HOME | LATER IN THE MORNING THAN EXPECTED
"—clock the Circle." He groaned, one eye willing to open while the other staunchly refused, suddenly aware of the weight of a comfortable, familiar field and the tangle of a warm, familiar body against his.
Charity.
He sighed, a lopsided, sleepy smile creasing its way into his face as he shifted, curling tighter around her deliciously petite form, arms snaking under her body to hold her and lips pressing against her pale shoulder, not really wanting to wake her. No one had been dreaming. Nothing had been an intoxicated fantasy. No one even knew except the two of them. She'd not only slept in his bed, but they'd brought their bodies together after what felt like a lifetime of longing to.
And it was everything.
She was everything—
Or, she had been once. He heard his pulse pound in his ears, thundering between his temples, and his head stung. Biting his lip, he realized everything he'd told himself for years had been unraveled in one night. In less than a house, Charity D'arthe had done what only she was capable of and taken him entirely apart. It was too lovely, too perfect, and yet whatever consequences would slither their way into this moment, Rhys couldn't bring himself to clocking care. Everything had been worth it. He'd wasted so much time in fear already. This time, this time, he'd fight—
Far too well-trained to fall back asleep no matter how hungover or how exhausted, the Sergeant simply drifted in a comfortable haze for several minutes, guessing at the time and vaguely aware he'd promised to show up at his office to file all the paper work necessary to make sure those clocking Black Hand wicks went to prison for a very, very long time.
Oh, Gods, he didn't want to move. It was his day off, but he'd have to stand by his word. Just ... not on time. Definitely not on time.
Thump.
His bedroom door still closed, eager grey paws found the gap where the door met the frame, pattering desperately for a few moments before mewling, angrily letting Rhys know he'd not only overslept but he had her to attend to when it came to matters of breakfast.
Thump.
The tall blond groaned under his breath, convincing both eyes to open this time and reluctantly sliding away from the woman it'd taken far too many years to get into his bed. Tucking blankets around her delicately while his osta continued to paw at the door impatiently, he quietly padded about his room for clothes that weren't bloodied or dirty, tossing everything over a shoulder before he opened the door to an expectant companion, her amber eyes staring up at him as if she had something important judgment to pass upon his disheveled self,
"Nothing you haven't seen before. Go on." Rhys smirked, whispering as if the creature understood him before he made his way into the kitchen without bothering to dress, Jynx at his heels as if she'd never eaten once in her life, "If you could get the clocking paper, perhaps I'd be more inclined to feed you on time. But, no."
His voice was gravely and tired, and he tossed his clothes over a chair while he set food on the floor for the osta and snatched the paper from outside his door with a comically minimalist level of discretion. Squinting at the blur of words, he simply set the paper on his small kitchen table and grabbed most of his clothing again, leaving his shirt hung over the back of the chair.
Quietly, Rhys made his way into the bathroom to wash away the night before with as much hot water as he could stand, though he was far too incapable of focusing to shave. Staring at his flushed, aching self through the steam, he was very aware of everything that had happened, lingering thoughts of what, exactly, had filtered into his senses through the magical connection he willingly shared with the delicate pianist in their intoxication leaving a strange taste in his mouth at the memory.
It was not the flavor of regret.
Glancing down at his fingers curled around the bowl of the sink, the tall blond sighed, narrow shoulders sagging, the green of his uniform trousers glaring back at him in reminder of his rank, his duty, his clocking job. But had he harmed anyone? No. Gods, no. Everything else about last night once in the safety of his home was all so clocking right. Then that, even that, was right, too. Just once. Now he knew, didn't he? Now he knew.
With that self-conscious justification tucked into the aching cavity of his chest, the young Valentine made his way back into the kitchen, committing himself to being unexpectedly late into his office but quite confident after all their drinking last night, not a single member of his squad would consider it a problem. What they didn't know wouldn't matter, not this time. So, Rhys tucked away the thoughts that gnawed heatedly at the back of his mind and went about keeping himself busy instead. Out of habit and muscle memory, he put the kettle on and lit the stove, beginning his morning routine of fixing breakfast, this time remembering he was cooking for two.