Chapter 2 #2
He let out a sharp breath through his nose, which was answer enough.
“So then let’s eat,” I said by way of compromise.
“Fine,” he agreed. “But in the bean bag.”
“Seriously?” Me eating while curled up in the bean bag was enough of an exercise in balance and not spilling things. Me trying to eat while curled up on Raj in the bean bag was guaranteed to make a mess, and I hated having to wash the cover to the stupid thing.
“I—” His voice faltered a little, and I immediately felt a stab of guilt.
“Okay,” I agreed. “Bean bag.”
He pulled me into another hug, and I let him hold me until a little of the tension went out of his arms.
“But eat,” I insisted, stepping back.
He swallowed, then nodded. “Okay.”
Sometime around midnight, I texted Ward, feeling horribly guilty and hoping I didn’t wake him, letting him know I wasn’t going to be in first thing—maybe not at all.
I didn’t tell him why.
Raj had actually curled up on me in the bean bag, which made eating my pizza even more difficult, but given that he’d barely finished half of one, I spent enough time worrying that I didn’t really have much energy to eat more than a few slices, either.
He also wouldn’t talk about it. Or couldn’t.
I hadn’t even gotten out of him which it was, this time.
He usually didn’t tell me much about his cases at the FBI.
Sometimes it was because they were long-term cases that they’d been tracing for years, mostly paperwork and rooting through people’s financial records and social media accounts, and it would have been incredibly boring.
Sometimes it was because he wasn’t allowed to share details outside of the FBI, even if it wasn’t quite so boring.
And sometimes it was because it was something that bothered him so much he didn’t want to talk about it.
I didn’t know, but I strongly suspected that this one was the latter.
So I let him curl up with his head on my stomach, one arm around my back in the shifting pellets of the bean bag. The other he would periodically use to pick up a piece of pizza from the plate we were sharing.
“Did you eat yesterday?” I asked him, when it became clear that he had no intention of continuing to eat.
“Somebody got sandwiches,” came the response.
“Did you eat one?” I asked, again.
He grunted in a way that I’d learned was affirmative, even if he wasn’t particularly pleased about whatever it was.
“Just one?”
Another yes-grunt.
“You didn’t sleep, did you?” I asked, then.
They sometimes used a break room or caught naps under or at their desks when cases were high-pressure and had to be solved.
He shook his head, his skull pressing—not uncomfortably—into my stomach.
“You should sleep,” I told him softly, and his arm tightened at my back. “You should go to bed,” I said gently, and he sighed.
“Do—do you want me to go?” he asked, and even if I had been thinking that—which I definitely had not been—the vulnerability in his tone would have made me unthink it immediately.
“No, I do not want you to go—I want you get some sleep. Here. With me.”
He let out another shuddering sigh. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep,” he whispered.
“You should still try,” I said softly.
It was something Melissa reminded me—and Sam—when the nightmares came. That rest was important, whether I’d actually be able to sleep or not. It was worth trying. Deep breaths, closed eyes, darkness.
Sometimes I even fell asleep, but even if I didn’t, my body got some rest irrespective of whether or not my mind let go of whatever kept it wakeful.
In my arms, Raj nodded.
He stood, and I followed, then took his hand and led him into the bedroom.
“Can I help you undress?” I asked him. “Put your clothes in the washer so that they’re clean for tomorrow?”
He blinked at me slowly, uncertain.
I walked over to the closet, opened the door, and took out a folded pair of sweatpants. I liked them extra-big, so they might fit him. I held them out. “You can wear these. I can get you a t-shirt, if you want.”
He shook his head, then began undoing the buttons on his shirt. His fingers shook, and I set the sweatpants down on the mattress and took over, mine much more nimble than his.
It wasn’t how I wanted to undress him, under a pall of gloom and worry, the former his, the latter mine.
I wanted him to let me do this under other circumstances, when he’d smile down at me with warmth in his gold-brown eyes.
I didn’t like the fact that those same eyes were blank and hollow, that when my fingers accidentally brushed his skin, he didn’t react.
I finished undoing the buttons. “Take it off?”
He did, shrugging out of it and letting me drape it over an arm.
“Do you want me to leave so you can change?” I asked, deliberately glancing down at the sweatpants.
It wasn’t how I wanted to see him nude for the first time. I would—of course I would—but this felt… not coerced or forced, just clinical. Like I was a nurse rather than his boyfriend.
He undid the button and zipper of his jeans, then dropped them. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, pushed off the dark pair of tight boxer-briefs, as well.
I tried not to look. Or stare, rather.
Every inch of him was smooth muscle encased in dark skin, a patch of black curls between his strong thighs with a heavy cock hanging soft between them.
I swallowed. Forced myself to look away until he was dressed in my sweatpants and I could take the clothes—jeans, underwear, socks—he handed me.
“I’ll put these in the laundry.”
I had a tiny stacked washer and dryer in the bathroom closet, a luxury, given the fact that this was a rent-controlled apartment complex for Arc-humans and Arcanids within five years of their release from Cyprian’s.
I had another year on the lease, but I really should start looking to see if there was somewhere else I’d be able to tolerate living.
Maybe there would be an apartment that would come up in Melissa’s building or nearby her, I thought, stuffing Raj’s clothes into the washer and setting the dials.
I added soap flakes, pulled the knob, and then closed the lid as the machine whirred with the sound of cold water.
Or maybe Sam would want a temporary roommate.
Or maybe I’d move in with Raj.
He always came here, to watch movies or cook dinner—even when he cooked.
Maybe I should ask him if he’d let me into his space. I didn’t even know if it was a house or an apartment. I’d never thought to ask, and he’d never explicitly said either way.
I took a detour from the kitchen to make some tea—chamomile—so that I could bring him a mug. He definitely liked tea more than I did, and while chamomile had never really helped me sleep, maybe it would do something for him. Soothe the hurt, if nothing else.
He was sitting on the edge of the mattress when I walked back in, bare feet on the floor and his knees bent up past where it would have been comfortable for him to rest his elbows on them. His arms were crossed over his chest as though he were cold, although it wasn’t yet.
I bent to offer him the tea, which I’d put in a travel mug so that it could be set by the side of the bed without having to worry about spills.
“Tea?” he asked, looking up at me.
“Chamomile,” I confirmed, even though I knew he could probably tell from the smell. Even I can tell chamomile from the smell, and I don’t have a shifter’s nose.
He took it, opening the lid and blowing into it before taking a cautious sip. “Thanks.”
I was already in sweats, so I walked to the other side of the mattress and pulled the top of the covers open. “Come on,” I said gently. “Bed.”
I shook him awake sometime around four-thirty, sweaty and panting. He let out a strangled half-yowl when I did, swatting at the hand I’d put on his shoulder.
I yanked it back, staring at the raised lines from his… claws.
I grimaced, rubbing at the back of my hand. Getting clawed by my boyfriend was not something I’d realized I would have to worry about. But the sting was fading, although I was pretty sure that if he saw them, he’d freak out.
“Raj,” I said, my voice sounding unnaturally loud, even to my human ears.
I probably could have gone into the dream and found him, like I had a few months ago, but I’d promised to stay out of his dreams, so I didn’t want to do that unless I absolutely had to.
I tentatively gripped his upper arm again. “Raj.”
He sucked in a breath, and this time, I pulled my hand back before his fingers reached his shoulder, although he blinked blearily in the light filtering in my bedroom window from the street outside.
“Shit,” he breathed, then rubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry. I was—” I heard him swallow. “It was bad.”
I put my hand on his back. “It sounded bad,” I said softly.
“I woke you.”
He hadn’t. “No,” I replied. “I was already awake.” I debated telling him I’d gotten up to pee or something to make him feel better, but I’m bad at lying, so I didn’t.
Raj rolled onto his back, and I moved my hand to let him. He studied my face. “Why?” he asked me.
I shrugged. “Too restless to sleep.”
“I’m sorry.” He reached up a hand and cupped the side of my face. “It’s my fault.”
It was, but it felt rude to confirm it.
“It happens to me, sometimes,” I said, instead. It did.
“What do you do? To sleep?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Deep breathing, sometimes. And sometimes I just lie there with my eyes closed and try to relax my body, even if my brain won’t stop.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “What’s a lot?”
He huffed out a sound that tried to be one of his little laughs, and failed, although I was glad he’d made the attempt. “More than once a week?”
“Some weeks,” I replied. “Depends.”
“And you just… don’t sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
He lapsed into silence, tracing the side of my face with his fingers. Minutes passed, but I was content to let him continue to run the pads of his fingertips across my face, in my hair, down the side of my neck, then back. I liked that he wanted to touch me.