Armande sank into the chair Rowan had pressed him to. The warmth- the controlled air, the hot drink, and the atmosphere, the cushions- was a contrast that almost smothered him after the icy knife cold wind. Extremes that pushed his body from one reaction to another.
A part of him wanted to get up and pace. The lethargy and ease that came with the room felt like it would pull him down into inaction.
Rowan's hands kneaded at his feet, the warmth of her soul yet another blanket. Strangely, the feel of her hands on his bare feet made him feel exposed, as if he was naked.
He looked at Valeriya, cocooned in her blankets, the tip of her nose red. A box of tissues was at the table next to her, along with a small rubbish bin already half filled. He had no doubt Rowan had been taking care of her. In truth, there was nothing much to do except provide liquids and for her to get plenty of rest. No flu shot he had gotten her- among all those he procured- could immunize against all the variants.
The frown on her face as she looked him over searchingly was replaced by a shiver. He smiled at her. He could guess what she had been looking for. It hadn't exactly slipped his mind. But neither did he take seriously the need to get items to counteract her "curse". A cold was a cold. If she had a bad reaction- if she got worse- it would be to the hospital he took her.
Between them, though, the churning in his mind lessened. Enough, anyway. Despite everything he'd experienced over the last year, control was not something he was still comfortable giving up. He didn't expect that to ever change.
But their words did give him some respite. "Forcing...yes. Well, that is true enough." He sighed, letting himself enjoy the feel Rowan's ministrations. After a moment, he decided to share. A bit, anyway. "For some reason, I feel we are running out of time. Like I can feel the breath of something on my neck."
He stared blankly into the flames of the fireplace. Finally, he spoke. "I don't know. I just feel it." He looked from Rowan to Valeriya. The Eyes. Twins. And Rowan spoke of his other. She meant Phillip, of course. And she was right.
But strangely, it was Brandon he thought of, and their strange kinship. He wanted to understand. It ate at him at times, that hunger to know. An itch on a phantom limb.
He reached for his wallet and sent Phillip a message. "I hope the Pope can break way soon."
A part of him wanted to get up and pace. The lethargy and ease that came with the room felt like it would pull him down into inaction.
Rowan's hands kneaded at his feet, the warmth of her soul yet another blanket. Strangely, the feel of her hands on his bare feet made him feel exposed, as if he was naked.
He looked at Valeriya, cocooned in her blankets, the tip of her nose red. A box of tissues was at the table next to her, along with a small rubbish bin already half filled. He had no doubt Rowan had been taking care of her. In truth, there was nothing much to do except provide liquids and for her to get plenty of rest. No flu shot he had gotten her- among all those he procured- could immunize against all the variants.
The frown on her face as she looked him over searchingly was replaced by a shiver. He smiled at her. He could guess what she had been looking for. It hadn't exactly slipped his mind. But neither did he take seriously the need to get items to counteract her "curse". A cold was a cold. If she had a bad reaction- if she got worse- it would be to the hospital he took her.
Between them, though, the churning in his mind lessened. Enough, anyway. Despite everything he'd experienced over the last year, control was not something he was still comfortable giving up. He didn't expect that to ever change.
But their words did give him some respite. "Forcing...yes. Well, that is true enough." He sighed, letting himself enjoy the feel Rowan's ministrations. After a moment, he decided to share. A bit, anyway. "For some reason, I feel we are running out of time. Like I can feel the breath of something on my neck."
He stared blankly into the flames of the fireplace. Finally, he spoke. "I don't know. I just feel it." He looked from Rowan to Valeriya. The Eyes. Twins. And Rowan spoke of his other. She meant Phillip, of course. And she was right.
But strangely, it was Brandon he thought of, and their strange kinship. He wanted to understand. It ate at him at times, that hunger to know. An itch on a phantom limb.
He reached for his wallet and sent Phillip a message. "I hope the Pope can break way soon."