Chapter 10 #3
He makes a sound that might be offense or amusement. But he stops trying to catalog my weaknesses and just... sits. In sunlight. In his own chair. Looking almost comfortable.
"This is nice," I say without thinking.
"What is?"
"This. You being... here. Not performing Shadow King duties. Just being Ruvan who needs better curtains and possibly some plants."
"I don't need plants."
"Everyone needs plants. They make oxygen. You like breathing, don't you?"
"I'm indifferent to breathing."
"Liar." I'm painting properly now, losing myself in getting the light right. "You're very attached to breathing. I've seen you do it. Quite regularly."
We fall into quiet then. Just the scratch of brush on canvas and distant sounds below. His shadows settle, pooling naturally instead of coiling with intent. The sunlight makes patterns through the dirty window that I definitely need to clean.
When I come back. Because this won't be done in one session, no matter what he thinks.
"Stop smiling," he says.
"I'm not smiling."
"You're smiling at the canvas."
"That's different. That's artistic satisfaction." I am definitely smiling. "Your face is cooperating. Good bones. Very paintable bones."
"My bones are not paintable."
"All bones are paintable if you believe in yourself." I'm adding detail now—the way his hair catches light, not pure black but dark brown with threads of silver. "Though yours are particularly nice."
He shifts slightly. I make a sound of protest and he freezes.
"Sorry. Stiff."
"Of course you're stiff. You sit like someone's holding you at knifepoint." I set down my brush. "Stand up. Stretch. We've been at this for an hour."
"It hasn't been that long."
"It has. Look, the sun's moved." I point at the light patterns. "Time exists even in your depression chamber."
"It's not a depression chamber."
"It's a room with weapons instead of pictures and curtains that haven't been cleaned since forever. What would you call it?"
He stands, stretches. His spine makes concerning sounds. I pretend not to notice how his shirt pulls across his shoulders.
"I'd call it efficient."
"Efficiently depressing." I'm stretching too, my back protesting from hunching over the canvas. My corset definitely needs adjusting but that's not happening here. "Same time tomorrow?"
"We agreed to one session."
"We agreed to one session but that was before I realized you have the bone structure of a classical statue and the complexion of someone who needs vitamin supplements." I start packing up carefully. Wet paint's unforgiving. "This needs at least two more sessions. Maybe four."
"Two."
"Four."
"Two, and you stop trying to put plants in here."
"Two, and I'm definitely cleaning those curtains."
He almost smiles. The light catches it for just a moment.
"Fine."
"Really?"
"Don't make me regret this."
"You won't. Well, you might when I show up with proper curtains. But you'll thank me later when you don't die from fabric-based lung disease." I gather my bags. "Same time tomorrow?"
"If you must."
"I must. Your cheekbones demand it."
"My cheekbones demand nothing."
"Your cheekbones are very demanding. Artistically." I head for the door, turn back. "Eat something before tomorrow. You're all angles. Beautiful angles, but sharp."
"Get out."
But there's no heat in it. And I definitely catch him glancing at the curtains as I leave.
Progress. Small, dusty, vitamin-D-deficient progress.
Tomorrow I'm definitely bringing cleaning supplies.
"Oh," I remember at the door. "The vegetables. Should I take them to the kitchen or—"
"Leave them. I'll... someone will handle them."
"The turnips are for soup. They look throwable but they're actually quite sweet when cooked properly."
"I know what turnips are for."
"Do you though? Because someone used a potato as a projectile. Waste of a perfectly good potato."
"That was a training exercise."
"That was food waste." I adjust my bags one more time. "Tomorrow then. With curtain soap. And maybe some nice potatoes. For eating, not throwing."
"No potatoes."
"Carrots then. Very hard to weaponize carrots."
"You'd be surprised."
"Now I'm concerned about your carrot usage." I back out the door. "Eat something with vitamins. Please. Your complexion is begging for leafy greens."
The door closes with finality, but I swear I hear him mutter something about vegetables as I navigate back down the narrow stairs.
Gray Streak's waiting at the bottom, trying to look casual. "How did it go?"
"Well, no one died and I got him to sit in actual sunlight for an hour." I shift my bags. "I'm calling it a success."
"He let you paint him?"
"He let me start painting him. There's a difference. Rome wasn't built in a day and neither are accurate portraits of emotionally constipated crime lords."
Gray Streak makes a choking sound. "Maybe don't call him that to his face."
"Oh, I'd never. To his face I just criticize his curtains and worry about his vitamin intake." I start toward the exit. "Walk me out? My vegetables didn't make it to the kitchen and I'm worried someone might eat them raw. You can't eat turnips raw. Well, you can, but you shouldn't."
He falls into step beside me. "The boss seems... different. Since you started coming around."
"Different how?"
"He ate breakfast yesterday. In front of people."
"Good! What did he eat?"
"Bread. And an apple."
"That's not breakfast, that's a snack pretending." I shake my head. "Tomorrow I'm bringing porridge. Proper porridge with nuts and dried fruit."
"He doesn't like porridge."
"He doesn't like admitting he needs nutrition. Different thing entirely."
We reach the back door. Late afternoon sun slants across the courtyard, making everything look softer than it is.
"Same time tomorrow?" Gray Streak asks.
"Same time. Unless your boss changes his mind about being documented for medical purposes."
"Medical purposes?"
"That's what we're calling it. Sounds better than 'I want to paint his face because the light does interesting things to his bone structure.'"
Gray Streak definitely smiles at that. "Want me to walk you back?"
"I'll manage. But thank you." I adjust my grip on my bags. "Make sure he eats dinner. Something with vegetables. Green ones if possible."
"I'll... try."
"Oh, and remind him that sitting won't actually kill him. He seemed very concerned about that."
I leave Gray Streak standing in the doorway, probably wondering how his life reached this point—taking nutritional orders from someone half his size who's more worried about curtain hygiene than personal safety.
The walk home feels lighter despite my empty bags. Tomorrow I'll finish the outline. Maybe start on the eyes properly. They're not actually black—more dark amber when the light hits right. Need to mix that exact shade.
My studio welcomes me back with familiar smells. I unpack carefully, already planning tomorrow. Curtain soap. Vegetables. Maybe that tea he might actually drink if I don't make a fuss.
The partially finished portrait goes on my easel where I can study it. He looks younger in sunlight. Tired still, but a different kind of tired.
"You need so much more than vegetables," I tell the canvas. "But we'll start there."
My stomach growls, reminding me I forgot lunch again. There's probably bread somewhere. And that cheese is definitely still calling.
But first, a list. Curtain cleaning supplies. More vegetables than any reasonable person needs. Paint for those sad beige walls—maybe sage green? Soothing but not aggressive.
He'll complain. He'll say his study doesn't need color or clean curtains or plants. But he'll sit in that chair tomorrow and let the sunlight find all the places shadows usually hide.
Progress. Slow, vitamin-deficient, curtain-related progress.
I eat cheese while mixing the exact shade of "tired but getting better" I'll need for tomorrow.
The portrait will be beautiful when it's finished. Not because he's beautiful—though he is, in that sharp dangerous way—but because it'll show him human.
And maybe, if I'm very careful and bring enough vegetables, he'll start to believe it.