She holds him through the night.
The whole ordeal—of dying, then coming back to life; of being a vampire, then not a vampire; of being the Clanton heir, however short a time; of—of everything. Too much, for a day.
(For a lifetime.)
Her fingertips pressed into the line of his wrist. Warm, soft.
The soft beat of his pulse.
Her arm around his waist as they came up the stairs. Neither of them spoke—the need to touch, to feel. To pretend that he is—that they have not—
Good of Nedley, to let them stay up here tonight.
She is not sure Doc could have stayed conscious, back to the Homestead.
The soft snuffles of his breath as he sleeps, and what she hears—the hitch of it, the memory—
Blood dark trickling from his mouth.
She still tastes it, iron and salt on the back of her tongue, though he has brushed his teeth. Twice. Three times.
(The taste abhorrent to him now.)
(He always takes his time, brushing his teeth.)
That he is alive.
That she is, too.
Not undead. Not possessed. Not cursed or bound to anything. But alive.
Alive.
(And Waverly. (Waverly.) And Nicole. And Jeremy. And Rachel, Billy (how?) Alive, each of them. Safe.)
(Safe.)
Every time she closes her eyes—his fingers curled in the dirt, limp, broken. That thing that was and was not Waverly, standing over them—
She took his immortality away once. She did it for them, did it for Alice. And now—
(He almost died. And she—she almost—)
The weight of him, his head against her shoulder, the cramp in her back, this angle—but she cannot let go of him, cannot lay him down.
(His hand, curled tight around her arm.)
They have made no promises. They have asked no questions. But this—
…a fresh start…to everything…
She tightens her grip on him, the slightest moan slipping from his throat.
Everything.