the silent hour of night

i'm not the man they think i am at home

Remi stifles another snicker, though the effort does little more than press it into the warm line of his mouth as he glances again toward the bed. Bold of you to think any of our children are prone to writing apologies, he thinks, the words dry enough to make up for the affection gathering beneath them. He is not nearly so sure as Ronin that jail and written explanations are far in the future, given that Carlo and Calan have managed to compress an alarming amount of incident into their first day with working knees, but for tonight, at least, they are home and asleep.

A resigned little sigh leaves him as Ronin straightens, and Remi reaches for his own drink again, taking a slow, thoughtful sip while the smoke and gin burn pleasantly over his tongue. Perhaps she already knows who it was, he suggests after a moment, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug as he looks sidelong at his husband. Maybe knowing when her rules are broken is one of her new powers. His brows rise faintly over the rim of his glass, mischief softening into something more complicated as Flora’s name brushes against the still-tender place their last conversation left behind. Though if it is, I imagine we will find out very quickly whether it extends to family exemptions, he adds, gaze flicking toward the boys before returning to Ronin. Or if lemon and lime over there are about to become Torchline’s youngest wanted criminals.