Chapter 7: The Morning After
He woke up to the smell of food. Not the burnt-coffee-and-microwaved-ramen smell of his own cramped walk-up, but something richer. Bacon, maybe. Eggs. The kind of breakfast that required actual effort, actual butter, actual intention. James's brain registered the scent before it registered anything else, and for a long, luxurious moment, he floated in that half-conscious space where the world was soft and warm and didn't require him to be a person.
Then the blanket shifted, and he remembered where he was.
He wasn't planning on being an actual human at the moment. The thought surfaced with surprising clarity given the fog in his head. He wasn't planning on speaking, or moving, or making eye contact with anyone. He wasn't planning on acknowledging that the sun was up, that the city was alive outside the windows, that he had a class at eleven he was already going to miss. He was planning on staying in that bed, in that warmth, in that scent of them, until the universe forced him to do otherwise.
But his bladder had other plans. And his stomach, traitor that it was, growled at the smell of bacon.
James dragged himself upright with the enthusiasm of a man emerging from a coma. The blanket that had been wrapped around him all night—Price's blanket, the heavy one with the soft flannel underside that James had stolen somewhere around three in the morning—clung to his legs as he swung them over the side of the bed. He didn't bother to untangle it. He just stood up, blanket and all, and let it drape over him like a big, fluffy toga.
The fabric pooled around his bare feet as he shuffled toward the bedroom door. His hair was an absolute disaster—there was no other word for it. It stuck up in every direction, defying gravity and logic, a dark halo of bedhead that made him look like he'd been electrocuted in his sleep. His eyes were barely open, slits of dark brown peeking out from under heavy lids. He didn't have the energy to blink properly.
He pushed the door open and stumbled into the living room.
The loft was bathed in late-morning light, golden and warm, streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The city skyline glittered in the distance, a postcard view that James had stopped noticing somewhere around the third time he'd woken up here. His gaze didn't linger on the view, though. It found the couch. And the chair. And the two men occupying them.
Ghost was on the couch, sprawled with the easy confidence of a predator at rest. He was wearing a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, his thick forearms bare, a plate balanced on his knee. He had a fork halfway to his mouth, and he froze mid-motion when James appeared in the doorway.
Price was in the armchair, a newspaper in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He looked up over the rim of his glasses—reading glasses, James had discovered, that made him look unbearably distinguished and had caused James to choke on his own tongue the first time he'd seen them—and a slow smile spread across his face beneath the salt-and-pepper beard.
There was a pause. A beat of silence.
"Morning, sweetheart," Price said, his voice warm as the sunlight. "There's food—"
James made a noise. It wasn't a word. It wasn't even a proper sound. It was a grumble, low and guttural, the kind of noise a gremlin might make if you woke it from a particularly good nap. He didn't acknowledge the offering. He didn't acknowledge Price's smile. He just shuffled across the room like a zombie in a blanket toga, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, and dropped onto the couch.
Not beside Ghost.
On Ghost.
Or more accurately, on Ghost's lap. James's head landed in the man's lap with a soft thump, his body folding onto the cushions in a heap of blanket and limbs. He let out a satisfied sigh, burrowed his face into the warm, solid weight of Ghost's thighs, and went limp.
Dead weight. Completely, utterly, absolutely unconscious.
Ghost stared down at the top of James's head. His fork was still suspended in mid-air, a piece of egg clinging to it for dear life. He blinked once. Twice. Then he looked across the room at Price, who was watching the scene with an expression of profound, amused exasperation.
"Did he just—"
"Yes," Price said, taking a sip of his coffee.
"He's asleep."
"Very."
"He's been asleep for—" Ghost glanced at his watch, "—twelve hours."
"Thirteen, by my count," Price said mildly. "He needed it."
Ghost looked down at James again. The kid's face was pressed against his thigh, his lips slightly parted, a small amount of drool already forming at the corner of his mouth. His breathing was deep and even, his body completely relaxed in a way that Ghost had never seen it during waking hours. James was always tense when he was awake—always vibrating with nervous energy, always ready to snap or snark or retreat. But asleep, like this, he looked younger. Softer. Like the weight he carried around with him all day had been temporarily set aside.
"Food?" Ghost offered, his voice coming out quieter than he intended. He nudged James's shoulder with his free hand. "Oi. Wake up. Eat something."
James made that noise again. The gremlin noise. It vibrated against Ghost's thigh, and Ghost felt something in his chest do a complicated, uncomfortable flip.
"He's not going to wake up," Price observed.
"He's making sounds."
"Protest sounds."
"He'll be hungry later."
"Then he'll eat later," Price said, turning a page of his newspaper with deliberate calm. "Let him sleep, Simon. He clearly needs it."
Ghost opened his mouth to argue—he always argued, it was practically reflex—but the words died in his throat. James had shifted in his sleep, one hand coming up to curl loosely around Ghost's calf, fingers brushing the bare skin just above his sock. The touch was unconscious. Reflexive. Like James was reaching for something even in his sleep.
Ghost closed his mouth.
He looked down at the kid sprawled across his lap, at the dark hair and the pale skin and the piercings glinting at the corners of his mouth. He thought about the night before—about the way James had laughed, bright and surprised, when Ghost had thrown him over his shoulder. About the way he'd melted, just melted, when Price had held his face between those big, calloused hands. About the way he fit between them like he'd been made for exactly that purpose.
"Fine," Ghost muttered, and he meant it to sound grudging, but it came out soft.
He set his plate aside on the end table. Then, slowly, carefully, he brought his hand down to rest on James's head. His fingers combed through the messy dark hair, working through the tangles with a gentleness that would have surprised anyone who knew him only as the man in the skull mask. James made a small sound in his sleep—not the gremlin noise this time, but something softer, almost content—and pressed his face more firmly into Ghost's lap.
Ghost's hand stilled for a moment. Then it resumed its slow, rhythmic motion.
"See?" Price said, not looking up from his newspaper. But there was a smile in his voice. "He's fine."
Ghost grunted. He picked up his plate again with his free hand, balanced it awkwardly on the arm of the couch, and resumed eating his breakfast with one hand while the other continued its gentle ministrations in James's hair. It wasn't the most practical arrangement. The fork kept clinking against the plate at awkward angles, and he had to contort his wrist to get the food to his mouth.
But James was asleep. James was warm. James was here.
Ghost kept stroking his hair and ate his breakfast one-handed, and didn't complain once.
The loft settled into a comfortable quiet. The only sounds were the soft clink of Price's coffee mug against the saucer, the rustle of his newspaper as he turned the pages, the distant hum of the city through the windows. Sunlight crept across the floor, inching its way toward the couch, and Ghost watched it move with the idle patience of a man who had learned, long ago, to appreciate stillness when he could find it.
James shifted again. His hand tightened on Ghost's calf, and he mumbled something unintelligible against Ghost's thigh—a word, maybe, or just a sound. Ghost couldn't tell. But he felt it vibrate through him, felt the warmth of James's breath through the thin fabric of his jeans, and something in his chest loosened.
"You're getting attached," Price said quietly, not looking up from his paper.
Ghost didn't deny it. "So are you."
Price's lips curved beneath his mustache. "I've been attached since he called me 'old man' and then turned the color of a tomato."
"He was brave."
"He was terrified."
"He did it anyway." Ghost paused. "That's not nothing."
Price looked up then, over the rim of his glasses, and met Ghost's eyes across the room. There was a weight to the look—a shared understanding that didn't need words. They'd both been in the field long enough to know that there was a difference between running from fear and moving through it. James ran. James snarked and deflected and retreated behind walls of sarcasm and attitude. But he also showed up. He showed up, again and again, even when it scared him.
That wasn't nothing. That was everything.
Price inclined his head, a small acknowledgment, and returned to his newspaper. Ghost returned to his breakfast. The sunlight crept across the floor, and James slept on, his head heavy in Ghost's lap, his hand curled around Ghost's calf like an anchor. And the loft hummed around them, a quiet, contented hum, like a cat purring in its sleep.