Chapter 44: The Tired Goodnight
The common room had gone quiet in the way that rooms do when the laughter has finally run its course. The poker chips were still scattered across the table like dropped coins, the candle gutted to a stub of wax, and the others had peeled off one by one, trailing up the stairs with yawns and murmured goodnights. Amie had been the last to go, pausing at the door to give Rosa a long look, something soft and unspoken passing between them before he vanished into the dark of the stairwell.
Roy sat on the table's edge near Rosa's folded arms, his legs dangling over the scarred wood. The warmth of the evening still hummed through him, the good ache of a day spent laughing, of watching Rosa's face soften in the lamplight when she'd called his bluff. But the hum was fading now, replaced by the slow, creeping weight of exhaustion. Despite being this size for seven months now, his body was still learning how to be this small, how quickly the warmth bled out of him, how heavy his eyelids could feel after hours of perched vigilance.
He looked up at Rosa. Her head had dipped, her chin nearly brushing her collarbone, and her braid had slipped over her shoulder, the dark rope of it trailing toward the table. She was nodding off in the chair, her breath evening out into something slow and deep.
Roy reached out and pressed his palm to the side of her wrist, the skin warm and pulse-steady beneath his hand. "Rosa."
She blinked, her head snapping up, green eyes finding him after a moment of fuzzy confusion. "Hmm! Immawake."
"You're not." He kept his hand on her wrist, a small anchor. "You're falling asleep in a wooden chair, and we’re both starting to shiver."
She mumbled, but she did shiver, a fine tremor running through her shoulders. "Just cold."
"Then let's go somewhere warm."
Her eyes found his, something soft passing through them, and she huffed a quiet laugh, the sound barely more than a breath. "Bossy."
"You love it."
She did. He could see it in the way her mouth curved, tired and fond, as she scooped him gently off the table, cupping him in her palms and cradling him against her chest. The walk to the stairs was unhurried, her steps heavy with the day's laughter, and Roy settled into the heat of her hands, letting himself be carried.
Jason met them at the door to third floor. He must have been waiting, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, because he pushed off it the moment they appeared, falling into step beside Rosa. His hair was loose, falling in waves past his shoulders, and his eyes were soft with the same tired warmth that sat in Rosa's.
"Thought you might be up still," he said quietly.
"Roy kicked me out of the common room," Rosa said, and there was no bite in it, just a gentle, exhausted teasing.
"He's a good influence."
"He's a traitor."
Roy laughed, the sound small in her hands. "I'm sitting right here."
"I know," Rosa said, and her thumb brushed over his back, a feather-light stroke that said, I know, I know, I'm just happy.
Her room was warm when she opened the door, the solar panels on the window catching the last grey light of evening, the hydroponic shelf humming its familiar, steady song. The air smelled of ozone and the faint green scent of growing things, of the particular blend of scavenged tech and stubborn life that made this room, this place, hers. Rosa crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, careful and slow, and Roy felt the shift of her hands as she brought him up to her collarbone.
"Comfy?" she asked.
He curled into the hollow of her throat, the pulse of her heartbeat a steady drum against his cheek. "Yeah."
Jason's weight settled on the bed beside her, and then his hands were in her hair, working loose the braid she'd worn all day, deft fingers unraveling the dark strands strand by strand. The motion was slow, methodical, the way he did most things, the way he built and repaired and made whole. Rosa's head tilted back slightly, her eyes closing, and a long, quiet breath left her.
Roy watched from his perch, the world reduced to the rise and fall of her chest and the gentle sound of Jason's fingers combing through her hair. The lamplight flickered, catching the copper in the brown strands, and Rosa's shoulders dropped, the tension of the day finally seeping out of her.
"You're good at that," she murmured.
"I've had practice." Jason's voice was low, intimate. "You undo them before you sleep anyway."
"Not always. Mostly I just sleep with the braid in for days until the frizziness gets irritating before I brush it out. I only redo the small ones every few days."
"Have you been doing that?"
"Sometimes."
He clicked his tongue, a soft, affectionate sound. "No wonder you're always complaining about knots."
Roy laughed, a small sound against Rosa's skin, and she shivered, her hand rising to rest over him, a gentle protective pressure. Jason was weaving the strands now, his fingers moving with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic, and Rosa's eyes had closed again, her breath slow and even.
"Almost done," Jason said.
"Mm."
The last plait was tied with a carefulness that Roy felt more than saw, the tug of the band gentle through Rosa's hair, and she let out a sigh that seemed to reach for something deeper than the air. Her hand had gone still over Roy, her heartbeat slow and sure beneath him.
Jason leaned in, his lips brushing the crown of her head. "There."
Rosa didn't open her eyes. Her mouth curved just slightly, a sleepy, grateful thing. "Thank you."
"Always."
Roy pressed himself closer to the warmth of her, feeling the weight of the day settle over them all like a blanket. The room hummed around them, the solar panels catching their last faint light, the hydroponic shelf whispering its quiet green song, and Roy let his eyes close, listening to Rosa's heartbeat, to Jason's steady breath, to the soft, shared quiet of a home that held them all.