11-20-2025, 06:04 PM
“I brought coffee, which is far superior to sympathy. Though I suppose I could probably be persuaded. Being as I do, in fact, quite like your hands.” She hadn’t let go of his jacket. Her gaze up at him was quiet. Often others read coldness in the paleness of her eyes, but it wasn’t their iciness which made her gaze so uncomfortable, it was how stripping they were when she was really looking. Humour aside, right now she was searching for honesty, in him and herself both. He looked exhausted to the soul. Since America it was never very deep from the surface, but tonight he seemed just about ready for his grave. Not to jump from the edge, just to float on down and finally rest.
Jay wasn’t looking to be saved. She saw that in his fragile weariness and the ghostly tumble of his shoulders, not to mention the swollen lump of his hand. Nor was he glad to see her, or maybe hadn’t even expected it, and that stung in a way she only let herself bury. She offered the shadow of a smile then, not in pity or comfort, just with the rawness of an emotion she wouldn’t name because it would break him. The thing was she’d rather bleed out than pull the hooks free, and by now she’d sort of made peace with the inevitable. That this was the man she’d follow to the ends of the earth whether he acknowledged her at his side or not. That this was the man who would break her heart. And not even because he meant to.
She hadn’t bothered to acknowledge Carter’s exit, or his rather charming insult (which might have made her smirk, in other circumstances). But she didn’t feel bad for the rudeness; it was the least of the tarnish he likely thought on her already, when he did finally dredge up the memory anyway, to the point she doubted he’d even notice a little extra incivility. If she was tired it didn’t show, but Natalie certainly felt it on the inside then. “An old friend who didn’t recall who I was, sure,” she answered. Jay’s brow was arched like he expected something else, and it felt remarkably like an accusation, but now that they had no audience the teasing slipped away from her manner. She said the rest plainly, not because it was owed, but because she was weary of her own pretence at levity. “My grandfather golfs with his father. Isobel was convinced she’d marry him one day, back when we were all kids. The guy probably has someone who irons his socks.”
It was easy thing to forget about Natalie, but her family was the dynasty which ruled a Dominance for more than two decades, and had held power in London for even longer. Edward Northbrook was one of the oldest and staunchest allies the Ascendancy had beyond Myshelov Tarasovich himself, so of course her childhood had seen her rub shoulders with the cornerstones of elite society back home. And the Volthströms were an unfortunate and unavoidable pillar of it.
“Hold still,” she added, not pausing to look for any dissonance in Jay’s impending realisation: that whatever the circumstances under which they had first met, they really did come from vastly different worlds. Instead she embraced the power, and worked slender threads into the fabric of his coat and deeper layers; drawing out the moisture, and sending in a soft hint of warmth instead. The former was a trick they’d both learned in Mexico, living from motel to car to motel while they’d chased down Amengual. She knew he knew how to do it too. She also knew that self-punishment or exhaustion or lack of care had left him sitting in a frozen puddle of his own misery for however long they’d kept him waiting. It was quite literally pooled on the pristine tiles beneath the chair he’d been slumped in.
Natalie was perfunctory with the kindness. She didn’t ask first, and she didn’t mention it after. She did briefly break her gaze from him to glance back at the triage desk though, and for a moment her jaw tightened – irritation or impatience, neither common for her to express. She prevaricated for a moment over making that promised scene, but turned back to him for a moment longer instead. The bag felt heavy on her shoulder, but it was the weight of all the things she ought to tell him which was heavier.
“I don’t need to know where you’ve been. Or with who. That’s not magnanimity on my part, by the way. And don’t give me that wounded look. It’s because I fucked up, Jay, and I really need you to be here.”
Confessions with Natalie were nearly always like that; swift, sometimes brutal, always raw. Her gaze was clear. She knew it wasn’t the best time, including the fact he was possibly still high as well as in pain, but the distance between them didn’t leave her untouched. She wasn’t afraid exactly, just alone. Jay peeked behind the veil from time to time, saw things in her she never intended him to. Every time it happened the revelation of it never failed to surprise her. But she’d never actually let him in. In return she never asked the same, left an intentional space around the demons he chose to carry closer than her. Maybe even now he would shut himself down further, but either way it told her where he stood: as an equal in the shitty mess she had landed them in, or as a responsibility she tugged along after her. Because she had no intention of letting go.
Jay wasn’t looking to be saved. She saw that in his fragile weariness and the ghostly tumble of his shoulders, not to mention the swollen lump of his hand. Nor was he glad to see her, or maybe hadn’t even expected it, and that stung in a way she only let herself bury. She offered the shadow of a smile then, not in pity or comfort, just with the rawness of an emotion she wouldn’t name because it would break him. The thing was she’d rather bleed out than pull the hooks free, and by now she’d sort of made peace with the inevitable. That this was the man she’d follow to the ends of the earth whether he acknowledged her at his side or not. That this was the man who would break her heart. And not even because he meant to.
She hadn’t bothered to acknowledge Carter’s exit, or his rather charming insult (which might have made her smirk, in other circumstances). But she didn’t feel bad for the rudeness; it was the least of the tarnish he likely thought on her already, when he did finally dredge up the memory anyway, to the point she doubted he’d even notice a little extra incivility. If she was tired it didn’t show, but Natalie certainly felt it on the inside then. “An old friend who didn’t recall who I was, sure,” she answered. Jay’s brow was arched like he expected something else, and it felt remarkably like an accusation, but now that they had no audience the teasing slipped away from her manner. She said the rest plainly, not because it was owed, but because she was weary of her own pretence at levity. “My grandfather golfs with his father. Isobel was convinced she’d marry him one day, back when we were all kids. The guy probably has someone who irons his socks.”
It was easy thing to forget about Natalie, but her family was the dynasty which ruled a Dominance for more than two decades, and had held power in London for even longer. Edward Northbrook was one of the oldest and staunchest allies the Ascendancy had beyond Myshelov Tarasovich himself, so of course her childhood had seen her rub shoulders with the cornerstones of elite society back home. And the Volthströms were an unfortunate and unavoidable pillar of it.
“Hold still,” she added, not pausing to look for any dissonance in Jay’s impending realisation: that whatever the circumstances under which they had first met, they really did come from vastly different worlds. Instead she embraced the power, and worked slender threads into the fabric of his coat and deeper layers; drawing out the moisture, and sending in a soft hint of warmth instead. The former was a trick they’d both learned in Mexico, living from motel to car to motel while they’d chased down Amengual. She knew he knew how to do it too. She also knew that self-punishment or exhaustion or lack of care had left him sitting in a frozen puddle of his own misery for however long they’d kept him waiting. It was quite literally pooled on the pristine tiles beneath the chair he’d been slumped in.
Natalie was perfunctory with the kindness. She didn’t ask first, and she didn’t mention it after. She did briefly break her gaze from him to glance back at the triage desk though, and for a moment her jaw tightened – irritation or impatience, neither common for her to express. She prevaricated for a moment over making that promised scene, but turned back to him for a moment longer instead. The bag felt heavy on her shoulder, but it was the weight of all the things she ought to tell him which was heavier.
“I don’t need to know where you’ve been. Or with who. That’s not magnanimity on my part, by the way. And don’t give me that wounded look. It’s because I fucked up, Jay, and I really need you to be here.”
Confessions with Natalie were nearly always like that; swift, sometimes brutal, always raw. Her gaze was clear. She knew it wasn’t the best time, including the fact he was possibly still high as well as in pain, but the distance between them didn’t leave her untouched. She wasn’t afraid exactly, just alone. Jay peeked behind the veil from time to time, saw things in her she never intended him to. Every time it happened the revelation of it never failed to surprise her. But she’d never actually let him in. In return she never asked the same, left an intentional space around the demons he chose to carry closer than her. Maybe even now he would shut himself down further, but either way it told her where he stood: as an equal in the shitty mess she had landed them in, or as a responsibility she tugged along after her. Because she had no intention of letting go.
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