Consequences Pt. 02

Will's bedroom was a bit anticlimactic, she supposed, for all the time he'd spent trying to get her into it. Obviously, it had never been about the place itself, but it was strange. She clung to the doorframe, watching as he sat down and slipped off his shoes and unfastened his tie.

"You can come in," he said, like Delilah was a vampire that required the invitation.

The bed itself was full-sized, though she imagined his feet probably still hung off the edge. With a quilted comforter in a grayish green, laid over off-white sheets. Two pillows, and a thick wool blanket folded up at the end. There was a night table beside it with a marred left corner. He set his tie and watch on the table before unclipping his suspenders.

"I don't suppose I could sleep on the sofa?" She asked.

"I'm happy to share." His voice held all the infuriatingly polite insistence of a gracious host, but he wasn't really offering. He was expecting her to indulge him, and she would, in every mildly miserable way.

"As long as sharing a bed only means sharing a bed," she agreed. "Though it's still quite frowned upon to sleep next to a man I haven't married."

He grinned. "I could have something arranged--but isn't it fun to be a bit naughty sometimes?"

"When I'll be pronounced legally dead soon?" Delilah questioned, running her finger along the ridge in the doorframe, disturbing the dust that had settled there. "I might be impressed if you can swing that."

"It'd be neat to have a dead wife."

That word made her grit her teeth, but she turned it into a smile instead. She'd thought about it before though, marrying Will, and it had seemed like such a good idea then. When she'd thought of him differently and he'd been charming, polite, nonthreatening. What a stupid girl she'd been then, albeit much happier.

She tried to let her mind drift to that place where everything was peaceful and normal, and she'd been thinking about her future with hope. Maybe that would make this easier, if she could pretend, she didn't hate him and that they were just a normal couple going to bed together. Pretend the thought of sleeping next to him didn't make her feel queasy.

"Suppose I wouldn't mind giving my children a chance to be tall," she joked, but she'd thought about it before.

"Not all it's cracked up to be," he said, as he stood up and went to draw the shutters to the left of the bed. "My back hurts and I hit my head on things constantly."

The minimal light from the streetlights outside the window faded, but she could still hear the sound of the rain on the roof. Cars driving over the wet ground, dragging their tires through the puddles.

"Everything has a downside."

He crossed to the oak wardrobe that was placed against the far wall and pulled open a drawer at the bottom. "Mind if I change?"

"Should I leave?" She poised herself to exit.

He shrugged. "You can stay if you'd like, I don't particularly care."

"I'll just go use the bathroom," she said.

Delilah didn't need to use it, but she stayed in there for a couple minutes, looking at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale and there were bags under her eyes. She also became acutely aware of the way this nightgown fit her, the way it hung low around her chest without much to fill it out.

When she returned, Will was standing there in t-shirt and softer cotton trousers which sat low on his narrow hips and seemed to stop a couple inches short of his ankles. This was the least dressed she'd ever seen him. His arms looked thin, and the fabric of his shirt draped in a slightly uneven way over his waistband. She could see the defined edges of his collarbones.

"Would you like something to wear over that?" He offered, much to her surprise.

She was starting to feel a bit cold again. His apartment was significantly warmer than the archive, but it was still the end of Fall, and the nights were only getting colder. So, she nodded and accepted a sleep shirt. It had an odd texture, but it was thicker than her nightgown, and provided a bit more modesty.

Then he bent down and lifted the corner of the comforter, as if he were opening a door for her. "Make yourself at home," he said before walking out to turn off the overhead light in the main room.

Leaving her, standing stiffly at the bedside. It took a few moments before she was able to lower herself down and crawl under the covers. The sheets were flannel, warm against her skin as she turned herself on her side, facing the doorway as the lights clicked off. Then the only light was that bit that came in from the window in the kitchen.

She heard Will's footsteps, the slight creek of the wood floors as he walked around to the other side of the bed. The mattress squeaked, and she felt the sheets lift as he slipped in beside her.

He let out a soft sigh as his head hit the pillow. Then Delilah felt his hands, reaching for her in the dark, sliding underneath so he could wrap his long arms around her waist and tug her into the middle of the bed. Until she was pressed against him, from the back of her neck all the way down to her knees.

"What are you doing?" She asked nervously, her face feeling strangely warm. For all the time she'd spent with him, they'd never been so close. She could feel his bones, his ribs and hips poking her from behind. This was also the first time his head was right near hers without him leaning or stooping.

"Holding you," he murmured.

"I thought we were only going to sleep."

His breath was warm against the nape of her neck. "We are, but you're warm and you smell nice and I think cuddling counts as part of sleep."

She swallowed, her spit feeling particularly thick. "Alright," she said quietly. It wasn't though. She slept poorly as is, how was she supposed to sleep like this? In his bed, with him holding her too tight and too close.

She did try. Her eyes got heavy, her body relaxed, but she couldn't quite slip into sleep. It was like she was lingering on the edge of a dream, her mind wandering to the strangest places as she laid there. But she was still very much there, in the room, in the bed. Feeling the texture of the sheets, the awkward pressure of Will's arm beneath her, his breathing behind her.

For an hour she must've laid there, before she finally tried to wiggle her way out of his grip. Even in sleep he held onto her fairly firmly, but she managed to unwind his arms from around her torso and shuffle away from him, closer towards the edge of the bed. It was starting to feel too warm though, her mouth dry and underarms dampening with sweat.

The sound of the rain had stopped, and the clouds must have cleared because the light of the full moon through the big window was creeping in through the open bedroom door, and through the narrow gaps in the shutters.

Delilah rolled over, facing her sleeping captor. It was just bright enough for her to see him, the shape of his body under the blankets, his knees bent so his feet didn't stick out. His face was relaxed in a way she'd rarely seen it. Though he rarely looked angry or harsh, there was something peaceful about sleeping people. They were at their most vulnerable.

She could kill him with a kitchen knife right now if she wanted to. If she had the stones to try.

Instead, she quietly climbed out of the bed and tiptoed into the kitchen for a drink of cool water. She sipped straight from the tap with the sink on a slow drip. It ran down her face and chin, and she wiped herself dry with the shirt he'd given her. It smelled like him, but not the way his coat had picked up the scents of his life--rainwater, chemicals, glue, dusty books.

This was different, that faint, almost imperceptible human smell, a unique compound of sweat, oils and soap that lingered on your skin and intermingled with the fabric over dozens of wears. The sort of thing that made your clothes distinctly yours no matter how many times you laundered them.

She took off the shirt, folded it up and set it on the coffee table. Then stood in front of the window, folding her now bare arms against her chest. The insulation must've been poor because she could feel the cold air coming in from around the edges of the sil, as she stared out into the dark street, up at the yellow moon.

She stood there until her eyes started to feel heavy and she started to feel uncomfortably cold again. Then she went and took the wool blanket from the edge of Will's bed. It was scratchy, not well-worn, but it was warm, and she wrapped it around her shoulders and returned to the window as if in a trance.

Her eyes focused on that big yellow orb, everything else fading fuzzily into the background. She'd nearly forgotten how nice natural light was, and if she couldn't have the sun, this was the next best thing. It didn't warm her skin or turn sunflowers, but it was beautiful, oddly comforting.

She thought of the fall harvest festival in her hometown--and furthermore she thought of home. The way she'd found her mother in the kitchen when the moon was too full and bright and neither of them could sleep and they would both drink tea. Sometimes she'd tell Delilah about her father, what he'd been like, before he'd been shipped off to war never to return again.

Will had a similar story, but he'd been older, lost both parents and had to live with an estranged aunt who shipped him off to America for school as soon as he turned eighteen. She wondered if he'd always been this way, or if something had happened that changed him. Dead parents, a war, or just the very strange job that he'd landed himself in?

The floor creaked behind her, startling her severely. She turned around to see him standing there in the bedroom doorway. His hair was slightly mussed, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he walked towards her.

"Can't sleep or just can't sleep next to me?" He asked.

"Full moon always makes it hard for me to sleep," she said.

He placed his hand on the counter to their side and used the support to lean down. "How lycanthropic," he said with a mild smirk. "You feel like howling too?"

"It's very bright. Doesn't it bother you?"

"Occasionally, but I'm usually too tired to care," he explained, "or I close the shutters and curtains like a normal person."

She sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around her. "I haven't done much of anything recently, I have no good reason to be tired."

Her newspaper job had been monotonous and sometimes terrible, but at the very least she'd had a thing to occupy her time. There'd been structure, rules, consistency--something she'd so stupidly tried to resist by striking out on her own to try and solve a stupid murder that had already been solved. All because she couldn't leave well enough alone.

Now she had her answers and nothing else at all. Magic was real--it was as dead and useless a language as Latin, only good for showing off. Magic was real--someone had died to keep the secret of a very rich family and their collection of stupid old books. What did it matter if Will could make a pen disappear?

Why would he work for them? Why would he ruin Delilah's life?

"There's always about a million shelves to be dusted in the archive," he suggested. "Think I'll die before I get to them all."

She scowled. "I don't want to dust shelves."

"There's not much else I can offer you unfortunately, unless you want to learn to read Latin?"

At this point she might take anything. After only a week her life was starting to feel like the worst part of childhood summer break and she had absolutely nothing to do other than read or wander or argue with him. Maybe she could at least do something slightly more interesting.

"Honestly, I might," she admitted.

Will smiled. "Lucky for you I make an excellent teacher."

"So do books."

"Yes, but they can't teach you how to translate a four-hundred-year-old spell book," he said, sliding his hand off the counter and standing up straight. "Would chamomile tea help you sleep?"

She shook her head. "You can go back to bed, I'm fine."

"Nonsense," he said, already reaching for the kettle and filling it with water. He set it on the stove and rotated the knob to turn on the gas. It clicked for a few long moments before the flame caught. "I owe it to you to fix this problem."

"The moon?"

"Not giving you anything to do," he said, as he retrieved some tea from the very top shelf of the cupboard and dropped a bag into a mug. She briefly envied his height--she would've had to get a stepladder for that. Then he slid the cup along the counter up next to the stove and turned his attention back to her. "And if tea doesn't fix it, I'll find another way to tire you out."

"Thank you, but I think tea will be enough," she said pleasantly, as though the innuendo in his words didn't make her stomach feel tight with unease.

Delilah sat on the little leather couch with him, quietly sipping hot tea until she did start to feel tired. Her eyelids drooped and her body felt heavy. Maybe it was just time, or the power of chamomile, but eventually she put her half-empty cup down and leaned back against the couch with a mild sigh. He put his arm around her but she couldn't be bothered to care.

"Why'd you take off the shirt?" He asked, his tone curious and mild. He sounded a bit drowsy himself.

She'd nearly forgotten. "I was too warm."

"But you went through the trouble of getting a blanket?" A blanket which was now draped over the back off the couch--the way a blanket like that should be. Only a man would think it belonged on a bed.

"Does it matter?"

Will turned his head to look at her. "You don't like the idea of wearing my clothes," he said. A realization, faint but still obvious. "It's a shame, you look quite nice in them."

She looked away. "They're too big on me." Too long, mostly. His clothes certainly weren't a snug fit on him.

"Precisely," he said, as she reached over and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. His touch was feather light.

"I'm tired now," she said. "Can we go to bed?"

He seemed almost disappointed as he nodded. "Of course," he said. The arm he had around her found its way behind her back, drawing her into him as he twisted himself sideways and slid his other arm under her knees.

"You don't need to--" she started as he lifted her up like she weighed nothing.

"Hush, darling," he said sweetly. He wasn't strong in the way men liked to be, big, muscular, aggressive. Perhaps he wasn't strong at all, but Delilah felt especially small as he held her and carried her into his bedroom, the moonlight illuminating her blue silk nightgown.

When Delilah woke in the morning, Will wasn't next to her and it was raining again. Light rain, just barely loud enough for her to hear it. As soon as she'd pulled herself from the bed, she opened the shutters to let in the weak morning light. The clouds had broken just enough for it to filter through.

Then she laid for a few more minutes, staring out the window and enjoying it before her bladder convinced her to get up. And after using the bathroom she realized he was nowhere to be found. Granted she didn't have to look very hard to figure that out since it was a one-bedroom apartment.

The front door was aggressively locked, so she just ended up standing with that blanket around her shoulders in front of the window until he returned. When he did she didn't turn away. Her eyes were peacefully closed as she tried to soak up every last bit of sunlight before he dragged her back to the archive.

"Big fan of windows, are you?" He asked.

"I missed the sun," she replied.

"Well, it would be quite bad if someone saw a missing woman staring out my window," he said.

She sighed. "If I'm going to spend the rest of my life underground, I'd like to enjoy a window while I have the chance."

"It's not the rest of your life," he said, the floor creaking as he walked up to her and put a hand on her shoulder. "I'll figure something out eventually."

She glanced up at him. "Like me living here? Unable to go anywhere or talk to anyone or look out the window for too long?" She asked, and perhaps she sounded a bit snippy, but she was entirely sincere.

"I was thinking about a fake identity and a new country, but I suppose if worse comes to worse..."

"I thought you said trying to leave the country was a stupid idea?" She asked skeptically.

He laughed. "It almost certainly is, but I'm not sure there's a better one that doesn't involve you locked in a room somewhere--as much as I love the thought of you being stuck with me that lends itself to madness."

She got a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach at the thought of trying to escape, the thought of her slim odds, but she supposed it was better to try than to not. At least she wouldn't be stuck with him.

"How long would it take, to do something like that?" She asked hesitantly.

"I've no clue, I've never tried. I mean I have thought about it before, and I'm really starting to like the idea of a fresh start," he said contemplatively as he stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her.

She bristled slightly. "For you?" It was getting frustrating, the way he was pretending to be pleasant, genuinely acting as though they were lovers. She supposed it was better than the alternative, the way he'd treated her that first night while she was tied up.

"Why's that so hard to believe?"

"Because you chose this," she said bitterly.

He let out a long sigh. "You don't know anything about me," he said, sounding almost wistful. She'd once thought she did, thought she knew him pretty well, but now for all she knew his whole story could be a lie.

She could have yelled, could've said some very mean things, but she was still trying to do what he wanted, to be a bit nicer. Maybe the thought that she just might make it out of this okay was improving her mood too. "Perhaps because you never told me," she said quietly.

"Maybe someday I will."

"Maybe someday I'll have the pleasure of not knowing you."

He chuckled. "Don't get too excited. If we're to leave the country, you'd probably have to marry me for citizenship or end up right back here." That made her feel quite sour at the thought, but she supposed divorce was always an option--she could very reasonably claim that he was insane.

"If I get to pick the country, I don't want it to be England. It sounds terrible."

"You don't. And it is." He kissed her on the top of the head. "How about breakfast before we go?"

***

Delilah did in fact, take Will up on his offer to teach her how to read Latin, purely because there was nothing to do, and after a couple more days in the archive, the idleness was really starting to get to her. She would've preferred quite literally anyone else to teach her, but of course she didn't have the option of selecting another tutor. And he was fairly pleasant about it.

There was a lot to remember, with all the declensions, verb tenses, noun forms. Not to mention the vocabulary lists. But it was nice to have something to focus on. She'd always been a good student and it was a source of pride for her. When he gave her praise for picking it up so quickly, she had to admit it felt nice to be appreciated for her intelligence over other things.

He maintained his prerogative of being nice so long as she did the same, put up with his flirting. The little kisses on the forehead or cheek, putting his arm around her, holding her and resting his chin on top of her head as he spoke fondly about the idea of running off with her. Either he really hated this job or he was just pandering to her emotional sensibilities.

But still, he was her only source of company, and it was sort of starting to work. She could put up with this when she had her warm clothes and something to do. And he'd taken to bringing her to the upper portion of the archive when he was certain no one would be around, letting her sit by the window as she worked on the little lessons he'd outlined for her or read. Insisting, though, that she let him blind fold her and carry her there.