I am hoping to finish chapter 9 up today, and wrap up 10 tonight.

What do you think so far? In character?

Thanks to all my readers and reviewers! You're my fuel.

-XXX-

The second sensation he noticed upon waking was the prickling itch along his jawline. In his sleep, he had grown something of a scruff. The morning Tatiana came to fetch him, he has his first chance to examine himself in a mirror. He's been give an hour or so to clean himself up and dress.

The razor he's offered is pathetic for the task, so he magics off what he doesn't like, saving a neatly groomed ring that expends from his upper lip to his chin. Following this, he clips his hair and then bathes. It's nice to feel normal again. Alive. Even in the beige-tiled shower stall, he experiences a gentle wave of gratefulness.

In his room, he finds a folded pair of loose blue trousers- - -"Jeans," he thinks- - - and a long-sleeved shirt with buttons. There are dark, lace-up shoes. A narrow belt. Not what he would've selected, but beggars can't be choosers. And magicians can't reveal themselves too early on in the game. He wonders where his clothes have gone, but decides it is no huge loss. They can always be made again.

Once cleaned, the doctor is brought to him.

-XXX-

Soon enough, he is discharged. I'm forced to beg Charlene for the day off, so that I can sign my new housemate out of the hospital and move him in. Charlene finds the whole thing very intriguing. Romantic, even, which is weird for my prickly boss. She insisted I take the next two days off. I accept without second thought.

At eight a.m., I find myself in the downstairs lobby of the hospital, awaiting my new charge. Every time the elevator "dings" I tense, expecting him. But it's the one time I do look up when he arrives. In, to my surprise, a wheelchair pushed by a harassed-looking Joseph Walker. I meet them across the polished granite tile, shyly stopping before the two men.

Luke appears relaxed. But Joseph is agitated. After dropping Luke off at the counter to complete his several layers of paperwork, I go to him, quietly inquiring after his patient and his own health. Joseph responds shortly.

"He's doing well. Walked a bit today. He didn't want the chair, but it's policy, you know."

I knew. "And you?"

He smiles. "I can't say I'm happy about this."

"He did pass. Philips said he's good. On the mend."

This only seems to increase his aggravation. "I don't know about Philips."

Frowning, I step back to look up at the tall doctor. "What do you mean? You said yourself he's a leader in his field. Credible."

"I know what I said. But he's been…odd lately. Can't stop talking about your guy, you know? Like, he's the greatest thing ever. A rock star, or something."

My brows rise. "He's got a name you know."

"Luke, then, has been the topic of many conversations around the nurse's station. He's got all of them charmed, after only a day, but Philips is…almost obsessed. I swear, it's sketchy. They're all acting like he's…he's…."

"What?" I ask, skeptical.

"Like this guy is a god," Walker finally manages, shaking his head.

I laugh; I can't help it. The doctor looks sheepish, but he stands his ground.

"C'mon, Tati. You have to admit he's a little…different. I just don't feel comfortable with you taking this guy home."

Clearly a green-eyed monster has replaced this sweet and bold doctor. I touch his arm gently, grinning. "I got it, Walker. But don't worry. At the first sign of weirdness, I will send him right back to you. Okay? But for now, I've already made the arrangements."

"Seriously, Tati," Joseph urges. "You be careful. Send him to a hotel, or at least lock your bedroom doors."

"He's got nowhere else to go," I say quietly. "What, should I just make him hitchhike to the nearest homeless shelter? I can't do that. You know I can't."

He sighs. "At the very least, I know I've tired. Be careful."

"I will," I assure him. "And-" I hesitate. "I never did take you up on that coffee. Would you still be…game?"

His grey eyes glow. "Yes. Yes, I definitely would. Now?"

I laugh. "No, I've sort of got some prior obligations." I jerk my thumb toward Luke. "But…I'd be willing to go sometime later this week. And, maybe we could upgrade from coffee to lunch?"

Joseph grins. "That sound fantastic. Can I call you?"

He already has my number. He'd charmed it out of me ages ago, partially so he could call me whenever Luke woke up.

"Yeah. You can. Totally."

Luke approaches, still in the chair. "It's all done," he says in that ridiculously velvety voice.

"Oh," I say surprised. "Did you need help with any of the insurance stuff."

The green eyes turn on me, wildly amused. I feel as though I'm missing the joke. "Oh yes. It's all been taken care of."

Joseph walks us out, wheeling Luke. We move out to my Volvo. Luke manages to rise from his chair, and seats himself in my front seat (thankfully I'd thought to clear off the massive piles of paperwork and the empty Starbucks cups from the front. Before Joseph returns, I'm passed a garbage bag I hadn't noticed in the under-basket of the wheelchair.

"What's this?"

"Mr. Lafeyson's clothes. The ones he came in with."

I wince with memory at the thought of the medieval getup I'd found Luke in. Luckily, some kind soul had found him a pair of jeans and plaid button-down-somebody's sons, I think. It's why I like that hospital- - -it's small town. But even so, this'll last him a day. We'll need to go shopping soon. I silently thank my gallery for having already enabled me to pay off my student loans. I'm not exactly living paycheck-to-paycheck right now, which makes a huge difference. My car was a gift from Mom and Dad, just over eight years old and still ran well, and my house had low payments as it was so small and on an unpopular side of town. I could afford a small shopping spree.

We leave, driving silently for the fifteen minutes it takes to get to my house. I get the sense that, besides observing the passing city around him, Luke has keep an especially attentive gaze on me. I don't look his way once, keeping my eyes on the road. Dressed in real clothes, not just flimsy hospital nightgowns, his masculine beauty is emphasized nicely. And I'm not blind to it.

Leaving the car, I finally let my gaze slide to my new housemate. Wiry muscles suit his willow form. His hair, a little mussed, has been swept back, slicked against his skull so that the dark layers reach his shoulders. The shirt and jeans hang off of his skinny frame. He's far thinner than I, but built with a certain swell of muscle. His skin lacks a healthy flush, even in the sunlight, but I'm resolved to fix this. I come from a family of "feeders." We're inherently convinced that the best medicine to any problem- - -emotional or physical- - -can be fixed with food. If I wasn't working at the gallery, I would be involved in another type of art, which is to say elbows-deep in dough at any local bakery.

The general idea is that he's handsome. Straight-out handsome. Not classic-movie star, but slyly beautiful. He reminds me of a fae lord from one of the fantasy novels I read in my youth. Sharp. Dangerous. Intelligent.

His eyes glimmer with brilliance. Cleverness oozes out of his every pore. Even though he doesn't speak much, I can feel intellect staring me in the face. But maybe that's just the fairy tales whispering in my head.

He appears very interested in my house. I'm quiet, letting Luke examine the exterior before moving on to the inside.

I've always thought my house to be welcoming. With its warm yellow paint and bright red door, weathered brass fixtures, and chipped white trim, it's always been the apple of my eye. Over the years, I've been blessed with a wild garden, a natural series of plants (along with a selection of domesticated perennials left behind by past owners). It requires little maintenance, thank God, besides the occasional weeding and mowing. Therefore, there is a natural, untainted beauty about the garden that I've always respected.

Right now, the irises are in bloom- - -nearing their end, actually. The result of May's dawn. A collection of periwinkle, burgundy, white, yellow, and purple fan the crumbling brick walkway. Then there is the hostas, the white clover, and the deep green ivy covering most of the untended beds. Luke takes it all in for several minutes before nodding, as though satisfied.

His approval is not what I sought, but I find a wave of pleasure surfacing down my spine as he smiles. It's annoying. I've never thought of myself as a "pleaser," and feel disgusted with myself. I let it pass.

Inside, I feel as though every inch of my life is being examined. Every picture is scanned, every title read, each throw pillow, all surfaces brushed over. I keep a clean home, so there is no embarrassment there-unlike the flowers, attention is paid to the household chores.

He spends a long time looking at my books. As the halls are wide, shelves line one wall of each. There are also shelves in the living room, bedrooms, and the dining room. The only wall space left is covered by family photos, or my prints from the gallery. Most are French impressionist pieces, but occasionally a soft abstract punctures the room with colour.

A jingle breaks the reverie. Winchester bounds in from the kitchen on white-socked feet. He stops in the threshold, taking in the room and our guest. Normally a warm cat, my baby keeps his distance, green-gold eyes on Luke. I cross to pick him up. Win instantly curls in my arms, his tail tickling my skin. I press a kiss into his soft gray downy skull, murmuring. Luke watches us, tense.

"This is Winchester," I tell him. "Or Win. Or Winnie, when he's been bad."

"And is that often?"

I grin. "Yes."

Win is offered forth. Luke allows the cat to sniff him before scratching him behind his ears. Win doesn't appear to mind, but wariness radiates from the cat. I pull him back after several seconds.

For several minutes we're at a loss. I avoid his eyes before saying, "Um. Do you want to see your room?"

Walking up the stairs, I wonder if this is a mistake. Is it normal for a person to take in some random guy they found passed out in their woods?

I find I don't need to vocalize the question to anyone. The mere fact that I've asked it is enough of an answer.

-XXX-

OCs are fun. I know there are the cliches, but when there is no really good shipping option...

The cat is modeled after my own Winnie, who is a spoiled brat, and maybe 3 months old. He disappointed me when he didn't turn out with green eyes. But he's since made up for that.

Reviews would be lovely. Please?