I wake in a limbo of predawn gray and muted birdsong. Everything—head to toe, bones to skin, right to left—everything aches, in ways completely novel to me. The nearest thing to it I have for comparison is that post-workout soreness, (or a really bad hangover) but even that pales in significance next to this all-consuming pulse of just…pain. Simply breathing is exercise in willpower; with every breath I feel like I'm trying to push back against the pressure of an anvil on my ribs.

And believe it or not, this is an improvement over last night.

Awareness stitches together slowly as I recognize my aching composite parts as belonging to a whole aching body. My body. And I'm hot—I feel like I'm trapped underneath an electric blanket. In July. I twitch and stretch under my covers, vainly seeking a cooler section of sheets. The pain doesn't stab so much as throb, and not nearly as intensely as I was afraid it would. I think it's the first time in at least ten hours I've moved—I haven't changed positions or anything since my collapse into oblivion last night. Memory starts to return in scattered pieces, miasmic with confusion and fear, and suddenly it doesn't matter that I'm hot and I hurt. It has to be better than—than whatever happened.

There's an unfamiliar dip at the edge of my mattress, somewhere around my knees, and an extra weight in my hand. My eyelids crack open of their own volition; without my glasses, all I see are indistinct shapes and fuzzy colors, but the moon-white hair and tight curve of the spine are no less familiar. Fenris is still slumped in the desk chair, head pillowed on the very edge of the mattress and hand still loosely curled around mine.

Ah, crap. My chest constricts fiercely, and it has nothing to do with the lingering squeeze of pain that still makes it hard to breathe. I stare at his blurred outline, filling in the details from memory. I slide my hand out from under his and brush the fine, tangled locks away from his face with my fingertips. Ah, crap.

Fenris's hand shoots out and closes around my wrist as my pinky brushes the tip of his ear. He softens the sharp gesture by threading his fingers through mine. "That tickles," he grumbles sleepily.

"Sorry," I murmur. I fish for my glasses with my free hand and point with my chin at his cramped posture. "That can't be comfortable."

"I manage." He rolls his head on his neck, flexing and stretching his shoulders. "How do you feel?"

"Awful," I answer bluntly. "But alive."

He wheels the chair closer and presses his palm against the pulse in my neck, and nods to himself at the steady tap-tap of my heartbeat under my skin. "We have much to discuss," he sighs heavily, letting his hand fall away.

"I know." I stifle a pained moan as I sit up and wrestle out of my sweater. I sag against my pillows, panting. "D'you wanna start or should I?"

"Ladies first," he defers with the faintest of smirks. "What happened?"

I rub my eyes under my glasses, trying to separate the facts from the fear. "I don't know, exactly," I start uncertainly. "It just—happened. I was taking a nap, and woke up. The cats started going nuts, and then he just appeared." My hand snags on a snarl in my hair as the fear hiccups in my brain. "I thought it was gonna be okay, at first," I continue shakily. "You know, okay for—for lately. But then he went all—glow-y. I tried fighting him off. I really did. But he was fast. Faster than you, even. I couldn't—" I ball my hands into fists, trying to control their trembling. "He started chasing me," I resume after a few deep breaths. "I fell and—" died "—passed out." I shrug helplessly. "The next thing I remember after that is waking up in the tub." I try for a superior leer and mostly fail. "Maybe you should start with your sudden urge to see me naked," I suggest.

Imagine my surprise when that's exactly where he starts. "You were so cold," he says softly, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I am sorry if—"

"Don't sweat it, babe," I interrupt shortly, humbled and feeling guilty for teasing him. "Just…what happened?"

Fenris sinks into the depths of the chair, expression haunted. "I could hear Scooter barking from the parking lot," he begins slowly. "But then my markings—" He clenches his fists, face hardening into the taut, angry mask I saw last night. "Magic. The sort I'm used to. I could feel it—coming from inside." He bursts into a motion, a blur of ink and lyrium as he rakes his hand through his hair and starts to pace. "He was here," he continues tightly. "And yet he wasn't. He looked at me—saw me. He burned through you. And then he was gone." He slams his fist into the side of the bookshelf, practically quaking with rage. "I've been a fool," he growls. He halts and faces the window, spine erect and hands clasped tightly behind his back. "A world without magic—I knew it was impossible."

He's not my boy.

But he's my Fenris.

"Oh, don't you fucking dare!" I toss my covers aside and stumble across the carpet. I've forgotten about the pain; I have to hook my hand around his elbow to keep my balance, and he scowls fiercely at the uninvited contact. "Don't you dare start with the lonesome brooding bullshit, just because—"

"Magic kills!" he shouts furiously. "It maims, it tortures—it did this!" His markings flash as his temper scalds through the air between us. "That thing burned all the heat out of you and left you for dead. And still you do not understand! Magic is good for nothing."

And yet—"Just yesterday you thought it might be," I point out, quiet and raw with hurt. I fold my arms across my chest, trying to stay warm after the tiny fire in my heart sputters. "Know what? Fine. Forget it." He's seen me in my underwear—damned if I'll let him see me cry over a stupid kiss. I spin away from him as fast as my aches and pangs will permit and stalk (limp) toward the bedroom door. "I'm making coffee. And then I'm gonna figure out what's going on." It's like seeing double as I glare at his back—spikes and armor and cotton t-shirt all blending together in one messy image. "You can join me, or not. Your choice."

I ride the steam of my anger into the kitchen; I cling to it as I grind the dark, fragrant beans and dump them into the filter. But it can't last. All my hurts (an achy-breaky heart counts) catch up with me, and I fold like a bad hand of poker. My legs crumple under my weight and I squeeze my eyes shut, cheek pressed into the wooden floor. Last night, this past month—it's too big for tears. Too big for a person. Every breath I drag into my lungs hollows me out, carves holes in me that weren't there before. But I keep breathing, because I'm just so damn grateful to be alive. Even if I don't fully understand…well, anything.

Water hisses into the glass carafe as the telltale tingling musk crashes against my senses. I pretend I'm not listening as Fenris's bare feet step over me into the kitchen, as he fills the reservoir and turns on the coffee maker. I jerk reflexively away as he brushes my shin with the top of his foot. "This would be easier if you weren't in the way," he grouses.

"New motto?" I retort, dripping with acid sweetness.

"Enough," he snaps. "For once, spare me your quips and just hear me."

I squint resentfully at him over the rims of my glasses, bitterly regretting the fact that I'm mostly blind unless I'm looking through the lenses. Fenris takes my silence for acquiescence; the air stirs as he smoothly folds into a cross-legged position beside me. "I miss the weight of a sword in my hand," he says softly. "And I miss knowing, with absolute certainty, how the world around me works. I hated my life," he seethes. "But at leastit wouldn't change. I haven't had to be what I am. Not here. It's been—like a dream," he sighs, almost reverently. "But I am what I am. To try to be anything else is folly. And it nearly got you killed. If I had been here instead of doodling on some drunkard's ass cheeks—"

"Seriously? That's your argument?" My palm slaps against the floor as I laboriously push myself into an upright position. "It's your fault I was hurt because you were working?"

"I don't know what I'm doing!"

I gape at him as he shoots to his feet. Ceramic rattles violently as he snatches two mugs out of the cupboard and roughly scoops sugar into both of them. It isn't hard to imagine he'd so much rather be swinging around a blade as long as I am. "I'm not running," he continues harshly. "I should be, but I'm not. Tell me why."

"I can't read your mind, babe," I argue weakly.

"But you know me, do you not? So—"

"I know you're an insufferable grouch," I interrupt angrily. "You like spicy food and you put fucking peanut butter on pizza last week just to see if it'd taste good. Which it didn't. You talk in your sleep and your favorite color—I don't actually know your favorite color but you love sweets and hate fish and—"

"Enough!" he cuts me off. "Venhedis, woman—"

"I don't know you—I don't know why you're not running any more than you do. And I don't know what I'm doing either!" I drag a breath into my burning lungs, and I force myself to keep going. "Up until a month ago I knew exactly how my life worked. How it was always going to work. And the only thing that's kept me from completely losing my shit on a daily basis is knowing—hoping I'm not alone." I want to badly to get up, to move—I even try to stand and have to bite my lip against a fresh throb of lingering pain as my legs refuse to cooperate. I don't want to look at him; I don't want to face that hard, emerald scowl as I struggle against all the myriad unknowns that are suddenly and inescapably my life.

"Oh, for—come here." Fenris sets his mug aside and with exquisite gentleness, tugs my arms around his neck. His hands settle around my waist; he lifts and steadies me on my feet as his palms find the small of my back. "Venhedis, woman,you're exhausting."

"Yeah, well," I mutter sourly into his shoulder, limp and unresponsive as a noodle. "You're no picnic yourself. What are you doing?"

I rise and fall with his chest. His breath shudders across my scalp; lyrium and coffee and everything he is shudders between us in a sigh that feels like it costs him more than I will ever understand. "Choosing," he whispers hoarsely.

A sharp inhalation. A sudden, small vacuum of space. And suddenly his mouth covers mine with a heady fusion of fear and hunger. His embrace is as much a trap as it is support: I have nowhere to go but headlong into the fray. No choice but to push back, with everything I have left. The edge of the countertop digs painfully into my back as I ball my fists in his t-shirt and yank him closer. It hurts—it hurts like fuck. But I'll take it. Because there's a fire in his eyes when he pulls away, and a tiny smile on his lips (those oh-so-kissable lips) as he presses his forehead to mine.

And whispers, "Where do we start?"