WARNING: Tear jerker. Same as chapter 1. Not sure. Going with better safe than sorry.
This is a sequel of sorts to #8 Innocence.
As to who the 'she' is . . . I'm gonna leave that to you. My betas came up with quite a few possibles. :D
He stands on her doorstep and stares at the festive wreath framing the knocker.
It seems out of place considering what happened that day.
He's not entirely sure how he got here and he's really pretty sure he should leave.
But he can't.
His legs refuse to obey and somehow that's not as distressing as he'd expect.
Because even though she's the last person he wants to see right now he's also pretty sure that she's the one he needs to see most.
He's debating whether to knock or ring the doorbell when the door is opened and it becomes academic.
She doesn't say anything and for that he's glad.
He's not sure he can handle words right now.
Instead she extends a hand to him in invitation.
He stares at it for a moment, thinking of his own hands, the blood that still stains them even though he washed them for at least an hour after it was over.
How can he touch her clean hand with his filthy one?
Then she does speak and he looks up in surprise. He doesn't know if it's her tone, or the fact that all she says is his name, but somehow it doesn't hurt like he expected.
She meets his gaze steadily and when he realizes that it's not pity, not condemnation, or revulsion in her eyes, nothing but understanding and compassion, the tension washes out of his body like a reservoir after the dam has broken.
His shoulders slump and when she comes a step closer and takes his hand he doesn't resist.
She leads him into the house, into a cozy living room where a fire is burning low in the hearth and a pot of tea—in an actual teapot wrapped in an actual knitted tea cozy, no less—sits on a table with two cups, filled to the brim with something brown and creamy that faintly steams.
He stares at the second cup of hot chocolate and wonders who exactly is supposed to be the psychic here while she shuts the door and then returns to his side.
He turns his head to look at her, searching her gaze once more, and once more he finds no trace of pity or disgust. Just sympathy, pure and clean.
And that is all that he needs.
Her arms come around him as he lets his head drop to rest on her shoulder and the tears come pouring out.
She says nothing, just holds him until the tears run dry and he has found what he came here for.
When he is asleep on the couch, covered in the quilt her grandmother hand-stitched for her before she left home, she banks the fire and cleans up the dishes.
She returns with a second blanket and curls up on the loveseat, making herself comfortable for the long vigil that will last until dawn.
Review plz&thx.