I remain transfixed by the presence of a piano in Promise's apartment—hell, I kind of fetishize it, if I'm honest—and the fact that we haven't seen it played kills me a little inside. This is little more than a drabble, and not a particularly awesome one, but it fulfills two needs: moar piano, moar Niko/Promise.
Nocturne
Promise's deft hands moved over Niko's wounds with a practiced ease, patching her lover up in silence. Neither had much to say; Cal's furious observation that the Kin Alpha had used Niko like a chew toy was everything that needed to be expressed in words. Their communication existed between fleeting touches of skin against skin, her fingers coming to rest on his unbruised cheek as his eyes closed and the blanched undertone to his olive skin finally began to dissipate.
-
His eyes blinked open slowly, two hours later, bringing into focus a room awash in the dim glow of a bedside lamp. His mouth tasted faintly of copper, and he was alone.
There had been no way to avenge Niko's injuries that evening, and everyone had recognized as much, however unwillingly. Robin had returned to his own home; Cal was most likely an even grimmer bartender than usual that night; and Promise sat silently at her piano, hands ghosting over the keys in a pantomime of playing. She turned when he cleared his throat, standing more shakily in the doorway than either would later admit, his chest bare but for wide swaths of bandages and wayward strands of hair falling against his cheeks.
The nurse in her had disapproved heartily at the sight, but eventually compromised to his lying on the sofa, eyes closed once more while she played him a nocturne by Chopin.