Charlie #3
My shoulders drop first. Then my hands stop clenching the robe.
My cheek sinks more fully into his thigh, and the space between my face and the warm fabric completely disappears.
I curl one hand under my chin, fingers tucked into the edge of my hoodie sleeve, and breathe out so softly I barely hear it.
Nikolaus’s hand stills. “Charlie?”
His voice is different when he says my name this time. It sounds like awe and gentleness, like he has found a small animal cupped in his hands and is trying not to startle it.
I make a sound.
Not a word.
Just a tiny, questioning hum that leaves my throat before I can decide whether I want to give it permission.
The room goes quiet for half a second before his fingers resume, even gentler than before.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
I’m not really sure what he’s thanking me for, but that’s okay. Right now, everything is distant except his lap and the soft petting and the cartoon animal talking about pancakes or puddles or friendship or whatever bright, harmless crisis is happening on the screen.
“Did you decide on breakfast, sweetheart?” Nikolaus asks. “What looks good?”
I should answer. It’s an easy question. I know how to talk.
I have spent twenty-five years talking. Too much sometimes.
Too little other times. But the pathway between my brain and my mouth feels weirdly long now, like I would have to climb over something to reach the words, and I’m too tired to climb.
My eyes open halfway to gaze at the menu that is still there. The room is silent as I stare at the options, blurry words slowly coming into focus the longer I look.
No one rushes me, no one tells me to use my words, or asks if I’m being difficult, or makes the terrible silence bigger by pointing out that I’ve forgotten how to be normal.
My gaze drifts down the page, past pancakes, past eggs, past the things that sound too rich or too heavy or too much.
Then I see it.
A strawberry banana smoothie.
It is in a little section under beverages, almost hidden between fresh orange juice and some green thing. Strawberry banana is simple. Safe, sweet. Something I can imagine swallowing without my stomach turning inside out.
I lift one hand from the robe and point.
My finger lands a little to the left of the words, but close enough.
Nikolaus leans forward slightly, following my finger. “Strawberry banana smoothie?”
I nod lazily against his thigh.
“Good choice, baby.”
The praise hits me like warm water.
My eyes close again, and I tuck closer into him.
Not a lot. Just enough that my forehead presses more firmly into his lap and my hand curls into the fabric of his sleep pants.
I realize what I’m doing a second too late, but by then Nikolaus’s hand has settled over my hair again, broad and comfortably heavy, and moving away feels impossible.
A low sound leaves him. Something satisfied and soft enough that it makes the floaty place inside me go even softer.
“My sweet, soft baby,” he says, quieter now, like the words are only meant for me.
My fingers curl tighter into the fabric, the tips of my fingers able to feel the roughness of his leg hair through it.
“Smoothie,” Nikolaus says from above me. “Toast as well. Plain. Some fruit. Scrambled eggs on the side, but light. No butter. And whatever you’d like as well, of course.”
“I’ll call it in,” Constantine replies. His voice sounds like it is coming from the other end of a hallway.
I keep my eyes closed, even when I hear a rustling noise.
“Here,” Constantine says after a moment. “These are the prescription ones. This one was in the bathroom. This one was on his nightstand. This one was in a weekly organizer, but only three compartments had anything in them.”
Nikolaus’s hand does not leave my hair. “Read me the labels.”
And he does.
I know the names, but they sound wrong in his mouth.
Clinical and exposed and adult. Too adult for the place my head has gone.
I don’t want to think about dosages or refills or side effects or which pills I sometimes skip because I want to stretch them until payday.
I don’t want to think about pharmacies or insurance or the stupid panic of counting tablets in a bottle and trying to figure out whether my body can afford to be less sick for a week.
Nikolaus’s fingers stroke from my hairline to the crown of my head.
Again and again.
And again.
“You’re all right,” he murmurs, and I’m not sure if it’s for me or someone else.
Constantine lowers his voice. “There are two that say morning. One with food. One says twice daily. One says night. I photographed the bottles and the paperwork. I can send everything to the doctor before we board.”
“Do that,” Nikolaus says. “I don’t want any guesswork. Not with him.”
With him.
Me.
I am the him.
The person they are discussing like I am fragile and complicated and also not responsible for fixing any of it.
That should feel bad. I know it should, but all it feels like is sinking deeper into warm water.
Nikolaus’s thumb slides behind my ear again, and I nuzzle closer before I can stop myself.
His voice drops. “Oh, little one.”
My whole body stills.
For one second, the floaty place flickers with alarm.
Little one.
It should make me snap back. It should make me sit up and glare and say I’m not little, I’m not, I’m not, because I am twenty-five and chronically exhausted and uninsured and kidnapped and absolutely not a child.
But the words don’t come.
They don’t even get close.
Instead, I hide my face in his lap, because the shame is too big, but the praise-warmth is bigger.
Nikolaus makes another low, pleased sound, and his palm cups the back of my head. “All right,” he says softly. “No more questions for him right now.”
“I noticed,” Constantine replies, equally quiet.
The television keeps murmuring its bright little nonsense into the room. Someone is singing about berries. The song is soft and repetitive, and Nikolaus’s lap is warm, and his fingers keep moving, and for a few minutes, I don’t have to be a person who knows how bad everything is.
Constantine continues sorting things on the table. “This one was with the pain reliever,” he says. “No prescription label. Over-the-counter, probably. There was a heating pad near the bed, too.”
“Bring it on the plane.”
“Already planning on it. The blanket, too?”
My eyes flicker open, and through my hazy vision, I see my blankie in Constantine’s hands.
Thin, faded, frayed at the edges, one corner completely smooth from years of rubbing. It looks smaller than I remember and sadder than I want it to look, but it is mine, mine, mine, and my hand reaches before I can make myself pretend otherwise.
Constantine’s face changes, becoming softer. “I thought it might be special.”
My throat closes.
I can’t answer. I can’t even nod.
Nikolaus’s hand strokes over my hair. “Give it to him.”
Constantine does, and the second the blanket touches my fingers, I pull it against my chest and curl around it so quickly that I nearly slide off Nikolaus’s lap.
His arm comes around me at once, steadying me before I can fall, and I burrow into both things at the same time without thinking—my blankie against my face, Nikolaus’s thigh beneath my cheek, his hand warm over my head.
A tear slips out and disappears into the old fabric.
Nikolaus bends over me slightly. “There you go, sweetheart.”
My fingers clutch the blanket harder as I breathe it in.
I can smell my apartment on it and feel the faint stale warmth of my bed.
It should make me want to go home so badly I can’t breathe, and it does, it does, but I’m too small and worn out right now for the feeling to grow.
It just aches. A dull, heavy ache I hold against my mouth while Nikolaus pets my hair.
Constantine says something about a doctor again.
Then the car.
Then the plane.
Then someone named Alex.
Their voices move around me in low, adult currents, words slipping past without asking me to catch them. Medication. Schedule. Breakfast. Bags. Security. Flight plan. Doctor in New York. He’ll need clothing. He’ll need rest. He’ll need—
He’ll need.
He’ll need.
He’ll need.
I close my eyes.
For once, the needing doesn’t feel like a failure.
Nikolaus’s fingers continue to rub at the base of my skull, then behind my ear, then down the side of my neck, each touch calm and repetitive enough that my body has no choice but to relax.
I’m not asleep, nor awake, but somewhere in between, cuddled up in the strange, frightening safety of his lap while the world gets decided over my head.
I should be listening harder.
I should be planning.
I should be figuring out how to run again, how to get past the guards, how to make it downstairs, how to survive New York if I can’t.
Instead, I hold my blankie to my cheek and listen to Nikolaus tell Constantine that the smoothie should come with a straw. A bendy one, if the hotel has it.
Nikolaus’s hand rests over my hair, heavy and possessive and perfect.
“That’s right,” he murmurs, so softly I’m not sure Constantine hears. “You just stay there, little one. Daddy will take care of everything.”
And I do.
Not because I forgive him.
Not because I’m okay.
Not because any of this is okay.
But because my body is relaxed, and my brain is quiet, and for a little while, all the things too big for me to hold can belong to the grown men speaking above me.
For a little while, I am only warm, petted, and small.