Bartimaeus still visits him sometimes.

He rips open a portal just to sit at Nat's window, watching the boy bumble through his everyday life.

Once, he finds the boy dancing.

He sits at the sill, leaning against the wall as Nat pushes the furniture out of the way, turning up his music and swinging his hips to the beat, singing *way* off-key.

Another day, Nat sighs, dropping his pen on his desk as he leans back in his chair. Bartimaeus watches as tears roll down his cheeks, watches as his fists clench in frustration.

Bartimaeus floats in, settling on the bed, swinging his legs idly as he listens to Nat's quiet mutters.

Another day, he finds Nat sitting in that odd way of his that he does, knees pulled to his chest as he sits on the chair, wrapped in blankets and watching TV. Bartimaeus leans over his shoulder to chuckle at a scene.

Nathanial does not.

Bartimaeus glances at him, figuring Nat had been in a good mood. Nat's eyes are glazed as he stares at a fixed point over the TV. Apparently not.

Once or twice, he thinks Nat knows he's here.

It's impossible, he knows.

But he plays with the thought anyway, when Nat's wandering eyes pause on his own, when Nat suddenly looks over his shoulder or at the window, as if he can sense a foreign presence.

Nat is so weird.

Well, no, not particularly.

Maybe what's weird is Bartimaeus.

Bartimaeus just can't stop watching, and he figures it's only a passing curiosity.

He's spent centuries watching humans, and here was just one more. Another ordinary, fleeting human life. Another character in a story that stretches far past this little one's limited understanding, whose everything seemed to be within the confines of his own little twisted world.

And yet.

Sometimes, Nat pauses, the edges of his lips curling slightly upwards.

Other times, Nat turns to the light just right, sweeping his raven hair back from his forehead, his blue eyes glowing, and Bartimaeus just won't stop staring.

The jumpy, scowling Nat who tenses at the sight of people, becomes a completely different person when alone.

He doesn't care.

Bartimaeus really doesn't care.

And yet.

Bartimaeus sighs, the air rattling through his essence and escaping the lithe form of Ptolemy's lips.

He hates the pressure of this world on his essence.

Nathanial is grooming himself in front of his mirror, probably for that Jane Farrar. Or maybe it's Kitty this time. Who knows. Bartimaeus really doesn't care.

Nathanial walks out the door, and Bartimaeus sinks down against the window's edge, one foot dangling out the open window as he stares at the wood of the window frame, his eyes tracing the swirls in the polished wood.