Chapter 23

23

H ours pass, and the small table is full of empty wine glasses, the platter of food empty besides a few crumbs, and Ambra’s entire sense of self is…loose.

Her shoulder blades don’t hurt, the tips of her fingers don’t hurt, and there’s a red flush on the top of Gurlien’s cheekbones.

He’s animated, more animated than she thought possible, leaning back on the lounge chair with her, an arm slung over the back. They’ve moved from talking about their past, to books, to scholarly theories, to the weirdest of adventures that Gurlien’s had since being kicked out.

And it’s all…fine. Not emotionally charged. Like the wine has taken all the sharpness of conversation and dulled it to an enjoyable touch, and spending it with someone else has taken away the loneliness that usually accompanies those moments.

For the barest hint of a second, she even thinks it might be ‘fun.’

Gurlien’s hand touches her shoulder, startling her out of her thoughts, and he’s been doing that. The small idle touches, like pulling her out of herself with just the hint of contact.

“Your face got maudlin again,” he says, and it’s amusing how he pulls out the larger, somewhat more obscure words the more wine he has.

And that he could pinpoint it in her so quickly.

“I don’t even know what my face was doing,” Ambra informs him, and he smiles at her. “Half the time this face makes expressions I have no way of controlling.”

“Again, very human trait,” he says, and there’s a teasing note to his voice. “Very normal.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Ambra says, and his hand dangles from the back of the couch cushion, barely touching her shoulder again. “Humans have got to be better, they were born in these bodies, there’s no way they all just lose control of their faces.”

She’s not going to move away from the touch if he’s not.

“I mean, some can, sure,” Gurlien says, expansive. “Some have such meticulous control that nobody has any idea what they’re thinking ever. But,” he taps her shoulder, “most just go through their day with only a loose idea of what expressions they’re showing and what they’re communicating with them. Most just don’t care.”

She’s learned more about humans than she has ever, just sitting here and chatting, more than centuries of research with scholars and observations.

She watches him from under her lashes, sipping her wine. There’s something beautiful about his face like this, so open, like he’s carefully showing her all his inner thoughts, revealing bits of himself until she doesn’t cringe away.

He hasn’t cringed away from her, in all of this.

It’s a heady thought, colored by all the wine. That despite her horrifying existence and the rather traumatic and emotional day they’ve had, that he’s not scared of her at that moment. That sure, she may have cracked the very foundation of a house, but he’s not frightened of her. Doesn’t believe she’s a threat to him.

And right at that moment, she’d rather turn herself in than do anything to harm him.

She sets her glass of wine down at that realization, almost unsteady.

Gurlien arches an eyebrow at her. “Do you need water?”

“Probably,” she responds, her mouth dry, though her heart is pounding.

Gurlien gestures for the waiter, gets water for both of them, and she envies that smooth confidence, before he drapes his arm back on the couch.

“I don’t know how old Misia was,” he starts, voice gentle, his words rounded along the edges. “But how you deal with a hangover will hinge on that number.”

“She was twenty-eight,” Ambra replies, and she doesn’t even need to think about it. “We celebrated her birthday in January.”

They were in captivity then, everything had been uncertain and fearful, but the College was still pretending to care about them.

One assistant had baked cake.

“So almost a year ago,” Gurlien murmurs, then makes a face. “Well, do you have a different birthday? Is that something a demon tracks?” She’s already shaking her head. “I guess you can celebrate then if you want.”

Ambra’s still reeling from the strength of conviction in herself, that she’d let her own self come to harm if it’d protect Gurlien, and the temptation to run away, run far away, almost overwhelms her .

“I’ll text Fr-Maison, see if he’s ever been privy to any demon parties,” Gurlien continues, and it’s a vaguely amusing thought, even through her utter shock at herself.

“Demons don’t do parties like that,” Ambra murmurs, staring out at the patio, at the twinkling lights, at the warmth flickering from the heaters and the fireplaces.

It’s such a profoundly human place, in such a profoundly human activity, sitting next to someone and drinking wine and talking. They had been there for hours, had been sitting there together, and she hadn’t thought about time passing or about panicking throughout the evening.

He taps her shoulder again, just the barest of grazing of fingertips.

“Sense something?” he asks, sharp, but there’s no danger, other than what’s represented by his closeness, by her fondness of him. By the risks she would be willing to take, by the sudden strength of all of the emotions.

“Nothing,” she answers, swallowing, then taking a sip of the provided water, and it’s only out of sheer force of will that her hands don’t shake. “Emotions are just weird and I don’t understand them.”

He clinks the water glass with hers, and they’re so exposed, in this world with no protective runes, with nothing to keep them safe. There’s nothing to stop a random crime, a demon deciding to obliterate them, nothing.

Instead, humans just go about their days like this, never protected, never knowing what is happening around them.

Without her saying anything, Gurlien digs through the backpack, pulling out the money and counting it out.

“I’m living a big tip,” he says, almost primly, as if it’s something she’d reject. “If we can get more money, then I am not going to be skimpy on that. ”

Ambra still doesn’t quite have a grasp on all of those intricacies, but she stands when he does, all of her limbs loose from the wine.

He throws his arm around her shoulders, still much warmer than she is, and she leans against him like she fits there.

“I’m a bit unsteady,” he declares, even though he’s walking fine, even though his steps are just as even as before. “And tomorrow I’ll absolutely need coffee before I can function, you won’t be able to get out of that.”

She wouldn’t dream of it.

Still nestled up against her, he guides her to the spot in the alleyway they teleported in from, so close to the bar that she can still hear the clink of glassware and the far-off murmur of polite conversation.

“This was great,” Gurlien says, almost too loud this close to her. “I haven’t had that good of wine in about a year.”

“We can come back,” Ambra promises, the words falling from her mouth, and Gurlien’s eyes go down to her lips before flickering back up. “We should come back. After everything, bring all your friends, bring everyone who helped.”

He smiles, actually smiles, and everything about him is softer. Like the wine took away all his prickliness and all his protective shields and rendered him easier to get close to. Easier to touch.

And his arm is already around her shoulders, warm.

She turns towards him, so her fingertips graze the edge of his shirt. “Where do you want to go?” she asks, something halfway between boldness and shyness welling up in her. “We can go anywhere in the world—not Europe—but anywhere else.”

“How about back to the apartment with the bed,” he says, almost teasing. “With all the protections and the runes so you stop being so twitchy.”

It’s smart, so she curls her hand on the collar of his shirt, where the buttons connect the fine fabric, and she’s not sure she’s ever chosen to be so close to a human before of her own free will. Sure, there’s grabbing them in combat, there’s the times when the Five would get close to test something, test reactions, test the nerve endings in the body to make sure everything was connected, or just to inflict pain to see her reactions, but not like this.

It’s even different than waking up curled next to Gurlien, when they got into that position when unconscious. It’s different than when he hugged her and she cried on him.

It’s her stepping in close. Her controlling the body, her controlling the hands, her controlling the face, tilting towards him.

His eyes widen, ever so slightly, and this close she can see the small striations of color in his brown eyes, see the small lighter streaks and the hint of honey.

“How drunk are you?” he murmurs, his other hand settling on her waist, warm and secure. Nobody’s ever really held her there, not even Johnsin in his most cruel and most creative.

“Yes,” she replies honestly, and his eyes crinkle up. “My shoulders don’t hurt, everything is warm, and I…had fun tonight.”

It’s an odd statement to say, and the analytical light in his eyes briefly flares.

“When was the last time you had fun?” There’s an undercurrent in his words, something wholly welcome but she can’t quite parse out.

“Well, breaking out of the base was somewhat fun,” she answers, and again gets a smile. “But like this…not in ten months.”

“Good,” Gurlien declares, and she wrinkles her nose at him. “You’re out of their grasp, you should be having fun. All this…all this violence and all this planning, it should be so you can live, not just get free.”

Still, his hand on her lower back presses strong.

“Maybe,” she says fancifully, teasing the thought from herself, letting herself lean against him, and there’s another sort of drunkenness in that as well. A tightening of her gut, a warmth lower.

His eyes flicker down to her lips again, and she would swear she could feel the sensation of his gaze, the heaviness of that small motion.

“We should really go back to the apartment,” he says, his voice low, and her breath catches, but not from pain or fear. “I think you’re drunker than you realize.”

“You’re probably correct,” she whispers back, curling her hand around his collar once more, and feels the heat of his skin beneath the fabric, the concrete under her feet, the far-off clink of glasses, the street lights reflecting in Gurlien’s glasses.

Before she inhales, between one moment and the next teleporting back into her circle of runes, next to the grand bed and the nightstand they dragged over and the thin paper maps held down on the floor from books.

And he doesn’t let her go, his fingers splaying wide on the small of her back.

Instead, he raises his eyebrow at her again, like he’s waiting to see what her action will be. Like he’s skeptical of what she will do next, like he needs some guidance, some permission, before making whatever move he will make next .

“Does wine always make you this warm?” Ambra asks, letting her fingertips graze his cheeks, which are still deep red, even under the brighter lights of the apartment.

“Often,” he murmurs back, blinking rapidly, like he’s at war with himself. “Not in…not in ages. Not when I’m by myself.”

It’s a fascinating little idea, that the looseness and the comfort would be different alone than with another person. That the most integral part of this, the desire and the warmth for the one in front of her, may be absent from this entire affair.

Desire.

It’s a strange word for the moment, and she mulls it over, with him stock still next to her, her hand on his cheek. It should scare her, it should terrify, that this is what the body is feeding her in such a time, but instead it just unspools inside of her.

His lips part, and she presses herself up to him, pulling his chin towards her and kissing him.

He freezes, his entire body going stiff, and for a split second she panics that this isn’t what he wants, before his hand comes up, his fingers weaving through her hair and gripping tight.

He kisses her back, like he’s starving. Like he’s had nobody to touch for far too long, bereft in the world. Like he’s drowning and the salvation is in her lips, like he could steal the very breath from her lungs to keep himself alive.

Like the very control he holds himself with snaps, and she is in the way.

A thrill shoots down Ambra’s back, wholly new, and she gasps, opening her mouth against his, and his hand twists harder in her hair. Seizing the weakness, seizing the gap in her shield, his tongue grazes her lips, like he could taste her and find wholeness in that touch.

She grabs his collar with both hands, holding on, as if that could save her, and pushes back. Winds her own way into his defenses, lets her focus flex until all that is within it is him, his lips, his tongue, and the brutal heat of his body pressed against hers. Until all she can sense is his blood thudding through his veins, his hand tight in her hair, the scarred edge where his magic used to be, and the very want of her coursing through her like nothing she’s ever, ever experienced.

A small sound escapes her, something outside her control, and he still once more, before breaking the kiss.

His pulse hammers in his throat, and his lips are wet as he stares down at her, his brown eyes wide.

Ambra’s heart freezes, something halfway between fear and a need, as he loosens his grip on her hair, gently smoothing it back down.

“I’m…” he trails off, and he’s still pressed against her, she still grasps his collar.

He blinks, fast, and despite his magnificent brain, despite all his intellect, he’s flustered. He’s confused.

Ambra drops his collar, takes a step back, and her lips sting as she does so, every fiber in her body wanting the opposite. Her mouth dry, she swallows, but no words flash into her mind to say.

Even the tips of his collarbones, barely visible beneath his shirt, are flushed red.

“That’s…different in a human body,” she says numbly, and her fingertips tremble with the hunger to reach out again to him.

He huffs out a breath, something between a gut punch and a laugh, and his hand flexes, as if his sensations echoes hers.

“Not something we should do while drunk,” he says, as if he too has been struck by lightning. “Trust me, not drunk.”

She nods, slow, her mouth dry.

He leans back, breaking eye contact and running a hand through his blond hair, thoroughly messing it up.

“Okay,” he says, visibly steadying himself, visibly getting himself back under control, back into his own sense of self. “Okay. Not what I expected.”

“Me neither,” she murmurs, then between one breath and the next, lets her grip on her powers relax, lets her awareness fill something besides just him, besides just the sensations currently warring within her.

The wards are perfectly fine, still and steady, no touches or grazes among them. Nobody stepped into her apartment, nobody attempted anything while they were away. No further tugs on the leash, no further pokes and prods at her consciousness.

She’s still safe. They’re still safe, despite the adrenaline shooting through her.

Gurlien steps away, another bit of distance between them, walking softly over to the kitchen and filling another glass of water, and with each foot further, Ambra’s heart hurts, just a little.