"Has anyone ever told you that your face is eminently suited to brooding?"
It's past midnight. Alina sits by the fire even though she never gets cold any more, and rolls her eyes over to Nikolai. He leans against the entrance to the room, which should be her room, which she stills thinks of as 'the Darkling's' even though it's been refurbished along with the rest of the Little Palace to strip away every inch of black.
"Tamar." She tips her voice past him to her friend standing guard at the door. "Aren't you supposed to announce guests."
"He is the king," a faintly amused voice yells back. A beat passes. "Sorry."
She doesn't sound sorry at all, and an easy grin crosses Nikolai's lips as he pushes off the frame and shuts the door quietly behind him.
But all of Nikolai's smiles are easy. That doesn't really mean anything.
"You can call me an invader, if you feel like it," he allows, and his body folds in on itself as he crouches next to her stool.
It makes him seem small, somehow, and Alina frowns. Small is not a word she has ever associated with this man.
"I wouldn't feed your ego."
Her tone might be dry, but her eyes scan his face without thinking too hard about it. Hazel eyes are ringed in purple, his skin seemingly drawn tighter to his face. His hair is a mess, and not an artful, intentional one. Knowing the importance of appearance - knowing Nikolai's slavish devotion to the importance of appearance - she hopes that no one saw him on his trip from the Grand Palace.
"Come now, Alina." He laughs. The sound rattles in his throat. "We both know that my ego is already large enough that adding to it won't have any effect."
"Unfortunately."
His lips twitch, but his eyes are drooping shut. Alina sticks out her foot, using her leg as a wall between him and the fire as his body lists towards it, just a little. He wouldn't let himself fall, she knowsthat, but a part of her feels the urge to make sure. Just in case.
"My hero."
"That's what they tell me." Another beat passes, before Alina reaches out with a hesitating hand, fingers curling around his jaw. "You look terrible."
"Ouch."
She waits for the witty riposte, but it doesn't come. She realises after a moment or two that he's leaning into her hand, his weight a faint pressure on her palm. Slowly, unsure of how he'll react, she slides her fingers over his cheek until she's cupping the side of his face. Her thumb smooths over one of those dark circles, earning a low, tired chuckle from Nikolai.
"That bad, is it?"
"You'll live."
That's not the point, and they both know it. After a moment, he covers her hand with his; she starts at the cool touch of his skin on hers, but otherwise stays as she is.
He only takes his gloves off around her.
"Can I try something?" she asks softly, tracing the black lines under his nails with her eyes.
"I should say no," he murmurs back, but doesn't. Alina takes that as permission, and begins.
It's just the smallest amount of heat. Not enough to even be termed heat, really. Her hand blurs, goes hazy from the faint miasma of light enveloping it, but there's no direct glow.
Alina winds the warmth through his body, through muscle and into bone, chasing out the remnants of darkness clinging to his skeleton. Over her hand, she feels his fingers return to a normal temperature, and smiles.
It's termporary. They both know that. But as Alina watches some of the strain ease from the corners of Nikolai's eyes, she thinks that she'll take what she can get.