for 1000 nights i've been a restless soul
As Ronin presses against his back, Remi sighs, the sound leaving him slowly. One of his hands leaves the glass long enough to settle over Ronin’s where they link around his middle, fingers pressing there with quiet gratitude before he resumes the careful little ritual of smoke and citrus and gin. The warmth of his husband behind him steadies something the liquor has not quite reached, and through the bond his answer comes soft and immediate. I know.
He exhales again, watching the smoke thin inside the glass. It seems silly, because even though I know they are here and they are safe, my mind just keeps replaying all the ways that they might not have been. The thought carries the raw exhaustion of a fear too large to burn itself out in a single day. Missing cribs. Empty blankets. The silence where crying should have been. The impossible space between looking and not finding. Even now, with their sons snoring loud enough to prove themselves alive from the other room, some part of Remi remains trapped in that first awful moment when the world had narrowed down to absence.
At Ronin’s request about Caido, Remi stifles a snort, tilting his head just enough that his cheek nearly brushes his husband’s hair. You and me both, he agrees, and there is enough dry humour in it to keep that particular old horror from settling too heavily between them.
Only then does he glance around the Northaven properly, taking in the familiar curves of the houseboat, the places where two adults and two infants had already strained the seams and where two adults and two nine-year-olds will certainly make a complete nonsense of them. His shoulders sag a touch before his brows lift with the first glimmer of actual consideration. Do you remember Ianto’s wagon? he wonders, glancing at Ronin over one shoulder, his head tilting speculatively as the thought takes shape. Perhaps that is how.
He exhales again, watching the smoke thin inside the glass. It seems silly, because even though I know they are here and they are safe, my mind just keeps replaying all the ways that they might not have been. The thought carries the raw exhaustion of a fear too large to burn itself out in a single day. Missing cribs. Empty blankets. The silence where crying should have been. The impossible space between looking and not finding. Even now, with their sons snoring loud enough to prove themselves alive from the other room, some part of Remi remains trapped in that first awful moment when the world had narrowed down to absence.
At Ronin’s request about Caido, Remi stifles a snort, tilting his head just enough that his cheek nearly brushes his husband’s hair. You and me both, he agrees, and there is enough dry humour in it to keep that particular old horror from settling too heavily between them.
Only then does he glance around the Northaven properly, taking in the familiar curves of the houseboat, the places where two adults and two infants had already strained the seams and where two adults and two nine-year-olds will certainly make a complete nonsense of them. His shoulders sag a touch before his brows lift with the first glimmer of actual consideration. Do you remember Ianto’s wagon? he wonders, glancing at Ronin over one shoulder, his head tilting speculatively as the thought takes shape. Perhaps that is how.
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
