Will's bedroom was a bit anticlimactic, she supposed, for all the time he'd spent trying to get her into it. Obviously, it had never been about the place itself, but it was strange. She clung to the doorframe, watching as he sat down and slipped off his shoes and unfastened his tie.
"You can come in," he said, like Delilah was a vampire that required the invitation.
The bed itself was full-sized, though she imagined his feet probably still hung off the edge. With a quilted comforter in a grayish green, laid over off-white sheets. Two pillows, and a thick wool blanket folded up at the end. There was a night table beside it with a marred left corner. He set his tie and watch on the table before unclipping his suspenders.
"I don't suppose I could sleep on the sofa?" She asked.
"I'm happy to share." His voice held all the infuriatingly polite insistence of a gracious host, but he wasn't really offering. He was expecting her to indulge him, and she would, in every mildly miserable way.
"As long as sharing a bed only means sharing a bed," she agreed. "Though it's still quite frowned upon to sleep next to a man I haven't married."
He grinned. "I could have something arranged--but isn't it fun to be a bit naughty sometimes?"
"When I'll be pronounced legally dead soon?" Delilah questioned, running her finger along the ridge in the doorframe, disturbing the dust that had settled there. "I might be impressed if you can swing that."
"It'd be neat to have a dead wife."
That word made her grit her teeth, but she turned it into a smile instead. She'd thought about it before though, marrying Will, and it had seemed like such a good idea then. When she'd thought of him differently and he'd been charming, polite, nonthreatening. What a stupid girl she'd been then, albeit much happier.
She tried to let her mind drift to that place where everything was peaceful and normal, and she'd been thinking about her future with hope. Maybe that would make this easier, if she could pretend, she didn't hate him and that they were just a normal couple going to bed together. Pretend the thought of sleeping next to him didn't make her feel queasy.
"Suppose I wouldn't mind giving my children a chance to be tall," she joked, but she'd thought about it before.
"Not all it's cracked up to be," he said, as he stood up and went to draw the shutters to the left of the bed. "My back hurts and I hit my head on things constantly."
The minimal light from the streetlights outside the window faded, but she could still hear the sound of the rain on the roof. Cars driving over the wet ground, dragging their tires through the puddles.
"Everything has a downside."
He crossed to the oak wardrobe that was placed against the far wall and pulled open a drawer at the bottom. "Mind if I change?"
"Should I leave?" She poised herself to exit.
He shrugged. "You can stay if you'd like, I don't particularly care."
"I'll just go use the bathroom," she said.
Delilah didn't need to use it, but she stayed in there for a couple minutes, looking at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale and there were bags under her eyes. She also became acutely aware of the way this nightgown fit her, the way it hung low around her chest without much to fill it out.
When she returned, Will was standing there in t-shirt and softer cotton trousers which sat low on his narrow hips and seemed to stop a couple inches short of his ankles. This was the least dressed she'd ever seen him. His arms looked thin, and the fabric of his shirt draped in a slightly uneven way over his waistband. She could see the defined edges of his collarbones.
"Would you like something to wear over that?" He offered, much to her surprise.
She was starting to feel a bit cold again. His apartment was significantly warmer than the archive, but it was still the end of Fall, and the nights were only getting colder. So, she nodded and accepted a sleep shirt. It had an odd texture, but it was thicker than her nightgown, and provided a bit more modesty.
Then he bent down and lifted the corner of the comforter, as if he were opening a door for her. "Make yourself at home," he said before walking out to turn off the overhead light in the main room.
Leaving her, standing stiffly at the bedside. It took a few moments before she was able to lower herself down and crawl under the covers. The sheets were flannel, warm against her skin as she turned herself on her side, facing the doorway as the lights clicked off. Then the only light was that bit that came in from the window in the kitchen.
She heard Will's footsteps, the slight creek of the wood floors as he walked around to the other side of the bed. The mattress squeaked, and she felt the sheets lift as he slipped in beside her.
He let out a soft sigh as his head hit the pillow. Then Delilah felt his hands, reaching for her in the dark, sliding underneath so he could wrap his long arms around her waist and tug her into the middle of the bed. Until she was pressed against him, from the back of her neck all the way down to her knees.
"What are you doing?" She asked nervously, her face feeling strangely warm. For all the time she'd spent with him, they'd never been so close. She could feel his bones, his ribs and hips poking her from behind. This was also the first time his head was right near hers without him leaning or stooping.
"Holding you," he murmured.
"I thought we were only going to sleep."
His breath was warm against the nape of her neck. "We are, but you're warm and you smell nice and I think cuddling counts as part of sleep."
She swallowed, her spit feeling particularly thick. "Alright," she said quietly. It wasn't though. She slept poorly as is, how was she supposed to sleep like this? In his bed, with him holding her too tight and too close.
She did try. Her eyes got heavy, her body relaxed, but she couldn't quite slip into sleep. It was like she was lingering on the edge of a dream, her mind wandering to the strangest places as she laid there. But she was still very much there, in the room, in the bed. Feeling the texture of the sheets, the awkward pressure of Will's arm beneath her, his breathing behind her.
For an hour she must've laid there, before she finally tried to wiggle her way out of his grip. Even in sleep he held onto her fairly firmly, but she managed to unwind his arms from around her torso and shuffle away from him, closer towards the edge of the bed. It was starting to feel too warm though, her mouth dry and underarms dampening with sweat.
The sound of the rain had stopped, and the clouds must have cleared because the light of the full moon through the big window was creeping in through the open bedroom door, and through the narrow gaps in the shutters.
Delilah rolled over, facing her sleeping captor. It was just bright enough for her to see him, the shape of his body under the blankets, his knees bent so his feet didn't stick out. His face was relaxed in a way she'd rarely seen it. Though he rarely looked angry or harsh, there was something peaceful about sleeping people. They were at their most vulnerable.
She could kill him with a kitchen knife right now if she wanted to. If she had the stones to try.
Instead, she quietly climbed out of the bed and tiptoed into the kitchen for a drink of cool water. She sipped straight from the tap with the sink on a slow drip. It ran down her face and chin, and she wiped herself dry with the shirt he'd given her. It smelled like him, but not the way his coat had picked up the scents of his life--rainwater, chemicals, glue, dusty books.
This was different, that faint, almost imperceptible human smell, a unique compound of sweat, oils and soap that lingered on your skin and intermingled with the fabric over dozens of wears. The sort of thing that made your clothes distinctly yours no matter how many times you laundered them.
She took off the shirt, folded it up and set it on the coffee table. Then stood in front of the window, folding her now bare arms against her chest. The insulation must've been poor because she could feel the cold air coming in from around the edges of the sil, as she stared out into the dark street, up at the yellow moon.
She stood there until her eyes started to feel heavy and she started to feel uncomfortably cold again. Then she went and took the wool blanket from the edge of Will's bed. It was scratchy, not well-worn, but it was warm, and she wrapped it around her shoulders and returned to the window as if in a trance.
Her eyes focused on that big yellow orb, everything else fading fuzzily into the background. She'd nearly forgotten how nice natural light was, and if she couldn't have the sun, this was the next best thing. It didn't warm her skin or turn sunflowers, but it was beautiful, oddly comforting.
She thought of the fall harvest festival in her hometown--and furthermore she thought of home. The way she'd found her mother in the kitchen when the moon was too full and bright and neither of them could sleep and they would both drink tea. Sometimes she'd tell Delilah about her father, what he'd been like, before he'd been shipped off to war never to return again.
Will had a similar story, but he'd been older, lost both parents and had to live with an estranged aunt who shipped him off to America for school as soon as he turned eighteen. She wondered if he'd always been this way, or if something had happened that changed him. Dead parents, a war, or just the very strange job that he'd landed himself in?
The floor creaked behind her, startling her severely. She turned around to see him standing there in the bedroom doorway. His hair was slightly mussed, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he walked towards her.
"Can't sleep or just can't sleep next to me?" He asked.
"Full moon always makes it hard for me to sleep," she said.
He placed his hand on the counter to their side and used the support to lean down. "How lycanthropic," he said with a mild smirk. "You feel like howling too?"
"It's very bright. Doesn't it bother you?"
"Occasionally, but I'm usually too tired to care," he explained, "or I close the shutters and curtains like a normal person."
She sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around her. "I haven't done much of anything recently, I have no good reason to be tired."
Her newspaper job had been monotonous and sometimes terrible, but at the very least she'd had a thing to occupy her time. There'd been structure, rules, consistency--something she'd so stupidly tried to resist by striking out on her own to try and solve a stupid murder that had already been solved. All because she couldn't leave well enough alone.
Now she had her answers and nothing else at all. Magic was real--it was as dead and useless a language as Latin, only good for showing off. Magic was real--someone had died to keep the secret of a very rich family and their collection of stupid old books. What did it matter if Will could make a pen disappear?
Why would he work for them? Why would he ruin Delilah's life?
