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Jean reaches out to touch Marion, and something restless in you stills. Breath at the ready. Exhale before the trigger. You may not have Marion’s visions, but you wouldn’t have needed them to see this coming. In the tunnels, the way Marion blushed and wouldn’t look her in the eye. On the floor of the ruined chapterhouse, the gentle relentlessness of Jean’s attention. How whenever their hands touch, it’s like they disappear into something the rest of you cannot see, like the tangible realities of Newfaire dim in some overpowering wash of something else.
Hell, maybe they do. You know better than to believe your world a comprehendible thing.
Jean reaches out to touch Marion, and you glance to the door, then back. You tell yourself again you shouldn’t be here. Your plan had been to deliver them to Jean’s and then slip back out into the night, confident that she of all people could get Marion to rest. They were to keep an eye on each other – keep each other company – while you were to do what you do best, shoulder back into the fray and do what needs doing to keep the people who matter safe.
You do hear yourself, pleading with Marion to rest while you yourself barely sleep most nights. He points it out constantly, like he thinks he’s telling you something you don’t already know. Like saying it out loud makes it mean something. You don’t know how else to make it clear to him that it’s just not the same for you. Marion is special. You’ve got a smart mouth and a good eye, and that’s about it. Things are getting worse, things are only ever getting worse. Every night you spend out here is another night your mother endures in Grayslate. Holding still is a waste unless it’s spent in preparation, and every idle moment is as good as another crack for a monster to worm its way through. Marion can think what he likes, but you know the truth: time is only worth what you do with it, and no one will ever, ever have enough.
So you don’t know why you’re still here, except that Marion wouldn’t let go of your hand after you’d eased him onto the settee. And then you were sitting on the floor, the flank of him steady and grounding at your shoulder, and then Jean was already coming in with the tea, fussing with an assortment of slightly squashed, day-old pastries — and Marion was looking at her, but he was holding on to you.
Now Jean draws away from the scrawl of fresh marks on Marion’s arm to pour the tea. Delicate blue cups on white-patterned saucers. You accept her offering with both hands, and she settles onto the settee beside Marion with a pastry. She pauses awkwardly, like she can’t quite bring herself to eat it.
“I thought this would be nice,” she says, in that way of hers where she’s half here and half off running another one of her mysterious calculations in some back room of her mind.
“It is nice,” reassures Marion. He’s left his saucer impolitely on the serving tray, cup cradled in just his right hand, his left warm on your shoulder. You drink; the tea is strong and sweet.
“Oh, good,” she says, brightening. “I can’t always tell if it’s too much, or if I’ve simply… misjudged the occasion.”
“What better occasion than being alive,” says Marion. The day’s ordeal still rests too heavy on all of you for it to be anything but a plain and quiet truth. He squeezes your shoulder. Maybe it makes you a coward, but you do not shrug his hand away. You do not stand up and leave. Instead, you allow yourself this one luxury and close your eyes. Rest just a little more of your weight against him. The familiar smell of him, his familiar warmth. He is still here. He is still here. “Jean, we did it.”
“You did it, you mean,” she says, pretending at sternness, but you can hear the smile in her voice. She sighs. “What?” she says just a moment later, soft. Not stern at all.
“Nothing, just,” says Marion, trailing off.
With your eyes closed, the room blurs into sensation alone. The gentle clinking of a cup and saucer placed back on the serving tray. The living weight of Marion’s hand on your shoulder. A moment’s breath, the whisper of Jean’s petticoats. The innocent, almost-nothing sound of a kiss.
Then: Marion’s hand drifting up your shoulder, the back of your neck. A low hum, swallowed as quickly as it sounds. Another kiss, longer. His fingers drifting higher, tangling into the sensitive edge of your hairline. You feel him shift forward, away from you, and when you open your eyes it takes you a minute to bring them into focus. Jean laid back against the arm of the settee, one gloved hand sketching lazily down Marion’s shirt seams, and Marion heavy against her, mouth sweet at the smooth, exposed column of her neck. Her legs cradling his body, skirts bunching at her bare thigh. She gasps, quiet; his hand tightens in your hair.
You watch them for a moment. They look as good together as you’d imagined. You had assumed they’d at least already kissed before, but now you’re not so sure; you recognize the caution with which Marion touches her, his shy attentiveness. The memory of your first time together slowly gathers strength in your body, that familiar thrill to his earnest determination, and suddenly you know there is a version of tonight where that’s enough. Where you simply walk through this door they are building for you, and take Marion’s hand from your hair only to kiss it. Where you touch him the way you want to, always; where you touch her the way you’ve been imagining. Where they fold you between them and hold you fast until your body finally becomes more than just a thing you keep alive because you have to. Where, in the makeshift sanctuary of Jean’s immaculate sheets, you might all safely rest until morning.
But your grip on all the reasons you can’t is too tight to loosen now. Morning is an eternity away. You’ve already stayed too long. You’ve already wasted so much time. Marion will try to stop you, he’ll be angry with you, but that’s all right. He’s been angry before. Jean will understand, you think — but even if she doesn’t, you don’t know how much longer any of you will have for it to matter.
Just a moment more, and then you’ll go. Just one moment longer, that’s all.
Just one more.
And then you’re gone.