Nikolaus #3
There’s a beat of silence, and then he laughs.
Not a real laugh, more like the sharp exhale of someone being told the punchline to the cruelest joke.
“I… I always wanted something like this to happen,” he says, voice cracking.
“During the worst nights, I prayed to every god I could think of that—that someone would come get me and just make everything better.” He wipes at his eyes, sniffling. “I’m not even religious.”
“Someone must have answered your prayer then, baby,” I murmur, reaching my hand out to cup his cheek.
He opens his watery eyes and looks at me, searching for something. “I don’t believe that yet. I can’t trust you…”
I nod, letting the words settle between us, not outrunning them with empty comfort.
“That’s alright,” I say, voice so quiet it barely moves the air. “You don’t have to trust me right now. You just have to let me try to earn it. That’s all I need from you. Let me try.”
Charlie stares at the cloud-painted ceiling, jaw clamped tight as he battles the next wave of feeling. I wait, just breathing with him, letting the tiny shudders in his frame find their own way out.
Finally, in a threadbare voice, he asks, “Do I have to… do anything?”
“No. No, baby, you don’t.” The answer comes so fast and strong it almost tastes like blood.
“You don’t owe me anything for this, not a word, not a smile.
If you want to just—” I gesture wide, indicating the crib, the room, the very air that cushions him.
“If you want to just rest, I’ll take care of the world for you.
That’s enough. That’s all I ever wanted. ”
He lies motionless, the fine grains of hurt and longing in his eyes swirling, then settling to silt. “I’m so tired,” he croaks out.
“I know you are,” I say, brushing the hair off his forehead. “Why don’t you take a nap, and we can talk more when you wake up?”
He nods, and his eyes are already fluttering, the aftermath of his cry wringing out the last dregs of adrenaline.
I sit on the floor for a few minutes, then once his breathing evens out, I ease myself up, knees protesting. I pull the rail up on the crib gently, not wanting to startle him back awake, and step over to the bin that holds the majority of the stuffed animals in here.
I take my time going through them until my hand lands on the perfect one. What makes it perfect? Honestly, I’m not sure myself. All I know is that it feels right.
I pick up the fuzzy pale-yellow duck, straightening the white satin ribbon around its neck. It’s not too big, but not small either—perfect for Charlie to wrap his arms around.
I bring the duck over to the crib, tucking it up beside him, careful not to jostle the blanket out of his hands.
For a moment, Charlie doesn’t react, but then he shifts just enough to press his cheek against the soft, synthetic fuzz.
That little movement snakes straight up through my ribcage and clutches at something vital inside me—something old, relentless, and, for the first time in decades, almost at peace.
I want to stay. I want to anchor myself here on the floor and watch him sleep, counting each breath.
But Constantine and my staff will come hunting for me, and my phone is already vibrating in my pocket, relentless as a toothache.
So I draw the blackout curtains over the windows, softening the daylight to a mild, pillowy gray, then step out and close the door behind me, leaving it open half a click in case he wakes and panics.
Constantine is sprawled in the chair by the upper gallery, legs crossed, phone to his ear. He looks up as I come out, ends his call, and arches an eyebrow. “He’s still alive, I trust?”
I nod, rolling my shoulder to work out a tension knot that just set in. “He thinks he’s dead. Or dreaming.”
“Not the worst reaction.” Constantine tucks his phone away and stands, smoothing his cuffs. “You did well, Niko. I think he might actually survive you.”
“He’ll do better than survive,” I mutter.
Constantine’s gaze slides toward the nursery door, and I know without asking that he’s read every line on my face. I wait for the sting of his wit, but instead, he just gives me a slow, sympathetic nod and heads for the stairs.
I follow, because I have nowhere else to go right now. I don’t want to stray far from Charlie, but I know he needs quiet. The urge to hover is new to me and disturbing in its own way. I crush it down, turning away from the door before I undo all the careful work I’ve just done.
We descend to the main floor, where the penthouse is humming with activity. Elise is in the kitchen, which is semi-open to the rest of the living space. The air is thick with the scent of fresh bread and roasting tomato.
Marta soon appears, arms already crossed, spotting us immediately. “Are you having the doctor see him today?” she asks in a voice that says: I am not here for your bullshit.
“Hopefully,” I say, and when she makes a face, I ask, “What?”
She drops her gaze, mouth tight. “May I make a suggestion?”
I huff out a short laugh. “When do you ever ask first?”
Marta plants both hands on the edge of the marble island and fixes me with a look that’s all iron. “He doesn’t need a doctor today. He needs to rest.”
I scowl, already anticipating the argument, but Constantine lifts one brow at her, so she continues, “He’s been here less than an hour. Let him rest today, then see how he is in the morning. If he’s still unwell, then call for the doctor.”
“You don’t understand,” I grunt. “He won’t be better in the morning. He’s sick, and he needs help.”
She shakes her head. “What’s wrong with him? How long has he been sick for?”
“I… don’t know. A long time. I should have the doctor examine him now,” I insist, hating the way my voice edges up, almost pleading. “We don’t know what could be wrong—”
Marta pauses and sighs. “So it’s something chronic?”
“Yes, so can you try and understand—”
She interrupts me with a shush. “If he’s been dealing with this for years, you can wait one more day. He’s already flown across the country. I think that’s more than enough stress for the day.”
My mouth opens again, but Constantine shoots me a look; the message is clear. You lost this one. Take the L.
I exhale roughly, hands wide, palms up. “Fine. Send the doctor home.”
Marta nods, a quick bob like a general marking a minor victory, and turns on her heel, walking off in the direction of the den.
Elise, who has been lurking at the periphery, pokes her head in from the kitchen archway. “Would he like something light when he wakes up?” she asks in a voice so careful I had to remind myself she wasn’t trying to set me off, just tiptoe around the emotional blast radius.
I sigh, but nod at her. “Yes, please. Thank you, Elise.”
Elise’s smile is faint but genuine. “We have some broth left from yesterday. I’ll make toast points.”
I look at her closer and see the nervousness radiating from her. I almost thank her a second time, but the words stick to the back of my tongue like burrs. Instead, I grunt something that might pass as gratitude, and after a brief, anxious bob of her head, she vanishes back into the kitchen.
What I want to do is go back up, break my own promise, and check if Charlie’s breathing is still even. What I need to do is nothing. I have spent a lifetime teaching myself to need nothing; apparently, I have unlearned it all in a weekend.
My hands clench and unclench. I flex my fingers. The world is not built for these kinds of waits.
Soft footsteps behind me. Marta, again, this time holding a glass of water and a small pill in her hand. She sets them down on the nearest surface without a word and glances up at me, brow arched.
“What is that?” I ask, frowning.
She shrugs, both indifferent and pointed. “Figured you could use a Xanax more than the boy right now. The doctor happened to have it on him.”
The gall. I love her for it.
“I don’t need your fucking pill,” I say, but the heat is gone from my voice.
She shrugs again and leaves them there anyway. “Your mother would be remiss if she heard you speak that way.”
Fucking hell.