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<Jesse Fforde> The last visit from Velveteen had been unsatisfactory. The time in the Shadow Realm had passed both quickly and slowly - sometimes it felt as if it were passing too fast, and at others, as if he were moving through molasses. As if he would never be free. As if it were a bog that would continue to suck him under and soon he’d not even be able to gasp for breath. Anxiety was one of Jesse’s more common foes while dead; it lingered at the back of his head and the bottom of his heart, wrapping inky tendrils around the organ that did not exist, not physically, anyway. But there was still a heaviness to his being, a tenseness to his soul which could only be attributed to one cause: Grey.

Although Jesse had asked several different people to take care of Grey while he was gone, he was anxious that his wishes had not been seen to. Velveteen had said that she had informed Grey of what had happened, but it hadn’t sounded as if Velveteen had seen her since. Although he knows he should have a little more faith, in his current mindset, he couldn’t. He was stuck, with no easy way of finding news from the outside, and without being able to talk to Grey himself, he didn’t know what to think, or what to expect. He knows her better than anyone else in the family; they might think she was fine, but Jesse has other ideas.

He had no idea how long it had been. He hadn’t even been aware of the chains that held him to the realm. All he knew, was that when those chains were dropped he suddenly felt lighter. He’d come and gone from the realm before. He knows how to traverse the land of the dead while remaining alive himself; he knows what it feels like, reaching for life and crawling back up into his body.

A lightness came over him. A feeling of freedom that he’d been bereft of for a week, without really knowing it. He knew, at that moment, that he was free to leave - Zoey had since left him to go seek more spirits, and he was alone - there was no reason for him to hang around. He was anxious, excited, and a little too impatient to get back to his woman.

The dull and dead atmosphere falls away. The shadows shimmer and drift and quake. There’s nothing miraculous about it, not really. It’s moving from one place to another. There’s no bright lights, no fanfare, no trumpets to welcome him back to the world of the living. Heavy silence falls away, to be replaced by a different kind of silence - a noisy kind of silence. Weightlessness is replaced by a weakness of limb, skin heavy and eyelids like stones. Jesse schools his senses as he blinks, only to be greeted with a very real kind of darkness, all light sealed off. He reminds himself where he is - he knows this is what would happen. The morgue. One of the drawers.

For a few long moments, maybe minutes, he lays there, unmoving. Only after he is certain that he is back in once piece does he try to move. It’s hard, as if all his bones are new; he’s fresh off the factory line and he has to break himself in again, make himself limber. He groans as his skin stretches; the voice is foreign in his throat and dislodges… something. He coughs, once, but then cannot stop. He rolls on the cold metal slap and continues to cough and hack; his head feels as if it’s got the blade of an axe cracked into his skull. Velveteen had said there’d be clothes waiting for him in a cupboard - Jesse does not expect anyone to be waiting for him. His body is flagging. He slumps where he is. He knows he’s got to find a way out of the drawer, but for the moment he has to try to gather some energy. He has no idea that he looks like a week-dead corpse, gaunt and slightly shrivelled. His head knocks against the metal slab a couple of times as he tries to will himself back to full strength, his throat burning, his entire body feeling as if it has been run over by a train.

<Grey> It has been a week. It has been a week without Jesse and Grey is torn. She feels excruciating pain in her chest. She feels as if she weighs a thousand pounds. Barely able to unfold her legs from their crunched position against her chest, Grey lifts her head. She is sitting in the closet. She is curled up inside the darkness and relishes the cool air and it's smells of their mixed clothing. Jesse's clothing, that is. It is here that she feels closest to him, her fingers numb from holding onto his phone for endless hours. She had showered before trying to sleep on the couch.

Every light in the apartment had been on, but Grey craved the darkness. She couldn't bring herself to go around and shut the lights off. So, she had just rose from the couch passing the empty glass from blood sitting on the coffee table, and curled into the corner. Before in Jesse's absence, the light had given her comfort. Now, she only wanted the peace it offered. She had slept with her hair wrapped up in a messy bun. The lengths would hold waves and kinks to her long tendrils. Velveteen had warned her that Jesse would be coming back soon.

Basically, the message had been a kick in her *** to get her act together. It was a nudge for her to drink when she cared not to hold herself on full or delve out a few hundred bucks every night to fill up the empty tanks. She didn't want to move. She didn't want to get up simply because it would be another morning without Jesse. But, in truth, Grey was proud of herself too. She had made it. She had survived a week without the man that had quickly become her world.

Jesse would be furious. He'd tell her to stop throwing her own pity party, she was sure. Swallowing painfully, she pushed herself up. Grey soon would attended to those typical waking activities like brushing her teeth and getting dressed. She had already left a note that she would be taking a couple days off at work. It would extend her weekend in order to shamelessly spend time with her lover.

There was no makeup upon her face. Though she had brushed her hair, she put it back up into the messy bun at the back of her head. She touched the new Industrial piercing in her left cartilage of her ear and managed to slide into a pair of bootcut, dark denim jeans. It paired well with a surprisingly stain free, black three-fourths sleeve t-shirt top that was rouched upon the sides. It hugged the curve of her hips, which she matched with a light, soft cotton jacket that had just hours ago been similar to the look underneath her overtired eyes.

She had regretfully gulped pints of blood upon waking. Though her lips had been pale, they slowly seemed to bleed color into themselves the more she drank. It was painful, the thought of drinking her breakfast. She started to be more and more repulsed by the blood she needed to survive. It didn't help that she had such a bitter run in with poisoned humans. The painful, stomach churning she encountered after meeting those dirty members caused her to steer away from all the sources of warm blood. The depression at the lack of Jesse's missing certainly hadn't helped her to try one more human. No. She just slapped $200 on the counter of the creepy contraband store and didn't ask any questions.

She gathered his clothes. She went to Jesse's closet and pulled out a pair of jeans, a belt, a shirt, a pair of socks with his boots. She stuffed most of it into her satchel. Though it would look odd walking into the morgue with a pair of boots, Grey didn't think about it at all. Jesse would be in those boots. He was coming back to her. The very thought had her hurrying out the door and into the elevator. It was all a blur once her feet hit the pavement upon the street and before she knew it, she was rushing through the doors of the morgue. She hadn't went inside but for a minute the night before. She hadn't opened any doors. She didn't want to see him beyond asleep or unrecognizable. Perhaps, in a moment, she could be called shallow. She wanted to remember him how he smiled at her. She wanted to see him with his eyes opened.

There, holding his boots to her chest and that olive green satchel stuffed with his clothes, his phone in her jean's pocket, she swallowed. She didn't call out. She didn't cry for him. Though tears blistered her eyes, she hastily set down the items on a nearby cold, clean steel table before she went to the chambers upon the walls. The coughing was coming from one of them. Wiping her palm upon the denim, she lifted it and started to pull her first guess out with a clink of the handle and a vibrating swoosh as the mechanism to hold the container into the wall was released. She continued to pull it out.

<Jesse Fforde> The silence is broken by the sound of footsteps outside; the clinking of something against metal. Jesse pauses, tense, eyes open and straining through the darkness, even as his ears strain to discern the different sounds. What is this morgue, anyway? He knows that it belong to Velveteen, but is she just the landlord? Is it actually in use by morticians, or funeral directors and their lackeys? Is he about to give someone a heart attack - a cadaver alive when it shouldn’t be? Should he have been quiet?

Maybe it’s one of the others. Maybe it’s Reanna or Zoey, having returned before him? There’s a draught of air and he knows that he is stark naked; he knew to expect it. Outside, the sound that he can hear is of boots against hard ground. But why not? Zoey and Reanna probably had clothes waiting for them, too, including boots. He’d have assumed that Micah would have been there to collect Zoey. So maybe it’s not Zoey at all, but Micah.

All these thoughts rush through Jesse’s brain in the mere seconds it takes for those footsteps to reach his draw. For the click and whoosh that would alert him to the drawer being pulled open. Motion catches hold and he is caught off guard. He isn’t prepared for the brightness; the world outside. The lights sear into his vision and he hisses, groans, pulling his thinner-than-usual arms up to try to block some of the light. Bright blues narrow to slits as he tries to assess his surroundings; quick to defend himself against some frightened human.

But he can’t hear any heartbeat. He can’t smell the hot, delicious scent of fresh human blood, beating beneath pliable, warm human skin. What he can smell, however, as he sucks in actual, honest-to-god air, is all too familiar to him. The same soap. The same shampoo. A scent of home; of love. He sighs, he breathes out.

“Grey?” he asks, voice cracking so that the name is barely discernable. There’s a sharp sting on his lip where the skin cracks; he can taste his own blood. When he licks his lips, they feel strange - they aren’t as full as they should be. His gums feel tight, his teeth ache. Fangs are elongated, and he can’t get them to recede. Not just yet. He swallows, his own physical form still not registering. “Grey, is that you…?” he asks, still trying to make out the shapes beyond the sudden brightness of life.

<Grey> The body inside the drawer was recognizable. It was painfully recognizable. It was the ink on his chest and his arms. Those gaunt looking arms. The painfully exposed ribs that were protruding from his thin looking skin. The ink that decorated his flesh was bright against the pale flesh, but it was not well defined given the elasticity that was significantly lacking. Wanting to reach out, her fingers just briefly hovered over his side. She didn't know if it would hurt to touch him. She didn't know how sensitive his body would be. Her breath hitched and she bit down upon her lips, her teeth sinking into her inner cheeks and locking onto a hold there.

Her fingernails weren't painted. The black polish had chipped off through the week and left her hands looking plain and uninjured given her last bloody day in the shop. He looked so frail. He looked so painfully alive. Tears came now. They were silent and without any ghastly sobbing. No, as she leaned over the table and helped to drown out the overhead light, she leaned down enough to drop a soft kiss against the back of his palm. Her flyaways would rush down, ticking against his wrist and letting him know that she was there.

Though she tried to keep the kiss to his palm light, she couldn't keep from touching more of him. Her hands shook, and she gently laid her other palm against the top of his head. It was a loving touch. It was a soft welcome back into the world of the undead once more. She shadowed him from the light. She smiled ever so lightly. "Jesse." She said his name with a soft caress of her tongue. Her cheeks dripped upon the man. The tears splashed down over his skin. They dripped and fell onto his own cheeks, his hand, his arms. As they came down, he would feel that gentle caress of his flesh, that energy that wrapped around his person and his known abilities as she couldn't help but to Inspire him as she combed her fingers down over his thin flesh.

"I love you," she whispered into his ear, her lips caressed his earlobe lightly. Her warm breath rushed over his skin. Her hands shook as she massaged that paper thin flesh of his in a manner as if she were terrified to touch him, but she couldn't help herself.

<Jesse Fforde> His guess is confirmed. Why is it that he didn’t expect Grey to be waiting for him? Why shouldn’t it be her? Perhaps because he himself has not viewed his own death as anything significant. He doesn’t think that anybody should be mourning, because this death isn’t real death. He doesn’t think that it’s worth a welcome home committee. As Grey leans over him, as the tips of her hair tickle his skin, as her salty tears drip down over him like welcome rain, he smiles. His eyes flutter closed as he reaches around, hand behind Grey’s neck, wanting only to pull her into a bone-shattering hug but unable to do so from his current position. As he lays there, still recovering, and submitting himself to the full-bodied relief at hearing her, seeing her, touching her, he compares this homecoming to an ordinary one.

What if he’d just gone on a business trip for a week? It’s not unreasonable to expect his other half, his lover, his loved one, to be waiting for him to step off the plane. Right? This may as well be the aiport. This is the transit lounge. And there’s no one else around because there’s no way he can focus on anything else but the feel of her. The flood of painful warmth that drowns him as she utters those words. And he can feel it, too - the extra strength, the magical heat that inspires him to move. To push himself up into a seated position, to swing his legs over the edge of the metal slab, still so cold against his cold skin.

In the minute or more of gentle welcome, of wakefulness, his eyes had slowly started to adjust to the light. And it’s only now, as he’s sitting upright - dizzy and still with a pounding headache - that he can see himself. Now that the light isn’t shining directly in his eyes, now that he is shadowed, somewhat, by Grey’s proximity, he can blink his vision into being. And what he sees might have had his heart stopping in his chest, if he had one.

His body goes tense and he gentle nudges Grey away. From what he can see of his legs, he looks like a paraplegic; as if he’s been paralysed from the waist down and hasn’t used his legs for years. His muscles succumbing to atrophy, his skin clinging to bones. He holds out his hands; it’s the same thing. Bones show through skin, and the ink is stark against skin so white it could almost be blue. He trembles.

“**** me…” he murmurs. It’s not a demand. It’s a statement of shock. Of horror, maybe. No wonder he feels so ******* weak. Like some old man not fit for living. His hands go to his chest, chin tucked into his neck as he looks down; his stomach is caved in, his ribcage poking through the skin. When he laughs, it’s slightly hysterical. He turns his gaze to Grey.

“... I think I’m undercooked…” he says. He’s trying to make light of the situation but his voice trembles. Surely, this isn’t going to be permanent?

<Grey> His ice cold touch to her body is welcomed relief. His touch. Her breath is held and her chest quakes. Her shoulders shake. She restrains herself from the viscous, bone crunching hug that she had wanted to lay upon him. She would crush him. She would break the man laying upon the steel table like a twig. She cannot stop stroking her fingers against his papery thin skin. With each gentle touch, there is barely the return of any elasticity. It had been a week. A very painful week. She couldn't help her tears. Though Grey had a conversation with herself all week long that she would not douse Jesse with the tears that no one else was privy too, she swallowed down the next string of them.

"Careful," She whispered to him gently. It was a soft chastisizing of his frail body as he pulled himself up to sit over the side of that skinny, cold table. It clanked precariously, groaning under the weight of the contents that shifted upon it's steel track. Most members of the drawers obviously did not cause any kinetic disturbances. As she steps back, her hand automatically goes out to steady him incase his thin bones topple too much to one side. But, seeing as he stares down at his own legs, she moves over from his naked form and steps back. She lets him take a moment to assess his own body.

"I think you are undercooked. It is okay. A few blood packs, some sleep, and a night in your own bed and you will be right as rain." Though she could lie through her teeth, Grey tried to believe what she said now. He was awake. He was speaking to her. He hadn't reverted to his mute state. He hadn't awoken and asked who she was. Her worst nightmare had been dashed away when he said her name. She gave him a smile as she came back to his side. She didn't reach out and touch him. No, she stood there holding the shirt of his that she had brought from home.

"Are you hungry? I have some blood if you want to drink." She could see the shock that was crossing over his face. She could see the disbelief and she tried to keep her eyes from welling up again. So she sucked down a deep breath and started unpacking the items of her satchel at the end of the table he sat at.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse wants to believe it, too. He chooses to, in that moment - because there’s not much else to be done but to look forward, to think of the things that he wants and that he needs and strive for them, and thus regain some normalcy. What he really wants is to reach out and pull Grey close, to smother her with kisses and touch every single curve of her body. As his tongue again slides out over his lips, however, he can feel how cracked and broken they are. How must his face look? How sunken his eyes, how garish his teeth? How hollow his cheeks? No, he won’t kiss her. Not like this. Frustration kindles, but he tries to push it aside. Time. Give it some time.

He is hungry, yes. He’s always hungry. As he reaches for the shirt and hastily pulls it over his upper body - wanting to hide from Grey like a recently shaved cat wants to hide in shame from the world - he groans. She says she has blood, but the thought of drinking from a pack has him sagging in disappointment. What he wants, what he feels he needs is blood straight from the source. Maybe both. He can already feel some of his strength returning as he slides from the slab and stands. Bones crack as he straightens, as he stretches his arms up over his head. There are nuances to his thirst. When he’s injured, when he’s lost blood and knows he needs to replenish, it’s more urgent. He can feel in his bones. But now, the thirst he feels is just the same kind he usually feels - the constant itch, the burn that is perhaps only increased because of his own psychological state. And because he has not tasted blood for a week. He needs it, if only just to satisfy that one addiction.

As the items of clothing are passed to him, he dons them, one by one. The belt needs to be pulled tighter than usual, and the clothes hang from him as if a size too large. The fabric itches against his skin and he knows he wants blood. But how will Grey react?

“I need… hot blood,” he says, carefully. He doesn’t want to leave her. That’s the last thing in the world he wants to do - but now that he’s dressed he feels the distinct urge to go outside and do what he does best - hunt. “Do you… will you come with me?” he asks. She can go home, if she wants. She can wait for him there - because he can see, looking at her, that she is fed. Her skin, her cheeks blushed with pink, her eyes bright, her lips full - oh, how he wants to crush those lips with his own. But he refrains. He bites the inside of his cheek, his head bowed in shame, though his eyes open and inquisitive.

<Grey> She knows that the man who rustles with his clothes also rustles with his identity. It is hindered at the moment. It is stolen from him as he had slept in death's arms. She can feel his disappointment. His frustration is palpable. She wants nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and pull him close. She wants to reassure him, to kiss his cheek and his pencil thin lips and hold him close as he comes around to the beautiful facade of the unliving. As he dresses, she looks at him. She looks at him until he is covered by his clothes and she reaches for his boots.

"Okay, Jesse. Okay." She gives him a smile. She feels no shame for him. She feels no disappointment. Her smile to him, though slightly sad, is loving. She reaches out and cups his cheek. Her thumb runs over the bone of his gaunt cheek. His skin is so pale, the blue-gray hue atop of white is slightly concerning. The jaw so prominent that the man looks starved and the fangs pushing out his lips truly has him, in that moment, looking like a monster of the night.

"I will come with you. I will go anywhere with you, Jesse." She licked her lower lip and would squat down before him. As the clothes hung upon his person, she would help him lace up his boots and pull the denim over the tops. She didn't even flinch at helping him. She didn't even assume that he would find his way home okay. It wasn't even a question in her mind if she would go to the morgue. She had to. She needed to. Seeing him in this state made her all the more determined to be strong for him. She would be the crutch that he leaned on if he so needed it.

She was not turning a blind eye to him. She was supporting him. She would help him in any way he needed. If she had to capture a human and hold them for him to sink his teeth into their neck and feast upon the screaming, squirming human - she would hold them for him. "Come on. Let's get you a hot blonde." She teased him, her long hair remains ever so upright and coiled into the typical messy bun. The brunette had to force herself to drink. She had to choke down that blood and half of it came up to greet her unused stomach again. Or else, she was pretty sure she would half match his sunken cheek appearance.

"I drank before coming to you. Micah said I looked like ****. But I think you have even me topped right now, darling." She reached down and curled her fingers around his hand. Once he'd look up to her, she'd lean in and peck a kiss to his cheek before tugging him ever so gently towards the door of the morgue.

<Jesse Fforde> There could have been shame in allowing Grey to help him into his boots, but there isn’t. He leans back against the steel slab of the morgue drawer as he lifts one foot, and then the other, and waits for each boot to be laced. He remembers the last time he’d been sick as a human. Dog sick, bed-ridden with fever, having thrown up all the contents of his stomach, and then some. He remembers how, after three or four days of eating nothing, his body would ache with smallest actions. Just to climb one set of stairs would have all his limbs gasping with the effort. That’s what he feels like, now - as if the last week he hasn’t been dead, but just sick. And now comes the days of climbing, of rebuilding and gaining back his strength.

And there’s no shame with Grey because he has given everything to her. She has seen past the barriers that he erects for everyone else. Whenever he walks into her arms, the blanket drops and he is only himself; and will only ever be himself. If anything, he would have no one else greet him like this. He would allow no one else to help him.

He grunts as she suggests that they find him a hot blonde. Little does she know that’s exactly how he’d created Felicity; a hot blonde whom he’d stalked and fed from, and decided on a whim to feed his blood back to. He sighs when Grey kisses his cheek; she does not kiss his lips, but the simple touch is a soothing balm. He followed behind his lover, lingering close for a second or two only to breathe in the scent of her hair. His free hand reaches up to curl through the silky smoothness, but he lets it drop once he is witness to the bony knuckles and shrivelled skin.

As they exit the morgue, someone enters - a warm someone, but someone familiar. A blonde, who he’s seen around the Eyrie, and in hunts. A silent presence, almost, and if not silent, then background noise - Bunny. Micah’s thrall. She has in her hands a bundle of clothes and Jesse can only manage a frown and a nod of greeting before the girl has passed, and he is distracted by the feeling of fresh air upon old (or new?) skin.

“I don’t care who. Anyone. And then home. Okay?” he said. He’d have to check in with the Eyrie at some point to let them all know that he’d returned, but at this point, all he wanted was his physical pleasures - the physical things that he had been deprived of for a whole week. Outside, the air is crisp and Jesse gulps it in, lifting his face to the sky momentarily as he bathes in the moonlight. The real breeze, the beauty of it as it tickles his skin. His fingers close a little tighter around Grey’s palm. Oh, how good it is to be alive!

<Grey> He looked so weak. She was not used to seeing him in a manner of anything beyond the strong man she had grown accustomed to in the past months. Her eyes traveled to his face, smiling quietly to herself. It was a small smile. It was only slightly sad. It was only slightly pleasing since she had been back within his grip. There was so much to say to him. There was so much to tell him. And yet, everything could wait. She waited for him.

Grey's mind was going a mile a minute. Though she looked calm on the outside, everything was churning on the inside. The olive green satchel was bumping it's nearly empty self at her hip. Her hand didn't stop holding her lover's hand. No, she kept a tight clasp upon him. His fingers were still long, thin, and cool. Now, they just seemed bony within her grip and she held him yet. "Oh, how about a pretty redhead then? You can't have a brunette. You already have one of those." She tossed a smile over her shoulder.

As they walk through the morgue's exit, she becomes even more guarded. She stays close to Jesse in a manner of protecting the man she loves. The woman that came charging through the exit did not surprise her. But, with those clothes in her arms, Grey figured it to be another faction member getting picked up. With feeding, Grey knows soon as Jesse's predatorial instincts take over, he will be off and sinking his fangs deep into someone's neck. She thought about the need. The blood that would be warm within his proverbial belly. Her stomach clenched and she'd fall into step beside him. "Yes, Jesse. Home. We will go home when you are ready."

She looked out and around upon the street. She could see his profile as he basked in the pleasure of the night. Love. She loved him. She wouldn't expect anything less or anything more. Beside him, she looked for potential snacks. Potential breakfast. Potential dinner. She knew he would have his fill and then succumb to sleep. It was exhausting building up one's strength. When he would let go of her hand, she would open her palm so he could drink his fill.

<Jesse Fforde> “Or maybe him,” Jesse says, gesturing toward a lone figure sauntering toward the park, having just exited the Drunk Wicker Tavern. It’s a quieter part of Wickbridge, for which he could be thankful. No one really pays any attention to the two people who’ve just exited the morgue. Although Grey had taken the lead to begin with, Jesse takes the lead now; her hands still in his, he stalks ahead, slipping into shadows of the small park - not even a park, really, but a wide grassy area between one street and the next. The human has paused to pull a packet of smokes from his pocket, and to light a cigarette out of the breeze, cupping the flame so that it can hold long enough to light the tip.

The flare of the orange spark in the depths of the night ignite a flame inside of Jesse. Fire, heat, blood, passion - these things urge him on. He releases Grey’s hand at a distance; she doesn’t have to watch, if she doesn’t want to. This is a part of who he is, who they are, and he will not be ashamed of needing this, and of not caring when the body should fall dead at his feet.

There’s no playing with his food. Jesse strides toward his prey. One hand on the man’s shoulder, he turns him roughly and plucks the cigarette from his lips, tossing it aside. He looks to be perhaps in his early thirties, dressed in jeans and plaid, a vest and a trucker’s hat. Probably a trucker himself, taking a break before continuing on his way. Glancing toward the street toward which the man had been headed, Jesses sees it - a large lorrie, unmarked. Freelance, perhaps, paid to truck goods from one state to the next. Maybe he won’t be missed, then. Jesse doesn’t care. There’s surprise in the man’s eyes and a thumping beat to his heart. And Jesse can’t resist.

He covers the trucker’s mouth with his hand as he wrenches his head aside; elongated fangs sink deep into the skin, hot blood gushing from the wound. Jesse groans his utter pleasure, gasping and swallowing, heedless of the man’s struggles and his muffled cries. He drinks, and feels the warmth spread through his limbs. This is the air to his lungs. He does not stop until the heart is near still; and when he pulls away, there is no spilled blood. None. He breaks the human’s neck, just to be on the safe side, after watching the wounds disappear.

After he’s done, he drags the body over and into an overgrown hedge. Hidden, well enough. Only then does he turn back to try to find Grey, boots crunching in the loose gravel as he makes his way back to the path.

<Grey> Her eyes lift to see the man crossing the street. She hadn't figured al the people that would be out late on a weekend night. She should have, really. It was careless of her to just assume that people would come and go all around the morgue and not think that there was other business going on around it. As she watched the man cup his hand to protect the flame, she knew that Jesse's instincts had skyrocketed into a need so brutal that nothing could stop him now. She watched, crossing the way and stepping feet upon the soft pelt of grass.

She watches as any avid voyeur would. She knows that this is what he does. This is what he excels at. He has been doing this for a while, and though he invited her, even at his weak point she does not need to assist him. This is ingrained within him now. Even in his frail state, his grace is beautiful and flawless in a rough, demanding manner. Grey doesn't feed. She doesn't need to feed. She doesn't plan on feeding for a while. The extra blood packets shall go into the refrigerator when she goes home with her man and she plans on curling up with him upon their bed.

She can hear the gruff sound of the man's startled voice, the gurgle that is not Jesse's fill the last of the air before the thud is soft into the bushes and small shrubbery amid the island shudders from the deposit. The greenery is certainly a high enough curtain that will undoubtedly hide someone for a short time being. Her eyes lift to see Jesse emerging from the tiny thatch of forrest. She refuses to leave his side for a long time. Already, she can see that the blood has rushed to his face and his cheeks no longer look terribly gaunt. His complexion is divided into an ashy blue and the colors of his ink work done upon his neck and face are more decipherable.

Home. Relief swells up inside of her. He may want a shower. He may want the bed. Anything he needs, she can do for him. "More blood, Jesse? Would you like to check on any family tonight? I know you are tired, but if you care to go visit any of your family, please let me know. Or I can invite them over the apartment?" Concern. Love. Care. Her words were soft and wrapped up with those thoughts all for him. She would do what she needed to to make him happy and comfortable.

<Jesse Fforde> It’s as if, in feeding, Jesse again realises who he is. The change was never something that he struggled with; it was something that he embraced. The way he killed without care, the way he fed as if he were entitled to it, somehow these are things that had always existed inside of him, and which were only allowed to flourish after being turned into a creature of the night. Strength returns to him, not only in body but in mind. This is his Grey; the woman to whom he has pledged his heart and his forever, and who has echoed his sentiments. He’d wanted to hide from her in shame, but in that moment, as the space again closes between them, he wonders whether she cares. Does it matter what he looks like? He knows that if their roles had been reversed, he would not cringe away. He would not be afraid to look or to touch because underneath, she is still his Grey - the tender woman who is both timid and confident; who is quiet but who has a lashing tongue. Independent and yet, sometimes, so completely vulnerable.

There’s love in her eyes as she offers all the things that he might need or want; she mentions the family and he knows that he should, but they have lived so long without him anyway. Andras has lived apart from him and they do need him straight away. And Fforde? They’ll be fine, at least for the rest of the night. Tomorrow, he’d go see whoever needed to be seen. For now, he just shakes his head and wraps his arms around his lover.

They should leave the little grassy area. They should leave the scene of the crime - but nobody had seen, and the body isn’t going to suddenly announce itself, hidden over in the bushes. It’s only now that Jesse’s eyes cloud. He doesn’t want anyone coming over to the apartment because the apartment is theirs. Larch Court is for the family. The apartment is where he wants to whisk Grey away to. But he doesn’t say any of this, doesn’t need to.

“Just you, Grey. And home,” he says, knowing she’ll know that ‘home’ means Veil Towers. “How are you? Are you okay? What have you been doing?” he asks, lifting a finger to trace a line under Grey’s jaw. She’d mentioned Micah, which put Jesse at ease, some of his previous agitation shucked away like dead skin. His gaze caught Grey’s, and did not look away.

<Grey> Once he was within her reach, she pulled him closer. Where her grip would have tugged flesh and clothes close to her, her fists now wrapped in fabric. Even after seeing him tearing into the unknowing human's throat, she was never turned off. She felt compassion for the loss of the human's body, but she felt pride that her lover was able to eat. The emotions were swirling. Like a homemade popcorn maker, the kernels of all her fear and her anger and her relief were swirling upwards, climbing the vertical tower of her throat ready to release themselves upon the air between them.

His skin had begun to regain a few ounces of elasticity and upon his own neck the ink marks were a little more distinguishable. His eyes are what drew her in. His precious, beautiful eyes that clutched and called to her soul. "Jesse." She gasped out, her voice loaded with emotions to drown a fishing boat in a tidal storm amidst hurricane season. As he tells her that he wants to go home, she leaned in. She wrapped her arms around him and clung her hands upon his back. He was in her arms. He was home. They would be going home.

For now, the questions that he asked seemed to anchor her against him. She pressed herself to his slim chest and she could comment on how terribly he filled out those skinny jeans and how work was the same as ever. She could tell him that Velveteen told her he wouldn't be home and how Every had visited, chastisizing her quietly for not feeding. She could tell him that the woman had infused him with blood, much the same as Jesse had most nights. But, instead, she peeled herself back from him only enough to take out something from her right pocket.

"Waiting for you to come back to me." She dipped her chin to his touch. The breeze caught and played with the tendrils that had worked free of her updo. As she pulled the phone out, her knuckles were white around what she had been holding onto for him. And with an unneeded deep breath that only nudged her chest against his, she spoke softly as she continued to look into his beautiful eyes and over his face as she handed over the phone - still clutching it. "I... Have.... This is yours."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse has a feeling that he’s not going to get a full answer out of Grey. Waiting for him to come home? That gives just one small iota of an answer; one small thing that she’s been doing, but not how she has been. He does not take it very well, imagining that Grey has done nothing but wait. Sitting somewhere, alone, doing nothing, just as he has been doing nothing. The frown tugs at the corners of his lips; the breeze dances through her hair and she is beautiful, in the moonlight, in the dimness of the lights bathing them from the streets. His heart aches in his chest - yes, aches, the sweet physicality of it. He yearns to slip inside of her head, to figure out exactly what’s going on in there.

Though his fingers close around the phone in Grey’s fingers, he doesn’t look at the thing. He holds the phone, and Grey’s fingers between his fingers as he leans down and brushes a kiss along the line of her cheekbone. Still, he does not touch a kiss to her lips. His own are still too thin, unsatisfactory. Even though his muscles don’t ache as much as they were, and the jeans feel less loose around his hips, he knows he’s still emaciated. The pressure of feeling in the one utterance of his name is not lost on him. He wants to smooth the hair out of her eyes and he wants to question her, incessantly. But he doesn’t, not just yet.

When he pulls away, he presses the button to light his phone. The background is a picture of himself and Grey - a soft touch, but he doesn’t care. Other than that, there are no other missed calls or messages, so he tucks the phone into his own pocket and ignores it, for the time being.

“I’m home now. No more waiting. So let’s go home,” he says. He still doesn’t think that Grey has told him everything. Once they’re inside, though, and comfortable, he might urge her to open up. Just this once. He needs to soothe her, should this happen again. As it might, as it could. One week in the fade isn’t going to stop him from stepping up again, should it be required of him.

Jesse takes hold of Grey’s hand, fingers curling around hers, urging her toward home. It’s not too far away, and the walk will do him good.

<Grey> The woman in his arms had done well this long, she wasn't feeling so very sure of herself now. With a deep breath, she tried to tell herself that it was important to remain strong for him. She needed to see that he would gain his strength once again. How foolish would it have been for him to just appear out of thin air and suffer no consequences of sleeping in Death's horrid grip. She managed to try and calm herself down, the fully popped emotions gasped from her lips in the sweet, but slightly tortured call of his name.

She wanted to assure him that she was okay. She was fine. She had, after all, not spent a week in the Shadow Realm. She didn't have the power to visit him. She didn't have the power to speak with him. She was incredibly obtuse about so many of the practices of their kind that she felt incredibly dense. The feeling of his thin lips against her cheek is so foreign. The feeling is odd, yet it is completely him. Grey had been so torn up over the issues at hand that she lingered once more against her lover's touch.

"Home." She repeats this because she fears she has nothing else to say to him. Nothing else matters, does it? She curls her fingers around his hand. Her own digits are cool, but the warmth between them is enough to perhaps understand that love can indeed have a warm spark. She wanted to hold him in her arms. She wanted to tell him that Velveteen and Every did their best. It is hard to talk to some one whom you know is grieving.

It wasn't long before she walked in step beside him. She opened the front doors of the tower and let him inside. The elevator was thankfully empty upon the ground floor and she stepped forward to press the number 7 button. "If you need anything, Jesse, just tell me. Please. I will give that to you if it within my ability." Even in the elevator, she didn't let go of his hand.

<Jesse Fforde> They don’t have to talk as they walk home. They could have taken the train, from Wickbridge to Swansdale, but it would have only been one stop. While they walk, he wraps his arm around Grey’s waist; their legs move in synch, so that should anyone be watching from across the street, they’d look like one entity. Two souls, moving with one purpose.

They get into the elevator and Jesse finds himself searching out the number over the door, willing it toward seven, feeling as if it is taking an age when it’s only taking mere seconds. Grey’s soft voice breaks the humming pattern of the machinery as it lurches upwards, and Jesse can only sigh, and laugh. A breath-like laugh as his head rolls on his shoulders so that he can look down at his beautiful stray, his lovely Dove.

“No, Grey. I don’t need anything but you. And rest,” here he laughs again. At least the pounding in his head had subsided as he continued to breathe fresh air, as the recently consumed blood fills his body and slowly coils into every extremity. He finds it amusing that he should request rest when he’s been gone for a week. He should be nothing but robust and energetic. But his body is still weak and it needs time to return to its former vibrancy. He nuzzles his cheek against Grey’s, eyes closing, feeling unbalanced for a moment, his weight leaning against hers.

But then, the bell dings, and the doors swish open. If they were human, their hands would be clammy. But they’re not. He still holds tight as he moves them out the doors, down the hall - he reaches into his pocket for his keys, out of habit, but his pocket is empty. He sighs and leans against the door frame, bright eyes following Grey’s every movement, lips curling up in a light smile - she’ll need to let them in.

<Grey> Soundlessly, she walks with Jesse. She enjoys the call of the city, the far away blast of a taxi' shorn, the wolf whistle and laughter grows faint the more streets they pass. It is an experience unbeknownst to her how calming Jesse's presence is in that moment. She can just feel things inside of her fall quiet when they were once raging waves of aggression and emotion. Micah had hinted at her pain. He had spoke that there was no need to hide her anger. And, perhaps, to her own thoughts, Grey wasn't hiding her anger. She merely saw no need to display it.

Along side Jesse, she had not been able to take her eyes off of him. Especially within the elevator, in that muted and yet bright light; she didn't take her eyes off of him. To see his laugh ws one thing. It transformed his face. It crinkled the skin at the corner of his eyes even more. It took her proverbial breath away to see him smile in that laughter - even if it was just for a moment. "I promise that you have me, Jesse."

She withdrew the keys from her pocket. The jingle was quiet and calm. She inserted them into the door, turning and twisting to release the locks. She pushed the door open, letting him in first. The apartment was crisp and clean. It smelled like home. It smelled like her. It smelled like him. She reached for his hand, tugging him over the threshold. She had cleaned up her loot, storing it away for a temporary time being upon the small kitchen table.

She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to do. So, in that next moment she turned to him. He could see it in her eyes. The calm sea of blue the relief. The smile m"welcome home, Jesse."

<Jesse Fforde> Home. The door clicks shut behind them, sealing them in. The walls are thick, and the sound from outside is gone completely. There’s no sound in the apartment aside from the rustle of their clothes as they move, the gentle hum and tick of the refrigerator, and nothing more. There’s no hint that Grey did nothing while he was gone; there’s no pillow fort in front of the fire, no blankets askew, no random objects scattered around the bench tops. It’s clean, like it almost always is, unless the two of them decide to make a mess. The hole he’d made in the wall two weeks ago had been fixed, the broken lamp replaced. There’s nothing left to indicate that he’d had a mild breakdown of temper.

Knowing Grey, the sheets will be clean, the pillows primed and plumped.He can already feel the cool crispness of the sheets against his skin; the smoothness of Grey’s skin against his own, warm in comparison to the sheets. He can’t even be bothered to shower; he doesn’t feel dirty. He’s done nothing to make himself dirty. One feed, one walk home in clothes that are already clean. As much as the realm didn’t bother him, as much as he may have relaxed while dead - as much as he could - this is something that he hadn’t been prepared for. How relieved he would be to be home.

“C’mon,” he says, taking Grey’s hand and leading her through to the bedroom. When he reaches the bed he releases his hold on Grey and falls into the welcoming softness. The groan of pleasure crawls from the rawness of his throat. There he lays, content for the moment to remain fully clothed, his boots hanging off the edge of the bed. He pats the space beside him, blue eyes seeking out his lover.

“Come talk to me,” he urges, before reaching for the head of the bed and one of the soft pillows, to wrench it down and stuff it beneath his head. He almost sighs, at how heavenly it feels to be so comfortable. Now all he needs is his Grey, curled up against him, and he’ll be complete.

<Grey> Grey cannot help but turn around once she is inside with Jesse. She reaches past him to flip the deadbolt lock. She knows that it gave her a lot of comfort earlier, in her moments as a human. Now, it gives Grey a thread of string to hold tight to. That is, as if anything were to happen that lock would give her the briefest of warnings that something vile would be happening. Home invasions of course were not pretty things. Fear may have been seen for a split second. However, by the next time her eyes blinked the calm of the storm had washed once more over her.

It was not awkward between them. It was really only awkward when one of them wanted to talk and the other didn't. Their form of communications were diverse and mostly banked in the muted, if not purely physical responses. Taking a deep breath, she started after him as he towed her along. So, as they came through the living room to that wide open bedroom, she could sense those emotions beginning to swell within her again. Just as she had wrangled them into submission upon the walk home, they started to nip at her heels and rear their painful, control shredding heads once more.

As Jesse threw himself downs upon the fresh, charcoal gray colored sheets, the newness of the fabric and the just from the package scent would waft up around the man. There was no way that he would know she had put them on the bed... A week ago in hopes to have broken them in by now. At his urging, she simply bowed her head and started unlacing his boots. She would be damned if those ended up on her new sheets. Again, she thinks nothing about taking care of him. The act in itself is instinctual - taking care of him in a manner in which he would of her if she was too tired or too pained to perform an act.

Hell, the man had picked her up inside the Wickbridge bank one night after being fed upon because she was human. That had been a long night. That had been quite a lesson. Those bright blue eyes in the dimness of the room fell upon Jesse's lithe form. Just standing next to him at the side of the bed and looking down upon him was a brutal kick to the chest. He was home. Home. She kicked her own shoes off and inhaled deeply. It was an act as if she had joined him a hundred times in that bed. "What do you want to talk about?"

It took her only a moment to peel out of her familiar, always with her satchel. Barefoot, she climbed into bed. She crawled, curling up around Jesse's right side, splaying one hand against his chest while her right leg lifted to cross over his thighs. Content? No... Not yet. She needed to hold onto him for a while. Closing her eyes, she was very much awake. Her cheek came down against his shoulder as she hoped the sealed lids would stop the tears from coming.

<Jesse Fforde> There should be desire. There should be fiery passion that bears no comparison to the fire and brimstone of hell. At least, in the long hours in the darkness of the Shadow Realm, Jesse had imagined ten million different ways that his reunion with Grey might occur. Would she be angry? Would she be alone and broken somewhere in a corner? It doesn’t matter how he imagined he might find her, the thoughts always veered toward the passion. The fearsome clap of their two bodies coming back together, like thunder and lightning - a force of nature not to be contended with. And yet, he had had imagined tenderness, too. He had imagined this, slow caresses and gentle touch, as if it was again the first time they had ever encountered each other.

Because, in all his imaginings he had assumed that he would know exactly what Grey was thinking, or what she had been through. That she would let him know - but she hasn’t. The way the night has unfolded thus far, there has been no sharing of emotion on her behalf - not much on his, either. The shock that his own body had provided him had marred any kind of passionate embrace - though he knows there’s always time. Concern sits like a heavy stone in his heart as he watches Grey; as she unlaces his boots, as she removes both his shoes and her own. As she finally crawls onto the bed beside him, her familiar form curling into his like two pieces of a puzzle that have sat together so long that the friction has rendered them immovable - unable to fit with any other piece but each other.

Grey has shown only concern for Jesse. Yes, he has seen the relief in her eyes, the happiness, even, but there’s something not quite right. As if there’s tension - she’s a can of a softdrink that’s been left in the freezer for two long, and if she’s not given some release soon, she might burst. Yes, that’s it. Something on the surface, something he can’t quite put his finger on - but he feels like he knows her well enough at this point to know there’s something she hasn’t said, something she has not expressed.

“You,” he says, dipping his chin and closing his eyes as he breathes in the scent of her hair. His arm wraps around her waist, fingers slinking beneath her shirt to settle against bare skin. The other hand lays over hers, as her fingers splay across his chest.

“I want to talk about you, Grey, and how you’re really doing,” he murmurs.

<Grey> The woman that was laying against his side was so complicated, she looked simple. She tried to be simple. If she were any more complicated, she would crack underneath the pressure of trying to make a normal exterior. Grey was a woman with a complicated, painful past. She had been on the run for so many years. At first, she ran just to get away from a forsaken, seedy life. Then, she ran because she was free to do whatever she had pleased. She didn't answer to anyone. She didn't need to make connections. She had learned what would make a decent roof over her head one night and a safe place the next. Sure, there were shelters, but Grey had mostly lived in parks and pass ways that provided just a bit of stability.

She had hid. She hid a lot. She was good at taking a bad situation and recoiling from it. She could be standing there, looking at someone, and be a million miles away in her mind. She could take the hits, the vicious kicks, the brutal and nasty names, and she wouldn't even mentally be in the same room with her attacker. In a way, she wasn't even in the same room with Velveteen when she had told her Jesse was dead. She hadn't even been on the same street when Every had smiled at her and introduced herself. Those conversations were hard. Micah even was a blur to her memory. He deserved a release of his anger that she couldn't even fathom what to do to drain him of it.

With a deep breath, her eyes narrowed. Of course, the crystal blue eyes were open now. The wetness was leaking over the bridge of her nose. That single drop that teetered upon the slope finally became too big and dripped over onto her left cheek. Against him, she has melted. Her strength was great, but those muscles finally seemed to stop quivering only moments after she settled herself in that ever possessive hold against him.

"I missed you. I couldn't sleep well without you." It would be easier if he could see inside her mind. It may be easier if he could read her thoughts. Grey had always in the past been so evasive. She doesn't answer people's questions as they want her to. She doesn't answer even direct questions in a manner in which most would find simple. She answers what she feels is appropriate they know. And though that had gotten them, Grey and Jesse, into a few arguments; she still holds back. But, she gave him something. She told him something. And as she lays there with him, the time bomb's countdown slows a few seconds more.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse inclines his head. The silence settles and might be so profound that Grey could rightly assume that he had fallen asleep. He hasn’t, however. Instead, he is thinking. Weighing the words before he utters them, as is his habit, these days. As will always be his habit, he assumes, from now on. There were weeks that Jesse had deprived himself of sleep. There were weeks that he had been plagued by nightmares; or, if not nightmares, whenever he’d drift into sleep he’d slip into the Shadow Realm, unable to control the power that he had not known, immediately, that he had gained. Although he’d been seeing Grey at the time, this was before he chose to spend every night with her; before he had admitted to her, and to himself, the depths of his love for her.

He tries to imagine what it would have been like had their roles been reversed. If it was Grey who’d ended up in the Shadow Realm rather than himself. Even if she had done it for the exact same reasons, he can’t forget how new she is, and how frightening the experience might be for someone still so fresh. And, despite that, regardless of whether or not she may or may not have been prepared, she was still his love. His Dove. The missing piece of his soul. Would he have coped? Would he have slept? Placing himself firmly in her shoes, he knows now that he cannot be angry at her. He cannot make her feel as if her reaction is wrong or uncalled for because he would have been the same.

No, if Grey had died he would not have slept. Instead, every waking moment would have been spent down in that realm with her, every moment until she was free again. No--he realises even then, that would not be enough. That specific ability he has to come and go from the Shadow Realm would not have been enough. If Grey had been in his place he’d have probably killed himself to be with her. The realisation hits Jesse hard. When he takes a breath, it’s staggered. His arms coil just a little tighter around Grey, possessive and relishing the solidity of her. The physical form. It’s a Catch 22. He might have killed himself to be with Grey but had she done the same, he’d have been furious. He would never expect that of her, and would prefer her to live. To live bright and vibrant while she waits for his return.

And still, he delivers the same line that he feels he has repeated far too much since his return, or in the week that he had been dead.

“It was just a week, Grey. I’m fine. It’s not … in my opinion, for me, it’s not a torture. It’s not a horrible place. The only pain I felt, the only torture I was subjected to was the pain and torture of being away from you,” he says, quietly, finally breaking the fallen silence. He can’t see her tears. He can’t feel them, so much, but he can smell them. The hot saltiness of them. They don’t scare him now, like they have before. He expects them, somehow. If they provide some release for her, then so be it. “I wanted you to be okay. I asked that you be taken care of. It hurt me to think that you might be doing harm to yourself, somehow, pining for me when … it’s only a week,” he explains.

<Grey> "Just a week." She said it without feeling. She said it without malice or joy it came out of her lips as if she were a parrot, repeating what he said. It was just a week of excruciating pain. It was a week of idle hands. It was a week of pushing herself around the apartment, trudging to and from work, and taking in the impromptu visits from those she feels wouldn't give two shits if Jesse wasn't dead.

She had come to find out that this family, though large, was not very social. It was made up of little families and factions amongst each other. She knew that Jesse had made them promise to take care of his family. She knew that he had made them promise to tell her that he would be gone for a week if the unthinkable happened. Underneath his hand, her hand was ever so still. It laid flat to his shirt covered chest. She couldn't imagine true death. She couldn't imagine what it would have been like had her heart given out like her fathers.

She was so very painfully aware that death had been a blessing in this life. The tears kept coming. The wetness of them would have in a few minutes soaked through Jesse's shirt to leave a blotched damp spot upon his chest. The fabric was heavy there and stuck against his skin. She didn't even breathe. She didn't even lift her head. The gathered up hair was still slightly damp, never having really been free from the shower the night before. The shower. The bath. The favorite place in the entire apartment and she hadn't spent much time in there this week. No, the self-induced seclusion was needed.

She couldn't fathom her life without Jesse. She couldn't fathom being completely without him or the fact of how many times she twisted a steak knife or a sharp pairing knife in her hands and wondered just how close she could come to draining her blood. But, she could not do it. Instead, she just hadn't eaten. She didn't drink from the plastic pouches and she had attempted to from those that milled about the city. But, their blood burned in her stomach and drained her into a slink of exhaustion. She had worried herself. She had gulped air and let her weapon of choice often clattered down onto the countertops. She couldn't inflict that pain upon herself. She couldn't pile another heap of concern onto those Jesse trusted with his own blood members.

"Only a week." She said again. It didn't hold any sarcasm or anger. It was devoid, so empty of any infused feelings. She hadn't moved against him. She hasn't pulled her face up and looked down to him. She hasn't given him a smile or a frown or anything to cause him worry. No, she just laid there with him.

<Jesse Fforde> She repeats the phrase twice. Jesse cannot see Grey’s face and he cannot hear any emotion in the words. The dampness of her tears sinking into the cloth of his shirt becomes obvious - the only hint that she’s feeling more than she’s letting on. She offers nothing else; no other words for him to cling to, to understand. He sighs as his head rolls to the side, as his eyes seek out the plain white ceiling. Light from the apartment outside pours boldly through the door, drawing stark contrast between shadow and brightness upon the roof. Jesse stares at the lines created by the laws of physics; the laws of light and solidity that do not exist in the Realm. The lines there are all blurred and inconsistent, constantly shifting, always teasing with their false promise of something familiar.

Jesse’s fingers curl around Grey’s palm, squeezing her hand lightly in his. Slowly, as the seconds and the minutes eke by, his skin is starting to fill out, to become less shrivelled, more robust. The muscles regaining their definition. Very slowly, like watching grass grow. Almost imperceptible.

The frown furrows Jesse’s brow, marring whatever contentment that may have previously settled there. The repetition of that one phrase does not bode well. It was not said with a sigh of acceptance. It was not said with brittle accusation. Jesse doesn’t understand - and maybe he never will. He’d asked Grey to talk, but she’s not doing much talking. He’d opened up the floor, wanting to see inside her head and heart and only able to do so if she herself would open them to him. He doesn’t know what else to say - he doesn’t want to force a matter that might not exist.

For all he knows it could just be that. She missed him, in all the longing, yearning, impatient pain that missing someone might entail. She missed him just as he had missed her - those hours or days that he might have wasted in pointless agitation and anger, drifting between the violence of his yearning for Grey and the acceptance of his situation, and the eventual enjoyment of silence and stillness. He can’t force her to admit to anything more than that, especially if nothing more exists. The tears that now dampen his chest could just be tears of relief and happiness. And, thinking of relief and happiness he is reminded of his own. Another sigh falls from his lips as he shifts, as he rolls onto his side. He releases his hold on Grey’s hand only to fully wrap his arms around her. To crush her in the embrace he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to indulge in. His legs tangle up with hers. A contented murmur of a groan rumbles in his throat.

“God, I missed you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Grey’s forehead.

<Grey> She could feel the emotions welling up inside of her. She could feel her muscles of her chest tighten and she could barely feel the way her stomach clenched. It was almost a replay of the way her muscles of her pelvis contracted and the recoil of the poisonous blood. She had not vomited it up, but the burning pain of her throat had been nearly unbearable. "You were gone. I didn't even get to tell you I loved you. I didn't even get to hear your voice this time."

This time, she said. As I'd she could recall as plain as day the first time he was held captive away from her. That was the time that Jesse had fallen to his ex-Sire's brutal attack of gouging his eyes out and had been upon the precipice of suicide without the recent sharing of his blood with another. As she laid there with Jesse, her body seemed to coil like a cobra's, ready to strike if provoked.

She felt the squeeze of his hand. She could barely comprehend that he was turning. It felt so right the way they were pressed together. Like two pieces of the puzzle, they were there for each other. She sucked down a breath, the flyaway tendrils ticking against her cheek and the ends got caught upon her cheek in the wet trail of tears. "I hated it. I hated being away from you. I hated coming home and you weren't here. I hated-" She stopped. Her voice broke. She closed her eyes as she felt him move. She felt the way his body was filling out a little more. It was hard to notice. Looking at him, his skin seemed a little more elastic and the muscles of his powerful legs were hidden away under the denim.

Her face was flushed red. It wasn't a blush, no, it was a red brush of anger and the way she tried to struggle with the sobs that were battering against her throat. "I hated not waking up to you!" She hated that she missed it. She hated that she needed it. She hated that he had eased his way in, filling her heart with love that she before hadn't had. She clung to him. Her arms wrapped around him and her nails dig into the fabric at his back. One sob ripped free, and she tried to bury it against his throat.

<Jesse Fforde> When Jesse laughs, it’s the kind of indulgent laugh that an adult might give to a crying child whose finger has been pricked with a pin. At the same time, it’s a modest laughter, fuelled by the burgeoning happiness that his love gives to him; that she could have missed him, him so terribly that it’s now causing her to sob against him, to break down and cling to him as if he might suddenly vanish into thin air. Any man should be lucky to be loved so much, to have a woman so furiously sad that she could not be by his side for a whole week.

He laughs because he is relieved; because the tension is broken and whatever it is that she had been holding on to was now spilling forth, a vehement tirade of the things that she hated. He laughs because of her reference to the last time that they’d been kept away from each other - back when she was still human and the consequences were far more dire. If she had reacted then as she is reacting now, it only alludes to the strength of their bond. Over the months their relationship has not grown tired or infertile. It is exactly the same as it was in the beginning, even after the consequences had been dealt with, even after they have settled into their routines and become accustomed to each other’s separate wants and needs. He laughs because he is so happy, and yet Grey is so sad - and it’s only the realisation of Grey’s specific grief that cuts his laughter short, that his him curling his fingers into her hair, cradling her head as she nestles against his neck. He rubs her back, up and down, back and forth in a soothing, comforting manner.

“My dear, dear sweet little Dove,” he cooes. He would not have expected himself to encourage this kind of behaviour but he’s not about to belittle Grey’s feelings when it took so long to get her to open up to him. And there seems no question about it; instinctually, this is the only way he can react. He doesn’t want to pull away and tell her that she’s being stupid. He remembers his previous musings. If their roles were reversed? He’d be equally as dramatic. Maybe moreso. He can’t possibly tell her that she’s being unreasonable, even though he’d been so prepared to do so.

Even so, he can’t comfort her by saying it won’t happen again, because that’s not a promise that he can make. He leans down to press a kiss against the top of her head.

“I thought about you, too,” he says, gaze drifting to the other side of the room. He is home, and he settles into it even more, head resting against the pillow he’d plumped, arms firm and yet entirely relaxed as they wrap possessively around his lover. “Of all the things we were missing out on. “Sometimes it felt like an age, like it would never end but I knew there’d be this at the end of it. Just this, Grey, and I’m here now. And it’s okay. It’s okay…” he soothes, his voice a broken, husky rumble but soft, like a lullaby.

<Grey> Her entire body shakes against with with a violent sob. Her whole structure is coiled ever tight like a raging child might amidst a full meltdown over their favorite toy or blanket being taken away. Tears gush down her face. They wet her cheeks, her hair, his neck, and soak into Jesse's collar. By now, her tepid body is trembling so hard that her muscles, though fed, seem to ache terribly from the sentence of anger. Her hands had reached around his shoulders, grabbing onto the fabric of his shirt in slouch a rough manner that she was using it to anchor herself to him. She wasn't letting go. No, she was holding on tightly to her lover in a way a potential drowning victim would their rescuer.

She knows that Jesse had struggled so much with her emotions. She knows that at times she overwhelms him. She knows that she should keep stuff pushed down. That she should keep her reactions to herself and to only let them free in the face of the already broken metal within her job or the zombies that she hunts down and slices up. Now, she was letting the avalanche gush forth, spewing her emotions from her throat as the muted laughter was spilling over her back and against her hair. Jesse. Jesse was laughing. The rumbling against her chest was felt. It was the only explanation as to why she had heard it.

There was no television show on. There was no radio program tuned to. The sheets were cool and soft against their clothing. Bare feet of hers could feel the slight starched stiffness that they would have no problems of relieving the material of such a crisp hold. It isn't long and she can comprehend his words. His whispers and the soft staccato of his voice that she missed forms and calls her his Dove. Her nickname. Hers.

"It wasn't okay. It wasn't. They said it would be okay. They said it would be a week. Hell. It was hell Jesse. I wanted you so badly. They came. Velveteen once and and Every too. They were rigid and awkward. They didn't know what to say. They didn't look to me. They looked through me. It was as if they could barely be in my presence long enough to say hello. I would rather of them stayed away. Did they think it was hard for them? Did they not know it was just as hard for me to look at them knowing they came because you asked? No wonder why they hurried away. They weren't you. I needed you." Once her mouth was open, she couldn't seem to stop the tumbling of words from it. She incessantly spoke now, the gasps between words, the fight with tears in her eyes, and the strain of another sob pushed away from her throat.

"I made the bed, Jesse. I did the laundry. Velveteen told me after I took your pillow and moved it." She might have been close to hysterics, but she hovered with anger. She gasped out a breath and by now had just buried her face against his neck. The zipper to the jacket was open, the soft jangle of the metal sounding as her body shook in the realization that Jesse was not only her lover and not only her partner, but he was her addiction.

Hers.

<Jesse Fforde> No, he’s no longer laughing. She clings to him and he feels like he isn’t enough; he can feel the way her fingers dig into the material, the way they press against the skin of his back, but she would feel bones. Slightly stronger bones, now, but still. There’s a pleasurable ache in being held so tight, a feeling that Jesse had been deprived off for those seven long days and nights, the time moving in the Realm in a way that it does not above ground. There’s no way to tell what’s day and what’s night, and patterns of slumber were not dictated by the rise and fall of the sun. Jesse gasps against the strict hold she has against him, maneuvering so as to accommodate her wishes - he is barraged by her anger and her desperate grief, and though he had laughed before, now he is not. Because now he realises the true heft of it - as if from the outset it had looked only like a petty storm but has now turned into a mighty and roaring hurricane. He had underestimated the depths of her despair.

In that moment he doesn’t want to defend Velveteen or Every. When Velveteen had visited, she’d informed him that she’d told Grey what had happened, and he had got the impression then that that’s all she had done. He hadn’t spoken to Every since the first time. The impression Velveteen had left him with had caused irritation and anxiety of his own, but he had pushed it away hoping that he was wrong. Only now does he realise that he was right to be anxious.

In the very basic sense of what he had asked, Velveteen and Every had done their jobs. At the very basic heart of it. What he would have wanted, what he had hoped, was that they would force Grey out of her sheltered existence and take her home, spend hours and nights with her rather than just the ten minutes to check up. That tickle of rage sparks in his chest and he struggles to keep it down. His jaw tightens as his teeth grind and he draws a sharp intake of breath through his nose. The way he holds Grey is that of a man keeping control of a woman seized and overwhelmed with grief. He doesn’t understand it, not now - he’s here with her and there’s nothing to worry about now.

It’s almost enough for him to break down himself, to make the promise that he’ll never leave her again. He keeps his wits and shakes his head, a miniscule movement that might not even be noticed.

“I didn’t want it to be that way, Grey. I hoped… I wanted them to distract you, to take you out to…“ again he shakes his head. He begins to scold himself for not being more specific but then, what does it matter? What meaning could any of their ministrations have had if they were forced due to some promised obligation? He wanted them to care for Grey like he does, but of course they can’t. Because they aren’t him, and they don’t love her quite like he does. They don’t know her quite like he does.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says. And he means it. If he’d known the kind of turmoil his absence would have thrown Grey into, if this was the kind of poison that she’d had to live with for a week… maybe he’d have hesitated.

<Grey> The way she held him was in such a manner as to force herself not to crush him. Given her strength, Grey took time in holding him so tight that their chests were mashed together in almost a painful manner. Slowly, her arms would slack. Slowly, their chests would ease away. No, she wouldn't peel herself away from him, she just held him yet. She didn't pull her face up. She didn't move to brush her hair back from the wetness it was trapped against. She didn't give him a blush or a sappy smile that ended in foolish laughter as she might normally had for an outburst such as this one.

Instead, she clung to him. Her body remained against his. Her thoughts had been in that brief moment upon another strong man that had said he'd likely kill himself then to be without Velveteen. Micah's voice echoed in her thoughts in that moment. She wasn't strong enough. Jesse wouldn't have wanted her there. He had enough to deal with in death. He, no doubt, had other promises to keep from Micah and Velveteen. These round for round thoughts were a brutal mental torture.

Like a woman wrung out of all emotions, she slackened against him. She had finally recovered her unneeded breath and just let her body lay half cradled upon the bed. It was the very bed that she couldn't even lay upon. Not without Jesse. Not without her lover at her side. She let her fingers relax upon the soft fabric of his shirt. Her hip didn't dig into his any longer. His apology was heard. It was taken. It wrapped around her head and fell down to her heart. Though, it wasn't Jesse's fault he had died. It wasn't Jesse that she needed an apology from.

She didn't get an apology that had wrenched her lover's unlike from his body. Velveteen had said that they had gotten the woman who cheated Jesse from his form. "They don't know me. They don't know me like you. I needed you. I wanted you. But, you were gone. I waited. I waited for you, Jesse. I had to." She said that as I'd there were no other choice. The days painfully ticked by. Minute by minute and hour by hours, she wrestled with time. From working, to scavenging the catacombs, to her new ear piercing and the tainted feelings, Grey tried to patiently wait for him.

"You are back now. I needed you. I wanted you. I am yours, Jesse. Not theirs. Yours. I love you." She choked those words out, not because she could barely form them with her tongue, but because she finally felt like she could sleep. She finally felt settled within her own skin once more. Her lover was home. Her man was in the bed and in her arms. There was something, perhaps, so very unsettling about their bond. Strong apart, but inseparable together. "I felt like they couldn't even look at me. Because you were gone. They didn't know what to say."

She had managed. She had out one foot in front of the other and she had managed.

<Jesse Fforde> The trembling stops and the breathing steadies. Jesse remains steadfast as he hold on to Grey, however, just in case - she is a delicate vase and if he drops her, she’ll shatter into a thousand little pieces. He breathes her in, steadily, silence blossoming for a few long moments as he absorbs her words - words that he’s heard so many times before, but which take on a whole different meaning in this new context.

The two of them are so intertwined that they are inseparable; they’ve talked about it before, their matching urges and desires, the seeming inability to be without each other’s company. But they do it, because they must. Because they couldn’t possibly walk through life always, always with each other. They each have their separate jobs, and Jesse has Tytonidae. There are always going to be times that they are apart. The difference being that Jesse had established himself in this city and with this family, with his faction, before Grey had ever come along. Though he had never loved anyone else quite like he loves her, he had formed different kinds of bonds with people. His own progeny, and their progeny, all who claim his name. Those who require his presence and his guidance. Then there are those above him, Velveteen and Micah - family, blood family, real family, of a sort. The others in the faction that he’d grown close to, in certain ways - Every, Ariadne, Doc - the names could be listed. None knew him quite like Grey does, none fully see through the facade that he so often throws up, not always anyway, like Grey can. But it doesn’t matter. He has a foundation onto which he can step when circumstance requires it.

Grey, however, was alone when he found he, when he stalked her, when he would not leave her alone until he had her, hook line and sinker. The road had been rough and there’d been hurdles that they’d jumped, together or separately. He’d made her his, not just by word but by blood; and by word had called her Fforde, and called her Andras, had been happy and content that she was now a part of his world.

Only now does he realise that his foundation is not her foundation. Rather, he is her only foundation and to take him away, it’s like ripping the rug out from under her feet and she’s got nothing else to fall on. It terrifies him, now, and fills him with regret that he should have thought that it would be otherwise. His fingers untangle from Grey’s hair and he leans back, just so much so that he can look down upon her, concern filling his eyes.

“No. They don’t know you like I do. And they don’t know me like you do, either - but they do know me. They lost others too and you should have been there with them, sharing their grief,” even as he says it, he cringes. Grief, as if it was some great loss - and he’s only beginning to see this from the other side. Why it might be a great loss to some. Why it would be a great loss to him, too, if it were Grey who had died. He licks his lips, hesitating only a little before continuing.

“You need to let them know you, Grey, even if just a little bit. You need to have somewhere to go - you need to have … if this ever happens again I do not want you to be alone. You hear? You might want to be but it’s not right. You shouldn’t be alone. And you should get to know them a little more. Because you’re not alone anymore. I am yours, completely, and you are mine. And Andras is a large family - get out, have some fun. I’ll even help you,” he says, trying for a tentative smile, brushing the hair off Grey’s face, slowly and near subconsciously disentangling the band keeping it all locked up in its messy bun.

<Grey> Grey knew when to shut her mouth. She knew when she was rambling. She knew when fear or anger or pain got the better of her. Her lips would open. It was, in fact, almost automatic for her to spout words or facts or quote familiar books. Of course, as time went on, she had become much more comfortable with Jesse. Her twisted tongue had quieted and she had become so much more calm around her gloriously sexual, egotistical *** of a partner. She had discovered his strengths and weaknesses. She didn't walk away from him too often, and when she had the verbal tongue lashings came with a swipe of sweet blood afterwards.

Of course, they didn't share blood anymore. She didn't delve into that process with him. Though, almost in a sad recollection, it made her feel a little closer to the man before her. However, now his blood was her blood. She laid there with him, forever united. With his family, she didn't try. She hadn't tried to talk with them. She hadn't tried to comfort them. She could barely see past her own grief than to reach out and touch them. Micah had touched her. Every had fed her the same way Jesse had before. She had felt the heat and the way her proverbial stomach quieted with the infusion through her skin. Muscles didn't hurt so badly.

There, stretched out with him against him yet, her body relaxed. She seemed to deflate, all the angst and rage seeping from her porous while the man spoke to her of trying. Of trying to get to know his family. No! Their family. It could happen again. She would be without Jesse one day. This was known simply by the way he defended himself and his faction. "I know. But it hurt them. I could see it on their faces. They couldn't stand to see me upset. Or they wanted to run. I could see the fear and frustration in their eyes. The concern. The loss. It hurt everyone." Her voice was always so matter-of-fact.

"I appreciated it though. I appreciated them coming. I thanked them." All this information was relayed in a manner as if Grey knew she had to do better. She had to try. She tilted her head back, taking the kiss of his fingertips against her wet skin. She smiled when she felt her hair falling out of that coated, rubber band. It was a sad smile. The corners of her lips curled ever so softly. Her hair would come free, falling in a silky, kinky mess over her shoulders and down her back. She had fallen asleep with it the night before and that gave her such definition to her hair.

"I will try. I was okay. I picked up. I worked. I collected some items." She said all this as if to reassure Jesse that she didn't wait around at home all day long trying to wait for his return. She was productive, slightly. Laying her head down, she lifted one hand away from his back to brush her fingers down his face and against his thin lips. Taking this moment in... Jesse's return was a lot.

<Jesse Fforde> I will try, she says, and it’s enough. Coupled with her reassurance that she did not just curl up in a corner the entire time he was gone - reassured that got on with other things in his absence, he is able to relax. With her mounting tears and the gush of vehement admission that had fallen from her wracked body, Jesse had grown tense without realising it. Not only his body, but his own emotions ratcheted and twisted taut, springs ready to be released.

There are irritations that still linger within, but they have been shoved aside and quelled by relief and exhaustion. Jesse grunts, a small acknowledgment of Grey’s words, but his throat aches and his muscles aren’t far behind. He hadn’t realised just how coiled he’d become until he relaxed, his body slumped against Grey’s. Their limbs are entangled, Jesse’s now-bare feet no longer hanging off the edge of the bed but curled up and scissored between Grey’s.

They could move. They could shuffle up to the head of the bed and pull the quilt down, and the sheets. They could curl up beneath the heavy, enveloping comfort of the bedding, in each other’s arms. But it doesn’t matter. The only comfort that Jesse requires is right here in Grey’s arms, feeling her body wrapped up in his. He doesn’t take for granted the soft quilt beneath their prone bodies, or the mattress that it’s spread out over. Weariness overtakes any desire to move and so he stays right where he is. Once again, his arm settled around Grey’s torso, hand slipping the shirt up to splay fingers over the bare skin of her side and stomach. The loose strands of her silky, glossy, kinky hair are released so that he can take Grey’s roaming hand in his own, so that he can lean down and tentatively brush a kiss over her lips, still so aware of his own emaciation.

For the first time ever, maybe, he feels too frail and too tired - the trip home and the mental and emotional storm had taken a lot out of him - to accost his lover with the passion that he had envisioned. The caress of skin against skin, the tender kiss, is a show of love, small acts that he cannot, could not possibly resist regardless of his state of mind or body.

“I love you,” he sighs against her lips, before his head again falls, exhausted, to the pillow. His eyes fall shut and his breathing is deep and steady and heavy. He does not need to breathe but he does it anyway, because the air is fresh, and it is real. And because it is infused with the scent of home, with the scent of Grey. They have all the time in the world for passion and intimacy - right now, however, sleep is wrapping its seductive arms around him, and he is all too relieved, all too blissfully happy to just be here, sleeping with her in his arms.