face to hide the slightest pull of a faint, fond smile into the edge of her palm. She watched his gaze stir at her question — becoming more aware as it darted searchingly across her face — and nearly regretted asking anything at all, wishing to have had a moment longer to appreciate the half-lidded softness instead. But the search was quick and, seemingly satisfied, he laxed once more, coaxing her free hand to press against his cheek.

He confessed that he woke a couple of times through the night and Tawny dipped her head empathetically, mouth tipping into the semblance of a frown even as she tried to stifle her disappointment. It wasn't unexpected. Even she, as seasoned as she was, had trouble juggling sleep and unfamiliar memory. But she had wanted it to be easy. The possibility that sleeping next to her was unpleasant, or it being something that he'd simply not like to chance again, was vaguely disheartening. His next words — that he hardly ever slept through the night — were only somewhat reassuring. Were his dreams, even without the unpredictable influence of someone else's past, always a bit difficult? Was it why he drank to such excess some nights? Not for simple, wild fun as he made it out to be, but because it made sleep easier? He tipped his face into her hand, pressing his lips softly to her palm, and then lowered it back to his chest. She watched its descent with a simple blink, offering a distracted smile only as an afterthought.

"A professional bed-warmer, huh?" Her smile curled as she shoved her considerations from the forefront of her mind, saving them for a more opportune time — when she could ponder aimlessly with unobserved melancholy — and bringing herself back to the present. She quirked a brow, offering an amused snort. "That's a lucrative business. I wouldn't want to stress your schedule if you're already tightly-booked. Besides — I already have a cat for that." She leaned across him to scritch Myrtle between the ears, the cat giving a small, startled 'mrrow' before tipping into the touch with a long, self-indulgent stretch.

She let the teasing fall away and settled back in place as Noah shifted to mirror her. His hand settled on her waist and she listened attentively, nodding knowingly, as he recounted what little he could of his dreams, confessing a distant haziness she was well-acquainted with. Then he volleyed the inquiry back to her and she shifted to lie on her back, taking up the hand on her side and settling it across her stomach with both of her own folded easily over it. She studied her ceiling and hummed thoughtfully.

"Well, firstly, the person you saw. The nice brunette. That's who little Tawny — like little little Tawny — wanted very badly to grow up to be." Affection was apparent in her voice as she idly stroked the inside of his wrist with a thumb and let a slight smile pull once more at her mouth. "She was my counselor in school. Practically took me in, in a way, when it became clear I was Gifted. She worked for the Sector as well." She gave a small shake of her head, recalling how she hadn't thought it odd back then, to see the things that she did. How un-peculiar it was to catch those glimpses when dancing hand-in-hand with her schoolmates on the playground. How normal she'd felt, before she'd been taken underwing and taught otherwise. Taught to control and conceal that part of her that'd been so uncontrollable at the time. She'd idolized the counselor, who'd been so patient and unfailingly warm while she explained to her, so young and impressionable, that she was different. And how wonderful that was, but also dangerous. Tawny could recall the woman's office as clearly as if she'd slipped into her own memory in the same way she could others. So tactically bright and inviting. Tawny had made her own office up in a similar way to mimic the room in which she'd felt so safe and accepted. Accepted, even while she was being conditioned to hide.

"And secondly, I slept okay. It was... not bad." She gave Noah's fingers a reassuring squeeze, recalling the soft, concerned caution to his voice the night before and musing over the lingering implications in his trailed question now; wondering (but decidedly not lingering too long upon) what he was afraid she might have seen. Although she couldn't remember any particular scenes or faces, there remained the distinct feeling that there were moments in the dream-memories where she was very much disliked. But nothing particularly bad had happened that she could point to. And she imagined she would recall them, if there were — they'd be forcibly seared into her first waking moments by panicked horror as she was torn from sleep. Send her scrambling from bed and tripping across her room before she could even think to handle it better than the time before.

"I woke once from a dream that was very cold. Lots of trees and... mist." She shivered, tipping her head to gaze at him again, considering for a moment letting him know that it had been such an immediate, soothing relief to wake from that and find his warmth beside her. But the impulse was fleeting, purposely shoved from her mind before she could acknowledge it herself, let alone make it known to him. "And then there was a church at one point. I know that had to be yours, because it sure as hell wasn't mine." She chuckled, lilting the words with a deliberate levity. "Someone was there, but I can't... recall anything about them."

She let one hand drift from its place atop his own to ghost leisurely down his arm, her eye slipping from his face to trail along the path made by her fingertips. Normally it'd be a simple, untroubled decision to slip into his past now that they were awake. To seek clarity and fill the holes. Make the indiscernible features distinct. Figure out what was real and what was her own subconscious coloring over the truth. It was less simple with Noah, who'd be aware of her trifling through his memories. And whose past held a certain (oft-alluded to and just as oft-ignored) horror that — for certain reasons — she was afraid to stumble upon.

A part of her longed to seep into the particular places on the forefront of his mind when he imparted his wariness. To glimpse what worried him just enough to warn her but not enough to forbid the risk. It wasn't so much curiosity that spurred the desire, but a longing for the complete cessation of caution. An end to the reoccurring hesitance. A freedom to dip into his memories without fear of repercussion or his strain of searching vigilance each time she pulled herself from the stream. To be unafraid of whether or not the door was closed or open when they touched and to let the gift pass between them, unhindered by questions and trepidation. But another part of her feared the shadowy unknown of those memories. The possibility that they could be worse than she imagined or worse than she'd already seen.

With a torn, inward sigh, Tawny withdrew her fingers and curled them back into her palm. She let her hand fall to the blankets between them, angled toward him slightly, and let her eyes settle upon his face, brow lifting. "All things considered, I'd say the attempt was a hopeful success." This time. "I'm not opposed to a repeat, should the want arise. But if there's a next time, you'd better be sober or I better be invited out to get equally drunk." She quirked a brow, only half-pretending a moment of severity. "I was good last night, but I have my limits. And rather than letting you push me past them, I'll probably just shove you out the door."

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Tawny moved his hand to her stomach as she turned to lie on her back, and Noah listened intently as she identified the woman who’d appeared in his dreams. A wistfulness gnawed at him, strange and unexpected. It would have been nice, he supposed, to have had someone like that to discuss his gift with during his childhood. But then – the woman had been in The Sector. She’d encouraged Tawny to hide her powers. While she may have been gentle about it, a young Noah probably would have ended up resenting her, deeming her too much like his parents to trust.

“I’d say little Tawny’s wishes came true,” he decided. A therapist and a Sector agent. Tawny had more than filled the counsellor’s shoes – the two women even looked a little similar. Was she still around? She’d be proud of her, he imagined. And as much as he bemoaned the Sector for reaching Tawny before he had, he was thankful she'd had that woman in her life. Without her, would she have been at the lake that day? Would she have taken a completely different path, following a profession that meant she hadn’t needed to visit West Hook’s parks? Maybe he wouldn’t have met her that day. Maybe he never would have met her.

The worries lodged in his throat were eased by the assurance Tawny hadn’t slept badly. The relief was almost enough to make him dart forward and capture her mouth with his own, yet the urge rapidly faded as she described the dream that woke her. Oh. He blinked. Oh wow. The scene she described hadn’t crossed his mind in some time, but it was almost too easy to remember; the softest white haze blurring the world, so bright in summer yet so dark in winter, saturating his clothes, glacial against his skin. The trees were identical under the veil, their trunks all the same sombre brown with the same sable cracks in their bark. The well-trodden path disappeared completely; he couldn’t even feel the indents in the ground under his feet. How many times had Hannah done that? Spotted him on the trail home and taken off running? She really had been the worst. He would much rather have fought her, seen who was truly better when fists were involved like he would with his cousins, but she'd always been a coward. Too prissy to do anything that might leave a mark – excluding the lightning burns, but even they had been somewhat accidental.

A part of him shivered and cringed, upset that Tawny had seen such old memories. He felt the bristling compulsion to tell her that wasn’t him. He wasn’t weak. He didn’t get lost so easily anymore, and after his gift evolved Hannah hadn’t been able to use those tricks on him again anyway. He’d even cut off one of her plaits before school one day, which had upset her far more than her mist had ever upset him.

But Tawny had only mentioned trees and fog, and her recollection of a church was a welcome distraction. He snickered at her wording. “You obviously didn’t catch the Holy Spirit while you were there.”

Expression tucking into something a little more pensive, he gave an uneven shrug. “If it was church the person could have been anyone. Priest, parents, maybe some randomer your dream conjured up.” Her fingertips ghosted down his skin, raising the hairs on his arm and making his insides flutter. He kept talking. “Actually, it was probably Father John. I had to speak to him a lot.” He winked. “Unholy thoughts, y’know? But uh… he was nice. I think there was – a week? When I thought it wouldn’t be so bad to live the way he did.” He snorted, idly stroking his thumb across her stomach. “I think we’re all very grateful that I snapped out of that.”

No longer feeling defensive, he supposed he should address the fog dream. Not completely – he didn’t want to overshare – but he could make a general acknowledgement and even mention Hannah since Tawny knew of his family’s gifts. He hummed thoughtfully. “As for the trees, I grew up near some woods and I live near another forest now. Makes sense that you’d see some. But mist? Likely an older memory. That was – that’s Hannah’s thing. My sister. Or else it was just a foggy early morning stroll, nothing gifted about it.” He felt his gaze soften, another twinge in his chest. He’d been so focused on how he felt about it all that for a moment he’d forgotten Tawny had experienced it as well. “I’m sorry you were cold,” he murmured. It can’t have been pleasant. He knew it wasn’t pleasant.

Their night was dubbed a hopeful success, and the suggestion of a repeat had him biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too broadly, even if she felt the need to establish some ground rules. Boundaries, he supposed. He often wasn’t a fan of them (part of him stubbornly maintained that he could go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and do whatever he felt like; no one could tell him otherwise) but he could understand. He wouldn’t much like someone turning up unannounced to his home either. He nodded slowly. Sped up the movement as he recognised an opportunity, his eyes brightening. “Deal. And you know what? That’s such a good idea that, from now on, I think you should shove away any drunk person who turns up on your doorstep. You’ve already spent so much of your generosity on me. You shouldn’t have to spend a drop more on anyone else.”

With his previous bedmates he could simply assume he was their first choice. Their only choice: they’d always been his to keep, no question about it. But Tawny kept on existing even when he wasn’t there. Could find interest elsewhere. Be tempted by other people. And it stirred up a nameless desperation within him that he did not want to acknowledge.

He should ask her on an actual date and be done with it. Draw some sort of line in the sand – or rather, a circle, with the two of them being its sole occupants. But people could be skittish about such things and Tawny was not someone he was willing to risk losing by being too much, too fast; he would have to approach it with more care. Delicately poke and prod at her until he understood how she felt about such matters.

With a lazy grin he tipped forward, falling off from his fist to lay on his front, and shifted closer until he could bury his face into the crook of her neck with one of his legs casually slotting between hers. His arm curled more securely across her middle and he hummed his contentment, eyes slipping closed. Savouring the feel of her.

“I’d tell you I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “but it wouldn’t be completely honest. Why would I regret anything that got me here?” Noah could not pretend that he had been out of control, that he had done things he wouldn’t have if not for the alcohol. Every kiss, every fervent touch had been purposeful. He would have done the exact same thing if he’d been sober (except perhaps with more grace and less falling on the floor). “I am very thankful that you let me in though, and even more thankful that you let me sleep here. It's a dangerous world out there, I definitely owe you. Whatever you want. Need some more canvases? Groceries? The pleasure of my company at three a.m. on a workday? I’m your guy.”

He paused, trying to pick his next words carefully. While he’d cuddled up to her again for obvious reasons, it was also… hiding. He wouldn’t be able to see the considerations that could flash across her eyes, and unless she drew away she wouldn’t be able to see the relief or disappointment that was sure to flit across his own features when she responded. “As you said, bed-warming is a very lucrative business but… the bookings can be cleared for a highly valued customer.” With some hesitance which he hoped she couldn’t sense, he risked reintroducing his lips to her neck, only a brief press that left his stomach flipping at the possibility that she would shoulder him away. That she would not indulge him in the morning as she had in the night. “I’m not opposed to a repeat either and… I won’t have sleepovers with other people if you don’t.” Not that he’d want to, but he’d keep that to himself. It would reek too much of desperation. He sighed airily. “I guess I can allow the cat as an exception, if you insist. And maybe the ferrets, though I have to say I don’t trust the one who stole my wallet. He's got questionable vibes.”


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Tawny's smile twisted into something more reflective as Noah spoke of his perceived success in imitating her guidance counselor. She supposed he was right and it made her briefly wonder where her life might have gone and what she might have ended up doing, had she been snapped up by someone else. Given different blueprints to build herself off of. Or been provided none at all and found her own way.

When Noah continued, she abandoned the pensive wonderings — finding them a touch uncomfortable — and snorted while picturing him as a chaste, humble priest. It definitely didn't suit him, though perhaps — had he been similarly provided different blueprints — at one time, it was possible. Maybe even easier to imagine. He turned his explanations to the dream of mist and woods and Tawny blinked, watching him from her periphery, tracing the shape of his face and the slope of his mouth as he spoke. There had been a girl there; now that he mentioned it, she could almost picture her. Hannah. She had refrained from asking more about his family the night before when he'd been drunk and she'd been hesitant to pry. But now, with an almost-picture of his sister in her mind, the questions poised on her tongue. But then Noah was speaking again, agreeing to her stipulations about future night-time visits, and she put a mental pin in the topic.

At his comment about turning away any drunk person at her door, she smirked, stifling a quick flash of uncertainty. Though spoken lightly, the words themselves tasted slightly of... possessiveness. A claim on her. Perhaps belaying some sort of jealousy or disdain toward the idea of someone else receiving the same hospitality he'd been shown in the night. It was something she'd purposely ignore. Allow to go uncommented upon, much like the bruise he'd left on her neck. She would wish it simply went away, until similar comments cropped up again, more blatant and unignorable. Then, when forced to acknowledge them, she'd claim she hadn't realized they were there before. Claim it in such a way that she could nearly believe it herself.

Noah snuggled closer, slotting more firmly against her, and Tawny let an amused, fond smile curl at her lips. She tipped her head to allow better access to her neck and laid an arm across him, bent at the elbow so she could slip a hand into his hair. She hummed while he assured her quietly that he couldn't genuinely apologize for his intrusion, not truly regretful how the cards landed, and she could have purred contentedly. At his prompting, she mulled over what she might ask in return, thoughts returning to the ideas and fantasizing they'd remorsefully abandoned the night before. But when he continued, revisiting the idea of bedwarmers, tightly-booked schedules, and slumber parties, she felt her smile begin to slip at the corners.

Tawny tensed, the hand sifting through his hair halting; fingers curling slightly into her palm and growing still. Noah pressed his lips to her neck and she willed herself, desperately, to tip into the embrace. To roll and face him with a thoughtful hum before meeting his mouth with something more determined, just to smother the implication of his words away. Distract from them and buy herself some time before they were inevitably brought up again. He sighed airily, teasing again as he offered the cat and ferrets as an exception to the rule, and she wanted to latch onto the levity. Keep the joke and roundabout alluding going; perhaps chuckle out some teasing dismissal and dance from the topic altogether.

But she swallowed, realizing she couldn't. Or she could — might have, if he were someone else — but it wouldn't work. It would be an enjoyable delay, but just that — a delay. Experience told her that avoidance hardly worked. The conversation — the start of the end — would still catch up to her, oftentimes more firmly later if not now. She'd only back herself into a corner, the other person tired of the dance — done with the childish sideskirting and forced to demand instead of suggest.

Her eyes slipped closed as she felt a small yawning start in her chest; a cold, dreading bloom that quickened her heartbeat and sent a pulse of prickly cold through her limbs. She withdrew the hand from his hair, pressing her eyes shut tighter as she acknowledged the mindless way she did so, and laid it across her own chest while her mind churned.

She had been teasing when she alluded to his tight schedule, not truly desiring to toe him into a box or place herself opposite others on some silly balance. She didn't mind others. She could pretend they didn't exist. Take him for her own only when he was and set him free when he wasn't. What he did when he wasn't with her was hardly any of her business. There would be times, it was inevitable, when she'd catch a glimpse of his memory — a flash of someone else in his arms, held there in a way that might inspire a brief moment of envy. But she'd stifle that and skip away, contentedly deciding it didn't concern her. It was simpler that way. If she laid a claim on him, made him hers and only hers, she'd have to take care of that. Nurture it. Tend to it in more attentive ways than she liked and that wasn't necessarily required when two people were only having fun. If her past relationships were anything to go off of, she lacked the energy for such responsibility. Ultimately, she'd be unable to. And he'd grow — slowly, always very slowly — to resent her for it.

If Noah truly wanted them to be... exclusive... did that mean they were something? Would she have to name them in some way when explaining to those who reached for her that she couldn't anymore? Doing so would be dooming. Like starting a clock to countdown; herself feeling weirder and colder as she watched the numbers tick to zero. The whole idea was a mountain of stone hurtled in her path that she could only stare at with trepidation; too hesitant and afraid to start that upward hike to a summit where she knew she'd find a much steeper, treacherous decline on the other side. It was daunting. She'd fucked it up too many times before. Thrown herself and anyone else from that pivotal precipice (incidentally sometimes, but other times purposely) just to escape.

Not for the first time in her life, Tawny wished she possessed the gift of manipulating time instead of memory. Just to pause and give herself a long, quiet moment to work through the mess of thoughts weaving through her head, all of them baying over one another in a discordant, unintelligible mess. If only she could take the time to pick them apart and examine each one individually. Consider the situation from all angles and appraise the fallout and risks of every response she could possibly give. Her gift, in some small way, did leave room for error — with a little resolve, she could fix past mistakes. Erase the memory of an uncomfortable conversation. Soften blows and change a few choice words in hindsight. Even remove her existence from someone's recollection entirely, if she were bold enough. But manipulating time — buying herself just enough silence to think without the repercussion of perceived hesitance — could prevent the need to fix entirely.

But alas, she couldn't pause time. The thoughts and possibilities jumbled atop one another in a hurried mess, unable to be tamed, and she beat them back with a sort of unhelpful, inward panic; counting the seconds of silence that ticked by while she wrestled them down. Eventually, she let her eyes slowly open and sighed. She levered herself slowly forward, slipping from beneath him so she could sit up and fold her legs close to her.

"Noah, that's —" she paused, her lips pressing into a small, uncertain twist while the words caught in her throat. It was what? A big ask? Not really. That wasn't quite right. She'd have no issue not seeing anyone else if that was what he wanted. Most of her "slumber parties" were a simple means to an end; seeking a body to lose herself in just to quiet the buzz when her mind churned too loud. Or to fill the silence when it yawned instead with that long, nameless, and vacant ache. She could find those needed comforts in a single person, easy — at least until it wasn't. She tended to focus her affections (even when they were simply physical), on one person at a time anyway; up until that same, pivotal point where things got too comfortable or some mild irritant sent her seeking someone else to decisively ruin it. "It's —" she started again, but the attempt petered to abrupt silence once more.

Tawny huffed a derisive breath through her nose, momentarily angry with herself for her own incompetence. Always an inability to be direct and honest. To decipher the mess she was feeling and translate it into words that someone else could understand. It was just the sort of thing — the sort of helpless despondency — that'd keep her hiding in her room, beneath the covers, and ignoring everyone who sought her. Sleeping through the day, waiting for the storm to pass so she could pretend it had been nothing. Could pretend she didn't have anything to explain to anyone.

Folding her arms over her knees, Tawny closed her eyes again and forced her mind to stillness. Forced herself to start from the beginning. There was no need to jump to conclusions — Noah wasn't asking to move in. To label them. To block or delete all the numbers from her phone or forbid her from going out. His ask — not really an ask at all, but more like a roundabout suggestion — had been simple. Not alarming. Shouldn't be alarming. It wasn't alarming.

With a forced absence of thought, Tawny tipped her face in his direction and dropped her eyes to him. Offered the tiniest, unconvinced smile; just a quirk to her lips that belayed her uncertainty. "That's... after breakfast talk, isn't it?" She said lamely, feeling her heart pound harder in her chest as she acknowledged the cowardice in it. "In fact, don't people actually sleep together before they decide to swear off others?" She winced, hearing how the words sounded, and quickly lifted a hand to wave through the air. "Not that I'm worried about you being a bad lay," she winced again, giving a small, desperate shake of her head. "Or that that matters, that's not what I mean, that's not the issue, that's not what I'm —" She huffed, pinching both her mouth and her eyes shut and smothering her flailing hand across her face.

"I wasn't asking you to stop seeing other people." She started again after a moment, quieter. "Jokes aside, please... don't be charming — is that what you want? Are you asking that of me?" She sucked at her lips, forcing herself to silence and stifling the urge to barrel onward.

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

It was something he should have kept trapped behind his teeth.

As much as he’d hoped for agreement, he’d also prepared for rejection. But he’d expected (if the latter did occur) that it would come in the form of a giggle and a deflective remark. Some sort of tease, claiming she needed to be wooed first. It would have been disappointing but he would have risen to the task. Made some jokes about upping the ante while ultimately letting it go for the time being.

The silence that answered him instead was unexpected and far, far worse. There was nothing for him to bounce off of, nothing he could latch onto to pivot the conversation away into safer territory. He shouldn’t have said anything. He knew it from the second he felt her tense against him but he should have known it sooner – should have shut up and been content the instant her fingers threaded into his hair. He’d been too optimistic. Lulled by her hands, by her presence, by his own relative honesty. What part of his suggestion had upset her? The wording? Did she want something more official? Less? Was the idea of giving up other people for him really that unappealing?

He suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed. It seeped through him like a noxious fog, turning him cold, then numb. They’d flirted and kissed and had two conversations where he vaguely talked about his family and – what? That meant they had some sort of connection? How was she supposed to know the significance – know the trust it meant he had in her?

It dawned on him, then, that her gift allowed her to know people; to see them for more than just the words that left their mouths. But his gift stopped her from doing that to him, from knowing him. So really, he was probably more a stranger to her than anyone else she’d ever met. And what she had seen… didn’t exactly inspire trust.

He bit the inside of his cheek. He felt exposed and would rather have had any other feeling – would rather be fighting. He’d feel sick even if his stomach weren’t already so sensitive, and he wished he had her gift in his hands so he could make her forget it.

Positioned as he was, he saw her throat bob. Heard her swallow. Her hand withdrew from his hair completely and he felt something so old and distant it could be mistaken for a dream. It was like he was an outside dog, one who wasn’t permitted in the home, being kicked in the ribs for having stepped over the threshold. You shouldn’t be here, the owner told him, you’re not allowed to have this.

Seconds ticked by. With each one Noah could feel his mood plummet further, his day threatening to turn into one where he was all bared teeth and bristling haunches. He felt the hysterical need to snap at her, to deny his interest like some defensive little boy who’d been rejected by his crush. But he didn’t want to do that, not really. Still desperately wanted her to like him. In which case – backpedalling would be the more productive option. Perhaps laughing. Just kidding, we barely know each other – did you think I was being serious? Or apologising. Blaming it on his hangover. On his being half-asleep. Sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking –

Tawny slowly pulled away from him and sat up. He didn’t move for a moment, staring hollowly at the space she’d left behind. Then he rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows; a casual position that kept him below her, aiming to appear non-threatening as he schooled his expression into neutrality.

It wasn’t necessary; she wasn’t looking at him. Her face was turned away, hidden from him, and as she tried and failed to speak to him – twice – he wanted to sit up and press himself against her back, to rest his chin on her shoulder and gently coax her to talk him through whatever hell-spiral he’d prompted. But the sinking feeling persisted like a rock in water, unable to be retrieved once thrown in the lake. She wouldn’t want that. Didn’t want him. If she did, she would have agreed by now or issued some sort of playful challenge. He hadn’t thought he was asking for much but maybe he’d read her wrong. Maybe she wasn’t nearly as interested as he’d thought. Maybe she already had someone she liked; someone who accepted her gift and made her laugh and wouldn’t give her nightmares.

It was a good thing, in a way, that she did take so long to look at him. It gave him time to shove all his disappointment and hurt into a box and hide it behind his back, out of view, so when she finally turned to him he only blinked back at her, quirking his brow as if perplexed – as if she were the one overthinking their entire situation and making ridiculous decisions. He didn’t care what she was going to say to him. He didn’t care. He didn’t care.

She spoke. All he could see was uncertainty. In her expression, in her posture, leaking into her words as she stumbled and winced through her response. He made himself smile. Even when she’d made him feel worthless and unwanted, she was cute. If they were having a different conversation he might have genuinely laughed. The ‘bad lay’ comment would have been jumped on for sure; he could think of all sorts of mischievous follow-up questions.

And yet, it was not a different conversation. Quietly, in a voice that made his throat tighten again, she asked if he really wanted her to stop seeing other people. Are you asking that of me? It echoed in his head. Added weight to the sinking stone. He did want it. He wanted it so badly – couldn’t bear the thought of her in someone else’s arms. He could double down and tell her as such but, evidently… she didn’t want it. Why else would she have reacted in such a way? Why else would she say it like that – are you asking that of me? Like it was a burden. Another unsavoury quest given to the weary heroine of a tragedy. Are you asking that of me? Hadn’t she been through enough?

“Well,” he began, retaining the amused curl to his lips. “It looks like I’m going to have to apologise after all –” He cut himself off. Don’t be charming, she’d said. Jokes aside. Annoyingly, he wanted to do that for her. Still wanted to appease her even when it would make it more difficult for him.

He dropped the smile and reshaped his expression into something a little more serious, mixing a touch of apology into it for good measure. He needed to minimise it. Needed to pretend that what he’d asked for wasn’t the plea for exclusivity – the plea for her to be his – that it was. Needed to pretend it didn’t matter to him – that he was only concerned about how she’d 'overreacted'.

“I’m sorry. It was just an idea, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m obviously very attracted to you and I thought it would be fun. And the ‘no other people’ part is just a standard safety and availability thing, y’know?” He rolled his head onto his shoulder. “So… yeah. That is something I’d want. But it’s fine that you don’t. No hurt feelings.” Liar, liar, liar. He pushed himself up onto his hands so he was sitting up as well. “It was crass of me to bring it up like that, especially when you've been so kind. And like you said, we haven’t even slept together. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d want us to do anything like that. We can forget I said it.”

It was shit, he thought miserably, how he could lose entire weeks, entire months from memory, yet he knew would remember every stupid little detail of that exchange. The tension he'd felt in her body. The idiotic way he’d ruined the mood in the first place, and let the silence stretch when she failed to respond immediately. The absence of warmth beside him after she moved away, and the stammering false starts as she sought the words to turn him down.

Even the thought of going out and finding other bedfellows out of spite, something he would do if turned down by someone else, only made his insides hurt again. It was awful. Was this how other people felt when lying in bed next to him? Had they known he didn’t really care? Had they hurt?

He shifted nearer and gave her a soft bump to the shoulder, an amused, apologetic upturn to his lips as he quirked his brow. “Now, there’s got to be some reason you were sat on the bed when I woke up and not in the bed. You got somewhere to be today? Trying to nudge me along? I can take a hint. I’ll go freshen up, and if you’ve got time and still insist on feeding me, I guess I can stay for that too.” His smile widened into a grin, though it felt more like he was baring his teeth – a challenge coupled with a shoulder shimmy. “Maybe you can even coast through my head. Might as well. I’d like to try it on you again, if you're open to it.” Screw the consequences. He was feeling destructive and might as well get as much use out of her as he could while she still allowed it. Who knows if she’d ever want to see him again after he left?


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Tawny was largely relieved. A part of her — seasoned by the number of similar conversations she'd made unnecessarily difficult in the past — braced for the unpredictable recoil. Prepared to acknowledge the flickering of shadow in angered or hurt eyes while she fumbled ineloquently. She almost inwardly flinched with the expectation that she'd be forced to elaborate. Forced to try and pull the words from where they'd twisted in an aching, indecipherable mess inside her. Growing even more panicked (and eventually cruel) when they persisted, unwilling to accept that she simply couldn't.

But Noah was unaffectedly casual beside her. Pacifying, even, as he propped himself up in a nonchalant way that reassured her it was okay. She hadn't wounded him. On the contrary, he looked perplexed by her reaction, even momentarily amused and prepared to joke before he resigned himself into something more serious. Tawny breathed, feeling the panic slowly subside to something manageable; a mix of feeling inadequate, awkward, and overall foolish seeping into its place as he assured her the suggestion wasn't nearly the big ask as she'd made it out to be.

She'd freaked out over nothing. It had been nothing. Somewhere amid the enormous relief she now felt, there was a tiny prickle of remorse, misplaced and ironic among the uncertainty that'd so quickly and completely trampled her over. Her eyes retreated from his, unable to safely hold his gaze as he suggested forgetting the entire thing. Inexplicably, her heart dipped in her chest with a sort of sorrowful longing that completely contradicted the panic and relief that washed over one another so interchangeably.

How could it hurt either way? It wasn't reasonable. She could have laughed. She wanted to cry. It was silly.

"No, it's okay. I'm sorry. I'm..." she paused, but not long enough that her mind could whirl once more through the dozens of things she wanted to say and prevent her from continuing. Or, worse probably, force her to start anew; locked in a relentless cycle of backpedaling and reaching for a proper explanation that wouldn't come. "A mess." She risked a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle as she closed her eyes and shook her head, a more genuine smile touching only briefly at the corners of her lips. It was an understatement. A poor excuse, too, she imagined. When she opened her eyes, she breathed a steadying exhale and let them finally flit back to Noah's face, forcing them to settle there while she quirked her mouth into something more penitent and imploring. "When it comes to these things. Maybe, instead of forgetting it, we can just..." She let her hand venture from her lap and placed it beside Noah's on the bed, lifting her pinky to gingerly brush across the top of his hand. "Stick a pin in it for now?"

A voice inside her — in an anguished, hushed tone — howled quietly that it wasn't fair what she was asking. In its whispered cry, she felt the unsaid plea to break it (whatever it was or could be), clean and pretty, before it started. It was unkind to ask Noah to wait around while she figured herself out. Cruel to keep him holding to some lazy, roundabout promise that she'd never quite managed to keep before. Asking him to give her time when she knew no time in the world could prepare her.

The aching howl — and the memories it brought flashing before her eyes, of the people she'd hurt and the precious time of theirs she'd wasted — went ignored. Tawny's smile only screwed the tiniest bit tighter with pleading as she realized she was perhaps a little too selfish to be so honest. That perhaps, in some deplorable way, she couldn't afford the mercy it would be to shut him down. Too pained to risk his leaving her so soon that she was willing to risk hurting them both worse later.

She considered plopping back down. Rolling back against him to hide; burying into his scent and his warmth as they returned to the moment before her breath had caught and doubt had flowered. But she knew it would be almost impossible now with the nagging worry that she'd tainted it lending its hesitance to her fingers as they brushed across his skin and through his hair. It'd keep her eyes from closing. Keep her body tensed. Keep her mind from quieting and her chest too tight to breathe properly. And doing so would risk the possibility that he'd pull himself away, not as comfortable as he'd been before. That would be devastating in such a way that she was positive she wouldn't be able to contain it. Wouldn't be able to conceal the remorse as it watered in her eyes and tore at her chest.

When he bumped his shoulder against her and asked about her day's agenda, she felt a knee-jerk desire to leap upon the opportunity he presented her. To claim work business, prior plans, or anything else to see him gone, just so she could unravel in his absence as soon as the door was clicked shut behind him. Pick through the tangled mess of herself in the safety of solitude and work out the words she had wanted to say in hindsight. It was a familiar, instinctual desire. A goal she set for most slumber parties, eager as she was to see herself or the other person gone without any hassle. But typically the hurried goodbyes (or sometimes even the wordless sneak-aways) weren't accompanied by the heavy weight of hesitance that burdened her now. They were easy. Thoughtless. Always followed by a shudder of relief and a feeling of freedom.

This time, she suspected... if she were to shove him out the door, she wouldn't feel as light. Instead, she'd feel vacant and remorseful, the relief of being alone cut cleanly through by something shackling and sinister while she picked at their breakfast.

So she offered another small smile. Did her best to make it emptied of the tension she'd forced upon herself. "Nope, no plans, nowhere to be. I started breakfast already. Nothing big, just some fruits, toast, and eggs. I can finish while you freshen up. Do you think you're up for that? If you'd like I can drive you home after? I'm sure you've got some recouping to do after last night." She straightened her legs and swiveled so she could step out of bed, making a conscious effort to brighten her face before turning to face him with a tip to her head. Pretending and trying to manifest a return to normalcy. "As far as coasting goes, I'm game. While we eat?"

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

His stare remained fixed on her, picking apart every single little detail: her exhale, the way her eyes flit away from his, her apology and the pause that followed before she labelled herself a mess. A mess? What did that mean? What was her definition of ‘these things’? What did she think was happening between them and what part of his suggestion had spooked her? She chuckled quietly, closing her eyes as she shook her head. He didn’t understand. Desperately wanted to. Wanted to see; if she couldn't tell him then there had to be some sort of explanation in her memories. Something that would complete the puzzle and make it all make sense, if only he could find it.

When her eyes reopened his gaze dropped to her hesitant smile, then further down to her little finger as it brushed across the top of his hand. They didn’t have to forget it, she said, they could stick a pin in it. He bit his cheek to stop himself from swallowing, feeling his nonchalant façade threaten to crack. It was a strange thing – to feel torn in every direction. An unusual, pained confusion that made him feel awfully young again. What did that mean? She wasn’t saying no? But she hadn’t said yes. Still hadn’t. Didn’t want it – want him – enough to accept. Why pretend she did? Or would? He’d given her the OK to say she didn’t. He’d said his feelings weren’t hurt and said he understood if she didn’t want that sort of relationship and yet… Stick a pin in it… Was he meant to be hers or not? What did she want from him? What did it mean? What did it mean?

It dawned on him unkindly: she was using the very same tactics he would use on one-night stands who might warrant additional visits. She was shelving him. Uncertain if she wanted to bother, but supposing she’d like the option. Swirling her hand through the waters of their encounters to raise the dirt to the surface and muddy them, making it impossible to discern what lay in the depths. He almost scoffed. Nearly bristled and stood. She didn’t need to do that; there was no need. He would gladly be used by her, except – his sole condition was that she used him and only him. No one else. He wouldn’t be made to share. But she wouldn’t even agree to that.

Upon his prompting, Tawny revealed she had no plans for the day and nothing that she needed to hurry away for. Part of him wished she did, if only so he could go home sooner, pass out, and try to forget as much as possible. Maybe drink again. Yet he nodded along to her plans for breakfast and nearly nodded to her offer of a ride home as well. He stopped himself short, feeling his brow twitch. Maybe he shouldn’t let her do that much. She’d done enough, hadn’t she?

She turned to get out of bed and Noah took that as his cue to do the same, stopping first to arch his back and stretch his arms above his head. He’d act like nothing was affecting him because it shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be scrambling for meaning in every little thing she said, his head reeling with questions he was too worried to ask: that wasn't him. He wasn't that kind of guy. The only explanation was that someone infuriatingly pitiful was possessing his body, and he was sure he'd be able to exorcise them soon enough.

He flopped back from his stretch with a lazy grin. “Sure. While we eat.” The grin widened and he reached out to lightly ruffle her hair, further mussing the already messy bun. “Cutie… Anyway, I’ll get an Uber home afterwards.” Keeping his posture contented and relaxed, he stood and made his way to her bathroom, telling himself he was doing the right thing. He wouldn’t let any other hook-ups drive him to his house; why should he treat her any differently? Sure, they hadn’t slept together, but he urgently needed to put her in the same category because there wasn’t another one that made sense. She wasn’t family or an enemy. Nor did he want to think of her as a friend or simply someone he knew. And besides that, if she wanted to put him on a shelf to be brought down another day, he’d decide when that was. Comings and goings; a small thing for him to have control over.

After closing the door behind him he couldn’t quite meet his eyes in the bathroom mirror, faintly concerned what he’d see in them without Tawny there to brighten them for. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and combed his fingers through his hair until it was presentable. Without permission or specified spare towels he felt it would be unwise to hop in her shower (he could ask but… he wouldn’t), so he turned to his pile of clothes and pulled on everything except his sweater, suspecting the scents of nightlife clung to it most and would disagree with his stomach.

He patted his pockets, relieved to find his switchblade, phone, and wallet where he’d left them. Not that he thought Tawny would have taken them. He simply knew how easy it was to misplace things when drunk, and it would have been awkward if he had to ask her to search her apartment or – worse – come up emptyhanded and have to ask her to contact him if she found it later on.

His phone’s battery was rather low and, thinking about it... there’d been an iPhone charger beside her bed, hadn’t there? He blinked. Felt his stomach dip. He could have powered his phone up but more importantly than that… Tawny didn’t have an iPhone. Why would she have that charger? Why would it be beside her bed?

All the bad feelings of the morning rushed over him once more. The nausea, the yearning. The hollowness. Maybe he ought to go home. Forget breakfast entirely. Why torture himself with something he might never experience again?

Stifling a sigh, he left the bathroom.

In a sober state he could fully appreciate the mess of Tawny’s apartment. If there had been trash everywhere they’d be having a conversation about it, but for the most part the chaos appeared connected to her artistic pursuits and her pets – the ferrets themselves choosing that moment to tumble directly into his path. They were as energetic in the morning as they had been at night, though thankfully uninterested in him as he stepped around them on his way to Tawny’s small dining table.

Against his bidding, his eyes drew curiously to the paintings in the den area. It was so very tempting to rifle through them and pick out his favourites, but he draped his sweater over the back of a chair with every intention of sitting down and acting distant. If she didn’t want him, he wouldn’t pretend he was hers. Wouldn’t pretend to be interested in any of it.

And yet… even from where he stood, he could see a couple of mugs adorned with cartoon cats. Could smell coffee and the eggs she was cooking. The mid-morning sun from the balcony brought out the lighter browns in her hair and gave her skin a soft glow, and it struck him that he couldn't remember being drawn in by anything or anyone the way he was by her. It brought forth that terrible yearning again. That ridiculous ache, mournful in the likelihood of never sharing a morning with her again. Damnit. He just couldn’t help himself. His feet were carrying him towards her before he could process what he was doing.

“Incoming.” Hopefully she wouldn’t hear the resignation that touched his tone, or else would mistake it for something else – maybe tiredness. He’d been defeated so easily. Felled at the first hurdle. And worse – he’d felt the sycophantic need to warn her in case she hadn’t heard his approach, allowing her to hold back her gift rather than be thrown, unprepared, into his memories. Why was he still concerning himself with making her comfortable? Especially when a gift like hers would be so easy to swipe if he put his mind to it. All he’d have to do was catch her off guard. But even now with so many feelings to scramble his insides (too many, too strong, too unfamiliar), he much preferred the idea of her choosing to surrender it to him. Of her wanting to share and wanting to let him know her.

He wrapped his arms around her middle and perched his chin on top of her head, savouring the warm press of her as he drew her back against him. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” His grin was audible in his voice and he hated himself for it. The whole concept of her making breakfast for him (even if she claimed it was ‘nothing big’) was incredibly domestic and he bit his tongue to stop himself from pointing out the fact. He imagined she’d react badly again. He hated her for it.

Scanning the counter, he snorted at the sight of something that did not quite fit in with the rest. “I hope it’s not the creepy chicken feet.” Was it meant for the pets? He realised he had no idea what ferrets ate, but for some reason he’d imagined their eating habits to be more akin to bunnies than dogs. Another reason to find them hilarious, he supposed. It would explain their sharp teeth, too.

With a flash of inspiration Noah leaned down, moving from atop her head to turn his face into the side of her neck. “The chef looks far tastier,” he purred. “I’d much rather eat her.” He playfully nipped her shoulder, pulling away with a chuckle before she could swat at him or doing anything else that would undoubtedly hurt his feelings.

Perhaps he’d overstepped. She’d turned him down, hadn’t she? He shouldn’t touch her so casually. Not like that. But… she also hadn’t turned him down. The line was blurred. He had an excuse.

If she asked for help he’d leap back up, but for the time being he meandered back to the dining table and plopped down on a chair, watching her intently over the half wall. He assumed she would prefer him to keep out of the way; sometimes two people in the kitchen was too many. Plus, standing up for so long was beginning to aggravate his lingering queasiness.

“Do you think we can influence what the other sees?” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, eyes bright as he tilted his head. “With your gift, I mean. For example… if I concentrate on one memory in particular when you touch me, do you think it would be the first one you see when you dive in? Or is it always kind of a ‘spin the wheel’ game? Where you land on something random and decide where to go from there?”


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Noah stretched and agreed, his continued nonchalance easing, in some small way, the efforts it took to keep her face bright. He reached out to muss her hair and, despite the very deeply-ingrained part of her — a part of her that instinctively connected all childish, teasing things and nicknames to her father — that reared its head with unbidden disdain, she only let her grin screw up tighter with amusement. Kept it consciously unaffected as Noah then declined her offer to drive him home. It was expected, she supposed, and she shouldn't feel disappointed. She told herself this even as her stomach gave a small, unwelcome dip.

She returned to the kitchen, deflating a bit at the sound of the bathroom door closing behind Noah. Phew. There was a familiar blanketing of relief to be finally unobserved and she let her face smooth into something neutral and blank as she turned on the burner and picked up breakfast where she left off; warming up the butter and readying the bread in the toaster. She moved with a purposeful lack of thought as she brought down plates and small bowls for the blueberries, leaving no room in her mind for wandering questions and doubts as she rifled through cupboards mechanically, lending conscious, stated direction to every action of her fingers. As long as she had something to do, something to occupy her hands, she'd have no time to think and linger in her thinking.

But then — far too quickly — there was nothing more to do but watch the butter slowly melt. She leaned into the counter with a sigh as she swirled it around the pan. Her phone still played music quietly from where it'd been abandoned next to her mug at the coffee pot and she listened to it idly, suddenly finding the tones a bit too fittingly melancholic. Her gaze flickered to the toaster and the fruits, looking for something to do, but instead, her mind drew back to how she'd been humming along so unconcernedly and happily as she readied everything earlier. Quietly pleased to be making him breakfast, imagining his sleepy groans as he drug himself groggily to her table. The empty, drained feeling with which she operated now was a stark contrast; the reality of the morning somehow much less appealing than her earlier romanticizing of the whole thing.

Noah stepped into the kitchen and her fingers tightened marginally on her spatula as she shoved aside the thoughts the best she could and straightened. She cracked the eggs into the pan and made a conscious attempt to be unreserved and receptive when his arms looped around her middle and pulled her against him, chin set lightly upon her head. Tried to bounce back from the vacancy that pooled in her mind as she let a smile curl at her mouth; implored herself to shake the wistfulness and tip backward into him with a happy hum that she just couldn't quite manage. She chuckled at his comment upon the chicken feet, proud of the way it sounded from her lips but too aware of the vague disconnect from it she felt deep in her chest. She'd had wanted him to see them and be momentarily caught off-guard — had imagined it with such fond amusement earlier — but now it felt like par for the course, not nearly as funny and affecting as she now begged it to feel. "No, it's not for us," she quietly laughed through a smile that she put effort into not seeming strained.

Noah's head dipped to her shoulder, face pressing to her neck as he nipped lightly at her skin with a purring tease. Tawny told herself to laugh, to scrunch up her neck with an unrestrained giggle as she batted him away. Perhaps retaliate with a mood-lifting remark meant to entice. But the need for instruction — the time it took to calculate how to respond in a way that could hopefully return herself to something light and unreserved — was too long and Noah moved away. She felt herself inwardly dip further at the missed opportunity. Felt it wind something inside her even tighter, making her want to be smaller and apologize for it. She started the toaster, fingers almost feeling numb.

Noah retreated to settle at the table and Tawny lifted her gaze to observe him over the half-wall as he asked about her gift.

"Yeah, it can work kinda like that." She nodded, stare returning to the pan of eggs. For the briefest of moments — very flitting — she had considered lying. Telling him there was no way to influence where in the current they were initially thrown. With his gift, her forays through his head were already stinted; cut short by the theft of her power. And once he had it in his own hands, it would be a while before she could try again. A part of her wondered if his wanting to know was a way to safeguard his more sensitive memories, the ones he cautioned her from. To distract her by tossing her where he desired and giving her less time to tread in their direction.

But the tiny whisper of suspicion was quickly snuffed, drowned out mostly by her desire to be honest with him. To have her gift understood completely and reward his curiosity — his own desire to learn about it — with frank, open truth. She acknowledged also that it could be a lie quickly sussed out, were he to glimpse a memory of her asking her patients to guide her to a particular event in their life. Or touch her while she was talking of a specific incident and find himself thrown in the thick of it. And what if, at some point, they wanted one another to see something specific? She didn't want to make that impossible or difficult by lying now.

Tawny flipped off the burner and transferred the eggs to their plates, taking a moment to season them. "At work, I sometimes ask my patients to focus on a certain memory in particular. To hold in in their mind, focus on the feelings they'd felt, really think of all the small details, that kind of thing." She buttered the toast, cut them into triangles, and added them to the plate along with the sliced avocado and bowl of blueberries. "It working really well kind of depends on how hard they try to do that. But even if they can't remember it well or... just don't want to... I'm usually still thrown in the right ballpark."

She wiped her hands on a towel and brought the plates to the table, pausing to move aside some of her scattered supplies and tidy up stacks of papers and loose sketches to allow more room. "Coffee or... another water? You take yours with a bit of sugar and some milk, if I remember right?" She moved back to the kitchen to retrieve the drinks, grab a pair of forks, top off her own coffee, and turn the volume down on her phone. Then she returned, added them to the table, and settled in the seat across from him, popping a blueberry in her mouth. "Do you wanna try it?" She offered a small grin, lifting her fork in one hand while she laid her other on the kitchen table between them, palm-up. "You can think of something you want me to see instead of worrying about things you don't."

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

It was as he’d hoped: there was a way to influence what Tawny saw. As keen as he’d been to sabotage their thing a few minutes ago (for her to find something grisly and for their unclassified relationship to fall irretrievably apart), he was now back to soaking up every little smile and clinging to whatever happiness he could derive from her while she still allowed him to. If he could keep her away from the bad, if he could focus on the good or at least the mundane, maybe their morning would be as peaceful as he’d originally hoped.

In no time at all she placed their breakfast on the table, and though the prospect of eating made his stomach cringe, he reminded himself that it had to be done in the name of recovery. Besides, it looked good. There’d be no complaints from him. He thanked her and privately resolved to clear his plate, if only to prove his appreciation.

Before he could begin she offered him coffee – exactly how he liked it.

She’d remembered.

Noah had to contain his smile, restricting it from growing into something too blatantly pleased. She’d remembered how he preferred his coffee. Such a stupid, insignificant little detail. About him. He both welcomed and hated how much it delighted him and he hummed as though in thought, trying to play off his quiet moment of awe as indecision. He’d usually only drink water with a hangover (or ginger tea – Kels had introduced him to that particular hangover aid) but Tawny had remembered. He licked his lips. “Let’s have coffee. How do you usually take yours?” He managed to pose the question casually despite his sudden desperation to know. At his house she’d taken it the same way he’d had his yet he suspected she only did that to be a polite houseguest, not wanting to make him go out of his way.

He thanked her again as she brought over their drinks and cutlery, and with an expression both amused and faintly fond, he pulled his mug closer to study the cartoon cats on the side. Cute. His attention did not remain there for long, however, soon drawn back to Tawny as she sat across from him and laid her hand between them. He automatically (enthusiastically) reached for it. For her. But the statement that followed her offer stopped him short. Made his fingers curl into his palm and lower to the table an inch away from hers.

“Ah.” He blinked. “Caught immediately.” A rueful grin made itself at home on his lips and he dropped his gaze into his coffee. He almost felt embarrassed. Maybe a little shamed – like a kid caught doing something they knew was off-limits. He chuckled, shaking his head with his eyes narrowed teasingly as he lifted the cup. “You’re much too smart for me.” Or maybe he was that transparent. “How will I ever get my devious ploys past you?” He took a sip. Found it was still a little too hot to drink comfortably – too hot to hide behind as he gathered his thoughts.

Putting it down, he raised his eyes back to hers with a smile touched with something a little more sincere and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve seen all kinds of things in people’s heads – war, even. You could probably handle it.” Could she? Sure, she’d been warned; she knew it was a possibility now. Wouldn’t be completely blindsided like she had before. But – she’d tumbled from his lap. Almost fallen over his coffee table in her haste to get away. Could she really handle it? “I’m probably being fussy –” selfish, paranoid, overprotective – “but it still… I just – I don’t want to cause you any stress if it can be easily avoided. You understand that, right?”

Stress. It sounded much softer than terror or anger or disgust. He didn’t wait for her to answer, unfurling his fingers and edging them across the table. “Don’t do it yet,” he murmured. “I need to think of something good.”

He slipped his hand into hers (craving contact, not solely with the intention of receiving her gift, just wanting to touch her for as long as possible) and started eating with his other. He tried to think of something happy to show her. Something nice. But, to his frustration, there weren’t an abundance of ideas that immediately sprung to mind. While he knew he was cheery when he was drunk, he didn’t want her to think that was all he did to have a good time. Other memories he enjoyed tended to involve other people, either fighting them or entangling with them which was – again – not the kind of thing he wanted Tawny to believe were his happiest moments. There weren’t even important people he could ‘introduce’ her to. No one he cared for. Not truly. Was he really that depressing? His life so barren?

Gift borrowing would be an easier thing – maybe the expected thing – to present to her. Perhaps one of the prettier thunderstorms he’d conjured in his youth. A display of lightning as loud and mesmerising as firework show. Or perhaps that time he’d created the perfect snowman with a well-controlled flurry, or when he’d whipped up a gale strong enough to fleetingly lift his feet from the ground. But those moments were all too close to his other childhood memories, carrying the risk that she’d skip back a few minutes and see whatever had happened to let him borrow his family’s gifts that day. Or maybe those memories would flash unbidden across his mind as he was trying to focus on the better parts, and they’d intrude on the experiment anyway.

It would be far safer to show her something relatively normal. An experience that was human yet picturesque, like the view after climbing a cliff or going on a hike. Or a sky full of stars during a camping trip. Or –

“Have you been to San Diego at night? The beaches?” He smiled softly, giving her hand a small squeeze. “They’re a lot like the beaches here except... sometimes the waves glow. Like there’s thousands of blue fireflies just under the surface. I thought that was pretty special.” He’d only seen it once. There’d been a bonfire on the sand, a small gathering one of Noah’s university flatmates had invited him to. There had been drinking, yes, but Noah had abstained that day, content with only keeping a watchful eye on the drunken shenanigans and making s'mores with the other designated drivers. “It’s something to do with the algae. I can’t remember the exact explanation but what I can tell you is that I didn’t know such a thing existed before that moment. It happened out of nowhere – I thought someone was pulling a magic trick, y’know? Showing off their gift in front of everyone. I could show you that?”

Though… if she hadn’t seen something like that before, wouldn’t it be nice to take her there? To experience it with her own eyes and watch her see it for herself?

She probably wouldn’t want to. Not with him.

His next mouthful of food was difficult to swallow and once more he was hit with the abrupt desire to show her something brutal or grotesque, wanting to kill his ridiculous fantasies and ruin everything before he got too invested. (He was already invested. The small voice that told him so was dutifully ignored). Maybe he’d show himself smashing the teeth out of a corpse, doing all he could to ensure it couldn’t be identified if it were ever found. Maybe he’d show her part two of the motel scene, let her watch the cannibalism he openly accepted and joked about.

He smiled, giving her a look that was almost playful. “Unless… is there anything you’d want to see? Something you’d be interested in? I suppose I should offer, considering you don’t get much of a chance to search on your own.” It might have been a little presumptuous to assume she’d be interested in learning about him at all. Yet he’d decided that was part of what held her back from him, hadn’t he? That she couldn’t know him like she knew others. His lips parted. Abruptly closed. I could let you look for longer, he was tempted to say. If you want to know – I’d let you.

Would he though?

The indecision made him want to bash his head into the table. Equal parts wanting and wary, his thoughts bounced from one option to the other like a ball in a tennis match. It was a unique form of torture. One that he couldn't see a way out of without fully committing to one side.


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Noah stretched his hand across the table and, for a split second, Tawny appreciated the swiftness with which he'd prepared to slip his fingers in hers. As if it had been an overtly simple thing to reach for her. As if he hadn't needed to be convinced. Hadn't needed to think to. The prospect threatened to thread something pleasant and warm through the bitter stillness gathered within her; to thaw the hazy, crispening edges of that yawning nothing into something else. Something more befitting of the lazy sunlight that stretched through the windows of the den, the smell of hot breakfast and steaming coffee between them, and the still somewhat-disheveled look of him that he couldn't completely dispel with a quick, few minutes in front of her bathroom mirror.

But then, appearing to absorb her words — the subtle call-out which she hadn't intended as anything other than a light-hearted tease, but had perhaps been made too toneless (too unconvincing and unrousing or, maybe, just too blunt and true) by her emptiness — he stopped. His hand dropped to the table, fingers still in reach of her own, and his gaze dropped similarly to his cup. She considered lifting a pinky to brush against the side of his own; to bridge the contact he'd abandoned at the last second and attempt to soften her comment. Or maybe reiterate in a way that was more blatantly blithe while she smoothed her fingers into his palm and invited that thread of warmth to spread and expand within her. To yawn into something she could latch onto and use to beat back the cold.

But then Noah smiled ruefully, commented that he was "caught", apologized, and inquired whether or not she could understand his reasons.

Tawny flipped her hand over to tap her fingers absently on the tabletop. Felt the sneaking thread slow and thin. She let the corners of her lips pull barely upward and nodded slightly, blinking as she recalled the way she'd reacted before. It was no surprise he didn't want to recreate that dramatic scene. She didn't either, obviously. And she knew better than to promise that she would handle it better than she had then. And yet, she felt an aching remorse squirm in her chest and an unbidden desire to assure him that the only obvious answer was to shed the need for "devious ploys" at all. To intentionally show her what she could stumble upon by accident and get it over with. While she was prepared and... before it would hurt more if she couldn't. Before turning away from him, recoiling in disgust or shuddering with terror, would be more difficult.

It was mostly fear that stilled the imploring on her lips; hesitance, tempered with uncertainty, that kept the words in her throat. "Yeah... I get it," she spoke instead, if only to fill that space in which she'd momentarily wished to say otherwise. To make it seem less like she'd swallowed something down. Her eyes skipped to her hand and she ceased the drumming of her fingers, considering once more how odd it was for someone to know what she was capable of. Briefly, she wondered again if this was how the inevitable disintegration that came with the knowing began. As a quiet, amicable desire to keep some memories from her. How soon before he avoided her touch completely, abhorring the thought of her being able to rake seeking fingers through his mind? Flinched when she reached for him?

The moment his curiosity was sated? Once he found no more joy in borrowing her Gift?

He reached for her again. Pausing only to ask her to wait, he slipped his hand into hers. She found it less warming than she would have moments before. Her eyes flickered up to watch as he began to eat and she wondered what thoughts he shuffled through; what all adorned the catalog of memories he considered and whether or not was also considering what not to show her. If she slipped in, uninvited, what might she find? And would he be angry with her... or disappointed... that she'd done so?

She dropped her attention to her plate, wordlessly, and picked up her fork. Poked at her eggs and began eating quietly. It was a bit awkward with the hand she would have normally used clasped in his but she fared well enough. When he began again, with a soft squeeze of her fingers, she listened to the description of his chosen memory with muted fascination, shaking her head in answer to his question and nodding where she felt it might be appreciated. He offered to show it to her and then, moments later, offered the alternative of showing her something she might want to see instead.

She took a moment to chew thoughtfully, considering it. She thought of what she'd seen already, sprawled out on his couch with her head resting in his lap, and of her dreams the night before. There were things she'd been interested in. Things she might have normally sought further clarification for when her prodding around was undetected, leisurely, and without consequence. But her mind returned (once more unbidden) to the imploring she'd abandoned before. Her chewing slowed. If she asked him to show her what he wanted to hide... would he? And would she be able to take it?

She finally swallowed, leafing her tongue across the back of her teeth as she set her fork across her plate decidedly. "Let's start with San Diego. With the something good." She was a coward. Leaning slightly forward, she lifted their joined hands and brought up her other to clasp his between both of her own. "Like I said before, you've gotta really focus on the small details. It's not as easy as me stepping into whatever memory you happen to be thinking about." She smiled slightly, turning his hand between hers and splaying her fingers into his palm. Things would be a lot simpler if it was. "You've really gotta let it occupy your mind. Think of how you felt. And focus on the things that maybe make this one memory unique. What makes it decidedly different than any other time you walked on a beach at night." Her grin tipped more crooked and she lifted her eyes to his face knowingly. "I suppose it shouldn't be too nuanced in this case, really. It was a pretty special sight after all. But I couldn't count how many times I've asked a patient to recall... I don't know, let's say for example... the day their dog died and, instead, seeing the day their wife left them."

She squeezed his fingers. "Let me know when."

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

When she ultimately chose the San Diego memory, it was hard to identify whether he was relieved or disappointed. Relieved, because her choice affirmed her understanding of his caution. Disappointed, because he worried that meant she wasn’t interested in learning more about him.

He brushed the thought away almost as soon as it appeared. He was being ridiculous. She hadn’t given the decision immediately; she’d taken time to mull it over, presumably weighing the pros and cons of exploring or playing it safe. She said they’d start with San Diego. That suggested future tests, future encounters – more time together where they could share. And besides, why did he even care what she did or didn’t want to know about him?

Care… Was that it? Did he care for Tawny? Not just for her talents and aesthetic value, but for her opinions and general wellbeing too? It seemed likely, it made sense, though there was no real way of knowing. Nothing he could think to measure it against. No previous instances of truly caring that he could point to and say: yes, this is exactly like that. The only thing for certain was that it felt different to when he wanted people to like him so he could use them in some way. They were replaceable. This –

She shifted to lean forward slightly, snapping him out of his thought spiral (one he wryly recognised he’d already fallen down a few times), and lifted their held hands. She brought up her other to clasp his between both of her own, and explained that he needed to focus on the little details for it to work. She grinned as she told him of mishaps – times people had showed her the wrong memory – and he grinned back at her without hesitation, eager to preserve that expression on her face.

The time came to reminisce. He had to close his eyes. It would be impossible to concentrate on all the little memory details when mostly he wanted to focus on the moment he was presently in; the feel of her hands holding his, the smell of coffee and taste of food she’d made for him, the look of her, of her smile, her eyes, the mark on her neck… It was all very distracting.

He pictured the beach on that day. The sky darkening from lavender to navy, clear of clouds but lacking the smattering of stars more visible in the countryside. He pictured the streetlights from the town a few hundred metres away, and how the sand and people around him were illuminated by the orange glow of the large bonfire. Dylan (blond-haired and skinny and the friend who’d invited Noah that day) drunkenly crying out in dismay as one of his marshmallows melted enough to slip right off his stick and into the fire. The crackle of logs and spitting embers, the rhythmic rolling of waves, the inebriated snickers and raised voices of the group. The smell of salt, of burning wood and roasted marshmallows and melted chocolate.

He remembered the sudden flicker of something cyan in edge of his periphery. The ocean – glowing and glittering like the stars had fallen from the sky and caught in the tides. That prickle of excitement and suspicion, glancing around to see if anyone was behaving peculiarly, using their hands in such a manner that could suggest they were influencing the lights. Someone giggling at his befuddled expression, someone else explaining what was happening. He couldn’t remember who, exactly – his gaze had been on the sea again – but he supposed they were one of the more sober members of the group. And with a scientific explanation to put to rest the theory of someone gifted being involved, he'd thought about how pretty it was. How strange and rare.

“Okay,” he breathed, and grinned cheekily as he reopened his eyes. “When.” He waited for her gift to seep back into him, ready to hold it back so he would not immediately be thrown into her memories.


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

[nospaces]

I KNOW THAT I DRIFT OFF TOO MUCH

dreaming about a warm touch; i keep holding back my tears

[break]

[attr="class","littlecloud-text"]

Noah closed his eyes, taking a moment to dwell on the intended memory and allowing her the chance to study him, unwatched. She swallowed, the faint crookedness to her grin smoothing as her gaze poked languidly about his face. He had smiled, almost reflexively, before committing himself to the remembering, and for a while longer the quirk to his lips remained, only slackening slightly as he focused. She breathed, deep and silent, as she quietly appreciated the serenity and stillness of careful thought about his features.[break][break]

Then he breathed that he was ready, mouth twitching into something more decidedly cheeky — which, she was learning, was very characteristic of him. His lids blinked back open and she lifted her brow, attempting to clear any of the watching thoughtfulness that might show tellingly in her eyes. "Okay, here goes," she dropped her gaze to the hand between her own, as if taking a moment to focus on that peculiar — always present but somehow ignorable — buzzing feel of his memories prickling just beneath his skin. As if mentally peeling a sticker from its adhesive backing, she lifted at that nameless resistance and let them pull at her.[break][break]

It wasn't fully night but she recognized that the sky was in that brief window of time where it seemed to darken inexplicably fast. Where it seemed only a couple of blinks could see the last, waning rays of an already-disappeared sun bled completely into the sea. Noah was seated near a warm, crackling fire, and Tawny could smell the irrefutable, tantalizing scent of cooking marshmallows — moments before his gaze turned to watch as a lanky boy lamented the loss of one to the flames. It was a scene she was intimately familiar with, as she — like any young person growing up in a California beach town — had spent many nights crowded with friends around a bonfire. [break][break]

But just as she became aware of the glow on the edge of Noah's periphery, he turned to acknowledge it as well. Each crash of wave at the shore upended a beautiful sheen of blue across the sand. Although she couldn't feel what he felt, she knew enough about him and was accustomed to making guesses — when his attention swiveled almost immediately to peruse the shore and the people milled about, she suspected he was looking for a source. She pushed barely at the current of memory — as if lifting her heels from their firm plant in a riverbed — and let it drift her forward. When she drove herself in again, she watched him watch as a couple of people bounded through the shallows; laughing and shouting as each of their footfalls kicked mesmerizing light to the ocean's surface. [break][break]

Again, she skimmed experimentally forward, wanting to watch as he joined them. To see his attention fixed on the glowing water as it danced to life around his own ankles. His jeans cuffed to his shins as he hopped through the shallows, radiating pulsing ripples of cyan wherever he moved. His hands cupped together to try and catch the blue; to hold it in his palms for only a moment as it slowly slipped between the cracks of his fingers. But he didn't. She leaped forward in hopeful increments until he was no longer interested, his attention returned to the fire before him. And eventually, she pulled away.[break][break]

The hands before her were her own again, smaller and more slender, both of them still clasped around one of his. She blinked and slipped her fingers from his, clearing her throat and reclaiming her fork so she could spear another blueberry. "A nice night," she commented lightly, lifting her brow and letting her gaze lift to his face. "Very pretty. But why didn't you join them? Splash around yourself?"

[break]

but if there ain't no magic here[break]i would love to disappear

Tag: Noah St Cloud [break]
Give me a nudge for any changes!

[newclass=.littlecloud-text b]color:#3C6075;font-size:8pt!important;font-weight:700!important;font-family:Open Sans, sans serif!important;[/newclass][newclass=.littlecloud-text a]font-size:8pt!important;font-family:Open Sans!important;[/newclass][googlefont=Poppins][googlefont=Open Sans]