I wanted to make a waking up compilation, but it mostly turned into "characters waking up and everything else that ensues" hahaha but there's no good title for that. Also I feel bad for not writin' bout ya characters because I adore them ;-; I just couldn't think of anything good at the moment. I'm generally uninspired. ;-;

Waking Up (but mostly what comes after)

Cole doesn't mean to doze off when he's in the library, but he does, his elbow on the table and his head in his hand. It's only for a quiet hour, and no one comes into the library in the dead of night. He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he blinks a few times and the candle he had lit is now melted into its holder, the flame nodding out.

It is strange still, every time he remembers that he is not in New York, but he has learned to adjust. This is hardly his first time moving. It is, however, the first place no one has insisted they fight in a bloody duel as he often did when he was younger. It's the first place that he does not have to be overly concerned about his image, his glasses in a case that gets a little dustier everyday. No one whispers behind his back of what sins he has committed, and no one is vying for his slit throat. It's an unfamiliar feeling every time he becomes aware of it.

When he draws himself from his drowsiness, he makes a displeased sound at the smell of copper and the feeling of drying blood on his face. It's the first nosebleed he's had in a week or two, and of course it had to be when his guard was down. His luck is like that. He reaches for a tissue box for a tissue to wipe the blood from his nose and where it dripped down his chin. He's glad no one walks in to see him. Any weakness is not what he wants to show the others, especially now that his health is not deteriorating as rapidly. Nosebleeds, the rare ones he does get now, are hardly ever accompanied by the headaches that once plagued him. When he thinks about it, he knows he would not have minded dying. In fact, it might have freed him from the weight of his thoughts, but he also does not mind that such a date has been postponed.

A dot of blood has soaked through the pages of a book opened on the table, highlighting the word "pleased". He does not think anyone else will want to read what he's reading, so he closes it and stands up, bloody tissue in hand. Although he returns to the privacy of his room, he finds that sleep has now deemed him a distant stranger. He waits at his desk, watching out his window, ceaselessly forced to keep waking up.

Being ripped from sleep in a wave of nausea is not high on Devi's list of favourite things to do. It certainly stirs him from his sheets, causing him to nearly stumble onto the ground where he fumbles to grab the small trashcan by his bed. He doesn't think he'll make it to the bathroom in time and he vomits up bile, feeling more nauseated than before. A silvery string of midnight psychedelics hangs from his mouth and he spits it into the trash, disgusted with the taste and mostly with himself.

He's not usually like this, and it sours his mood a little. His clothes are a little rumpled from a pitiful night's sleep and he tries to blame everything on the move. He's never been good with change and he feels even worse surrounded by strangers. By the Angel. He grips the edge of the trashcan and feels pathetic. Any normal Shadowhunter should be used to things like this, and he knows it's good for him. That the move is good for them. Even so, his mind likes to go on trips down alleys that make him panic for no reason. There's nothing tangible, nothing real to be nervous about. Sometimes it's nice to get a break.

The acidity in his mouth worsens and he finally stands up tiredly to snag a glass from the side of his bed. He walks to the bathroom to fill it with faucet water to rinse his mouth. It wakes him up, the blaring bathroom lights, and he swishes dubious tasting tap water in his mouth. So much for trying to sleep in. His eyes raise to the mirror and he catches sight of his mussed hair. If he rakes his fingers through his hair, changes into something more presentable, and cleans out the trash, then he might feel a little better. His mouth starts to grow tired and he breaks his gaze to look down at the sink and spits.

When Aspen startles from his sleep, he cannot help but be surprised he managed to get any at all.

The covers under his hands are not the ones in his hotel and he takes a minute to open his eyes, look around, and then ground himself. Of course. This is Nyx's place, and it's a spare room he's spent too much of his time in. Grogginess makes him groan, as well as the ache through his entire body, distant and not too unfamiliar. He feels he's put himself through too much recently. Then again, he thinks that often and does nothing to fix it and perhaps that's why he has some incurable self-loathing.

He waits in bed for a long ten minutes, the sun slowly intruding. An angled bar of light widens until it is everywhere. Light spills across his face and, still, he is not entirely drawn from sleep. He has to force himself up, pulling the covers off of him and casting them aside. He'll make the bed later. He looks down at himself and recognizes the shorts he's wearing but not the shirt, and he sighs but doesn't think too much of it. If he does, he might think of things he doesn't want to consider. Instead, he heads to leave the room, leaving the door open behind him when he starts into the living room. Nyx is already up and dressed smartly in his usual attire, making coffee. It seems strangely domestic and Aspen can't help but watch for a moment.

"I have to make sure I get to the warlock's on time," Aspen says finally, padding slowly to the kitchen. His eyes dart to a clock. "It's in two or so hours, I think."

"Of course, sweetheart." Nyx looks back at him and smiles with sharp teeth, seemingly amused with Aspen's morning rumpled appearance. "You know I'd hate for you to be late."

Aspen can't help but think Nyx has been strangely nice with him lately in their own sort of way. He still tugs on his wrists and envelopes him entirely and suffocates him a little with his demands, but no blood's been drawn recently, nor has he forced any drugs down his throat or blinded him. He wonders if it's some combination of business going well and realizing his grip on Aspen is not as tight as he thinks.

"I'll come back tomorrow," Aspen remarks, moving to lean back against a wall by the counter, watching Nyx from the side. "I'm not meeting with the warlock, then, so I'll be free all day."

Nyx pours out his coffee in a mug before adding some cream. He lifts it to his lips to take a sip before setting the mug back down, at last turning to look at Aspen. His gaze rakes over him, lingering, before he walks over to stand in front of him. He has always been analytical as if he's looking for something about him to be upset with. Some little details that don't meet his standards. Aspen's hair is a little longer, some of it still tied back with other parts of his hair over his forehead and framing his face. Nyx must have decided it suits him because he doesn't say anything about it.

"I knew you'd run back to me," Nyx says, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm not running." Sleepily, Aspen tilts his head up a little to look at him. There's a beat of waiting before Nyx dips down to kiss him firmly, his hands seeking out Aspen's waist to pull him where he wants him. He tastes like coffee and Aspen can do nothing but kiss him back, uncomfortably accustomed to such a feeling. He thinks of Caspian and he tries to push the guilt away. His thoughts fracture when he's tugged at and a knee presses between his legs and he can't help but feel effectively trapped between Nyx and the wall.

"Maybe, but you're back. And mine." Nyx's words are a growl and he doesn't give him time to answer. "I think you've forgotten yourself. It's time you get back into...your usual swing of things. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Aspen nods and a "yeah" leaves his lips, although he isn't entirely sure if he means it.