You’re awfully quiet.” Rafe cleared his throat. “Unless you want some down time. No worries on that. I can hang—”
“No, no. You I want to talk to.” He snuggled down into the bed, getting comfortable. “I’m just trying to get… trying to get things to fit around me.”
The pillows were unfamiliar. Not bad, just unfamiliar. Donal’d been firm about him not taking anything out of his house but some clothes and the cat, but Quinn wished he’d thought to grab his bed pillows. It would make sleeping that much easier. Harley appeared to not be bothered as she stamped out a hollow in one, then curled her slinky body into it.
“I can hear you nesting,” Rafe teased. “Comfortable?”
“Now.” Quinn sighed, toeing off his shoes. “Okay. Really now.”
“Tell me how you’re doing. Gotta be shitty picking up pieces of your life and going over to Kane’s.”
“Miki’s. And Kane’s. And Sionn’s. And Damie’s.” He knew he sounded irritated, but Quinn’d gone past caring. “Shit, even the dog’s got an opinion. Harley’s not too happy about Dude’s existence. If there was a volcano nearby, there’d be a virgin canine sacrifice.”
“I think I can safely say that dog’s not a virgin. Sionn said he was packing up until a couple of months ago. Maybe six, tops.” Quinn could hear Rafe’s smirk. “Dude’s partially Kane’s dog too. Surprised the mutt isn’t as bowlegged as his master.”
“Kane’s not that bad.” It was a weak protest. Kane definitely was that bad, something Quinn learned after discovering the house had no-sex zones mapped out among its inhabitants.
“Q, somebody can get pregnant just by standing between Miki and Kane,” Rafe teased. “Just don’t sit on anything without a tarp on it.”
“I thought that was only for murders.”
“No. You don’t stand on a tarp. Walk into an office, and there’s a tarp. End game. Sit on a tarp in Kane’s house, don’t get pregnant,” Rafe clarified. “But I can see how you’d get confused.”
They went silly. They usually did. Talking with Rafe was like sliding into a sun-warmed fresh water pool, its soothing movements lapping over his body. Quinn felt his muscles unclench, his hips sink down and loosen. A few minutes passed, and he realized it didn’t hurt anymore to breathe.
It always hurt to breathe.
There were prickles and stones, small hiccups in a road of conversation where he stubbed himself to a stupor, playing pinball among unseen walls or things he should have taken care for. Quinn couldn’t begin to count the times when he said something and it poured out of him sideways, splashing acid instead of rose petals, burning the person’s ear.
He had no fear of that with Rafe.
There was never, ever any fear with Rafe.
He must have said something to Quinn, something Quinn should have answered, because a tickling whistle sounded through the phone. Jerking his attention away from the soft lull of his mind, Quinn blurted out, “I’m not asleep.”
“Didn’t think you were, babe. I could hear you breathing. And thinking.” A laugh, teasing to play, not to hurt, then Rafe rumbled, “Like the purr of my Chevelle. Listening to you think. I like watching you think too. Your eyes go all misty Irish green, like if I could fall into them, I’d find stone circles and rivers and daisy-covered hills.”
“I like that,” Quinn murmured back. “That I can just think with you. That I can talk to you.”
“Always, magpie. Always.”
Rafe was silent. Then Quinn heard him sigh, a heavy weight of air pushing out of Rafe’s soul.
“I never meant to hurt you, Q. Back then. Well, now too, but really, back then.”
There wasn’t ever a time when Quinn couldn’t turn around and find the specter of his youthful disillusionment haunting his every step. To have Rafe drag its corpse out, slathering it with an apology he didn’t need to make, was not something Quinn ever wanted to face.
“What did Connor tell you?
“No, no. You I want to talk to.” He snuggled down into the bed, getting comfortable. “I’m just trying to get… trying to get things to fit around me.”
The pillows were unfamiliar. Not bad, just unfamiliar. Donal’d been firm about him not taking anything out of his house but some clothes and the cat, but Quinn wished he’d thought to grab his bed pillows. It would make sleeping that much easier. Harley appeared to not be bothered as she stamped out a hollow in one, then curled her slinky body into it.
“I can hear you nesting,” Rafe teased. “Comfortable?”
“Now.” Quinn sighed, toeing off his shoes. “Okay. Really now.”
“Tell me how you’re doing. Gotta be shitty picking up pieces of your life and going over to Kane’s.”
“Miki’s. And Kane’s. And Sionn’s. And Damie’s.” He knew he sounded irritated, but Quinn’d gone past caring. “Shit, even the dog’s got an opinion. Harley’s not too happy about Dude’s existence. If there was a volcano nearby, there’d be a virgin canine sacrifice.”
“I think I can safely say that dog’s not a virgin. Sionn said he was packing up until a couple of months ago. Maybe six, tops.” Quinn could hear Rafe’s smirk. “Dude’s partially Kane’s dog too. Surprised the mutt isn’t as bowlegged as his master.”
“Kane’s not that bad.” It was a weak protest. Kane definitely was that bad, something Quinn learned after discovering the house had no-sex zones mapped out among its inhabitants.
“Q, somebody can get pregnant just by standing between Miki and Kane,” Rafe teased. “Just don’t sit on anything without a tarp on it.”
“I thought that was only for murders.”
“No. You don’t stand on a tarp. Walk into an office, and there’s a tarp. End game. Sit on a tarp in Kane’s house, don’t get pregnant,” Rafe clarified. “But I can see how you’d get confused.”
They went silly. They usually did. Talking with Rafe was like sliding into a sun-warmed fresh water pool, its soothing movements lapping over his body. Quinn felt his muscles unclench, his hips sink down and loosen. A few minutes passed, and he realized it didn’t hurt anymore to breathe.
It always hurt to breathe.
There were prickles and stones, small hiccups in a road of conversation where he stubbed himself to a stupor, playing pinball among unseen walls or things he should have taken care for. Quinn couldn’t begin to count the times when he said something and it poured out of him sideways, splashing acid instead of rose petals, burning the person’s ear.
He had no fear of that with Rafe.
There was never, ever any fear with Rafe.
He must have said something to Quinn, something Quinn should have answered, because a tickling whistle sounded through the phone. Jerking his attention away from the soft lull of his mind, Quinn blurted out, “I’m not asleep.”
“Didn’t think you were, babe. I could hear you breathing. And thinking.” A laugh, teasing to play, not to hurt, then Rafe rumbled, “Like the purr of my Chevelle. Listening to you think. I like watching you think too. Your eyes go all misty Irish green, like if I could fall into them, I’d find stone circles and rivers and daisy-covered hills.”
“I like that,” Quinn murmured back. “That I can just think with you. That I can talk to you.”
“Always, magpie. Always.”
Rafe was silent. Then Quinn heard him sigh, a heavy weight of air pushing out of Rafe’s soul.
“I never meant to hurt you, Q. Back then. Well, now too, but really, back then.”
There wasn’t ever a time when Quinn couldn’t turn around and find the specter of his youthful disillusionment haunting his every step. To have Rafe drag its corpse out, slathering it with an apology he didn’t need to make, was not something Quinn ever wanted to face.
“What did Connor tell you?
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