Chapter 31

It takes more convincing—alot more—before Miles' complexion goes ashen.

Sara knows it's Seth's recounting of how Miles tucked himself away in one of the patient rooms to deal with his leg pain in privacy, that does it. The way he's able to give details he should have no way of knowing. Sara jumps in before Seth can make a mess of the situation by divulging too much. She has no doubts that, in all the times he's "checked in", he was bound to have stumbled in on something more personal than he should have.

Struggling to keep her voice steady, she tells Miles how they met—of the curse that bound them together and the miracle that wasn't one. She tells him how she broke it. By the end, he has sunk into the wingback chair. It's weird seeing someone who isn't Seth sitting there.

Sara lays a hand on his shoulder. "Miles—"

He holds up a hand. "I am not ok." The words are muffled by the fist in front of his mouth, elbows planted on the floral armrest and his glasses dangling from his finger while he massages his temples."Please, please do not ask me. This is so far from fine."

Sara bites her lip, wringing her hands in front of her. She glances to Seth, looking for support or guidance, only to frown. He's fallen back asleep. Sara tries to quell the concern that inspires. Their discussion hasn't been quiet.

Miles follows her gaze, sighs, and puts his glasses back on. "This… all this is crazy. It's unbelievable."

"I know," Sara murmurs, fingers lacing. She stares at the skinned flesh of her palms. They still sting whenever she lets herself think about it. "But you believe me anyway, right?"

"Kinda have to, at this point," he grumbles, giving her a considering look. "So what really happened, then? With his injuries. Last I checked, a moose can't pick up a shotgun."

She swallows down the bile that rises in her throat. "He was telling the truth." Cringing, she looks at the floor. There's a fur ball with Ansel's signature color halfway hidden under the coach. "It's—they're injuries people have given him over the centuries."

"Centuries," Miles echoes, horror and awe straining his voice. He runs a hand over his scalp, eyes darting to the sleeping man on the couch. "Fucking hell."

Honestly, she couldn't have said it better.

"But how—" Miles' phone rings, cutting him off. They both know it's Jen. Besides the fact that no one else would call this late, the sing-song ‘it's your wife calling' ringtone gives it away.

He silences it without answering, finger tapping against the case as he stares at the screen. When he speaks, his words are careful. "I'm going to go home, but we aren't done talking about this—I have so many questions, I—" he shakes his head, in his hand the phone rings a second time. Jen again. "Dinner," he says, meeting her eyes. "Tomorrow. All of us."

Sara nods. "Tomorrow."

Miles stands, sending Seth one last lingering look, before picking up his prescription pad and his abandoned pen. He scratches an order onto the paper, his eyes serious as he tears it from the pad and hands it to her. "For your ear infection."

The laugh she gives is shaky and short, fitting in the span of a breath, as she takes the prescription from him. She hugs him. Maybe it's the stress of the day, but Sara feels the breath leave her lungs in a stuttering sigh against his chest and holds him just a little bit tighter. "Thank you. For everything."

He pulls away, ruffles her hair the way he knows she hates (but really kind of loves). "Stay out of trouble, yeah? And call me if you need anything."

It's an easy thing to agree to.

After she locks the door behind him, she returns to Seth's side. Gently, she nudges his shoulder—murmurs his name.

His eyes blink open, staring at her for several long seconds with a sleepy frown pulling at his lips. "Sara?"

"Hey, Miles went home. Are you ready for bed?"

The furrow in his brow deepens, an adorably confused look stealing across his face. "There's this odd… empty feeling in my stomach. I think, perhaps, I may be starving."

She raises her eyebrows. "May be?"

"I'm quite out of practice."

"Let me see what we have," she says, studying him. "Do you think you can stay awake long enough to eat?"

He hums, eyes slipping shut before drowsily reopening. "I make no such promises."

Right. Something quick, then. She grabs a few protein bars from the kitchen, hoping he can stay awake long enough to eat at least one.

"I believe some of that ghastly excuse for cake was promised."

"Yeah, I don't exactly keep that on hand."

He huffs, a shadow of a smile teasing his lips. "Pity. An obscene amount of sugar would be welcome about now."

Sara hands him one of the bars, ignoring the skeptical look he gives it. She cuts him off before he can complain. "Gift horse. Mouth. Don't complain."

Scowling, he grumbles an obscenity under his breath as he tears the wrapper. Taking a bite, he pauses, making a face before forcibly swallowing. "This is vile."

"Beggars can't be choosers."

"But surely they're still allowed to gripe." He glares at the half-wrapped bar, a frown on his lips. "A piss poor substitute for cake."

He sounds so much like a petulant toddler, that it's almost funny. "Will you please just eat it so we can sleep?"

He takes another bite, not bothering to hide his displeasure as he chews. Forcing himself to swallow, he gestures to her room. "Help yourself. Don't let me keep you."

"If I trusted you not to fall asleep and choke on your food, I might. Besides, you can barely sit up straight. Even if you don't pass out, I doubt you're getting off the couch by yourself."

He blinks at her, slow and lazy. "Off? Why would I do that?" He holds up the remaining third of the protein bar. "Are you aware of how dry these are? How on earth do you stomach it? I rather suspect I'd find more moisture in a handful of sand."

Sara rubs her eye, fighting back a yawn even as she heads to the kitchen to get him something to drink. He's not the only one who finds the bars unappetizing (which is why she still has them, despite being overdue for a grocery run). "Can't get to the bed if you can't get up."

Seth freezes. "I'm not taking your bed."

Sara rolls her eyes, pulling a glass down from the cabinet. "You're injured." She glances at his wound—still angry and raw. "And it's not like you fit on my couch."

"Perhaps I stuttered," he deadpans, completely unfazed. "I am not taking your bed."

"Seth, when was the last time you slept? Before tonight?" His silence—his stillness—is answer enough. She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Look, I really don't mind. Ok? I'd rather you have it."

"It's not—" he cuts himself off, looking more uncomfortable than she's ever seen him.

"Not what?" She watches, in amused fascination, as a flush darkens his cheeks.

"It's not... proper."

She blinks. "Proper. You are worried about what's proper?" When he remains stubbornly silent, she chokes on a laugh. "Really? This is the line you won't cross?"

"I resent that. I've been nothing but a gentleman."

She shakes her head, filling the glass under the tap. "You've been stalking me the past year and living in my apartment rent free." Three quarters full, she turns the water off. "We're practically—" Dating, she thinks. Thankfully, her mind catches it before her mouth can say it. "Roommates."

He catches her almost-slip, though—gaze lowering to her lips. "Oh," he breathes, more distracted than boastful. "I think we may be a touch more than that." He meets her eyes, eyebrows raised. "Wouldn't you say?"

The heat crawls up her neck, but she refuses to look away. She does shove the glass of water into his hands, though. "Then you won't have a problem using the bed."

Seth scoffs, a frown turning his mouth. "I will not have you sleeping on the couch or, heaven forbid, the floor." He brings the glass of water up to his lips.

"Well," she says, watching the way the muscles in his throat work as he drinks, "we could share."

He chokes.

Sara pats his back firmly, trying to ignore the heat and feel of his skin against her open palm.

"Cruel," he wheezes. "You're bloody cruel."

She shrugs, averting her eyes. "Well, those are your options."

"You're... you're not serious?"

Heat pricks her cheeks. "Stop looking at me like that. It's sharing a mattress not, you know."

"It's even more improper than your previous suggestion. What on earth makes you think—"

"You're greedy," she challenges, arms crossed under her chest. "You said so yourself."

His eyes drop to her mouth distractedly. "Yes, you cruel thing. There are things I want desperately, but that doesn't mean I deserve them."

"Ok… couch it is, then. Let me just grab a pillow—"

He grasps her wrist, stopping her before she can leave. His hold is gentle, but she can see the force in which he's grinding his teeth in the straining line of his jaw.

"Change your mind?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

"Yes." The look he pins her with is more exasperated than heated. "I've decided to take it back. You're not Lizzie. You're the bloody goblin."

Her mouth purses, a small effort to hide her smile. Considering the glare he's giving her, she's failing. Miserably. Her hand slides into his, fingers curling against his palm. "Come on. Goblin's tired."

He grumbles under his breath, but accepts her help.

On his back,he lies at the very edge of the mattress; his body so stiff, Sara can practically feel it from the other side of the bed.

She sighs, turning towards him. "You know, this really isn't as big a deal as you're making it out to be."

He glances at her, a brief moment of connection, before he goes back to staring at the ceiling. "For you, perhaps. The last time I shared a bed—" He cuts himself off, eyes darkening. "Well, it was a very, very long time ago."

Blinking, Sara shifts her weight onto her elbow so she can better see his face. "Wait. Is that why you're being so weird? You're worried about being out of practice? Because that's not what's happening here."

"How is it you manage to misinterpret nearly everything I say?" he mutters, as much disbelief as irritation pulling at his lips. "Truthfully?"

"How else was I supposed to interpret it?" she asks, settling into her pillow—her body facing his. "Isn't ‘share a bed' old time talk for sex?"

A muscle in his jaw jumps, his hand reaching up to cover his eyes. "Yes, but I was quite hoping you would know better than to think I would mean it that way."

"So you don't want to have sex with me?"

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, head snapping to face her. "You... you're teasing me."

The corner of her lips twitch. "Maybe."

"Why?"

She hums, "Payback. Definitely payback." Her fingers pull the sheet closer to her chest. "It's nice that you're the flustered one for a change."

"I believe I preferred it when you hated me."

She smiles. "Liar."

"Perhaps," he murmurs. After a few beats of silence, he sends her a dimpled, suggestive smirk and adds, "I suppose the kissing was rather nice."

Flushing brightly, her eyes flit to his lips. "I suppose it wasn't too terrible."

He coughs on a sharp laugh, cringing when it pulls on his wound. "Below the belt there, love." His hand reaches up, cradling his injury. "Bloody hell, that hurts."

Sara sits up—tries to ignore the way her pulse thrums at his slip, but it keeps echoing in her ears (love, love, love). She swallows thickly, distracts herself with his pain. "Let me see," she mutters. The words sound loud in the dark as she nudges his hand aside.

He lets her, his hand draping over his bare stomach instead. She can feel his stare, tender in ways that make her heart skip, as she gently peels the bandage back. It looks worse—bruising darkening the skin around the wound in molted purples and greens—but nothing has reopened and there's little to no blood staining the gauze. "I still can't believe someone would do this to you," she says, carefully resealing the bandage.

Her eyes lift to the bruising along his jaw, her heart giving a painful squeeze. She traces the edge, feels him shudder beneath the gentle touch. "I can't believe I did."

Seth takes her hand, bringing her palm to his lips. "It was an accident."

No... it wasn't. She had wanted, so desperately, for him to hurt that it manifested into something tangible—something real. It doesn't matter that she didn't know her hit would actually land, doesn't matter that she was hurt and angry. "I'm sorry."

"You've mentioned." His lips linger over the fragile skin of her wrist, a whispered kiss against her pulse. "It's forgiven. Has been for a long time. Just because you see proof of it now is hardly reason to feel guilty for something that's long passed."

"But—"

"Sara, it's fine."

"It's not," she snaps, eyes screwed shut. "You didn't deserve it. You didn't deserve any of this."

His hand skims up her arm, her shoulder, her neck, until his palm warms her cheek. In the dim lighting, his eyes gleam. "I'll live."

In her chest, her heart gives a painful lurch. He can't possibly understand what those words mean to her, the pain and resignation embedded in each letter. He can't. Because the way the syllables curl on his tongue is reverent, the hush in his voice as soft and honest as his smile.

His thumb traces a path over the ridge of her cheek, eyes half-lidded with a fatigue so heavy she's surprised he's able to keep them open. His lips curve, giddy at the corners. "And isn't that a thought?" he breathes, wonder in his voice. "To live."

Sara doesn't answer. Even if she knew how to respond, she suspects he doesn't really expect her to. His eyes drop to her lips, words escaping his own in a murmured prayer. "What a thought..."

Throat dry, Sara swallows down the temptation to lean down and kiss him. She lays her head on the pillow, facing him. "You need to sleep."

Seth hums, eyes closing. "That does sound like an accurate assessment." He meets her gaze, brow furrowing thoughtfully. "May I—" He swallows, jaw tense as he scowls up at the ceiling. His hand, the one laying between them, flexes once, twice, before fisting in the sheets. "Never mind. It's ridiculous."

It's not, she thinks, but she knows better than to try to pry an answer from him. There's no time for his riddles and deflections when his eyes carry the bruises of centuries' worth of lost sleep. She stares at his hand, eyes lingering over his pale knuckles. She has a pretty good idea of what his request was, anyway.

She coaxes his fingers loose, unwilling to meet his surprised stare. When she clumsily laces their fingers, their palms pressed together, a stuttered sigh leaves his lips. The tension he was holding onto leaves with it. "Thank you," he breathes.

Sara squeezes his hand, frowning when he doesn't return it. A quick glance and she understands why. In the same way he used to come and go, disappearing between one blink and the next, he has fallen asleep.

Smiling softly, she whispers, "You're welcome."

She doesn't release his hand.