There’s an irritating chirping noise at my ear, far more perky than anyone needs to be at 1 in the fucking morning. Anyone with a healthy respect for sleep, anyway.

“Sir, are you all right?”

I pry my eye open and look at her, biting back a snarled reply. It’s not nice to snap at the prom queen; it’s not her fault that she just interrupted the first two solid hours of sleep I’ve had in quite some time. Never mind the six hours beforehand where I was staring at the ceiling of the cabin, fighting the urge to track a stewardess down and demand alcohol, or possibly a horse tranquilizer should they have one on hand. All that would do is give me a hangover on top of sleep deprivation. No need to give myself another motive to mass murder.

“Sir?” The prom queen is starting to look a little worried now, and not just a little like she wants to call over her manager so she doesn’t have to deal with this.

Right. None of that was out loud, and the sunglasses probably didn’t help.

“Fine.” My voice comes out sounding like hell, worse than some mornings after concerts. I’m way too fucking old for this shit. I don’t bother plastering on a smile. “We’ve landed.”

I’ll give her credit, she’s got acting skills. Her bright, toothpaste ad smile almost looks real. “Yes, sir. Welcome to France.”

“Great. Thanks.” Now tell me what the fuck I’m doing here, other than wasting about a thousand dollars in the name of a good night’s sleep?

It’s times like this where it’s probably a good thing I have money to burn. Most people’s home remedies for insomnia don’t involve a passport, but the milk in my refrigerator was three weeks too old and there’s no chance in hell I’m getting laid anytime soon. So. France.

I’m an Elfman; we do things the hard way. Like Rick wasn’t enough of an example of that mentality. He might say that he refuses to get the shooting permits on principle, but we both know how it goes. It’s just too easy to buy the damned things.

Which, I suppose, is why I find myself on the streets of gay Paris at 3 in the fucking morning, baggage in hand, jetlagged and looking very homeless. The nice hostile cabdriver seemed to think so. I’ve forgotten most of the very little French I learned when I was 18, but I remember the curses. I heard a lot of them on the way here.

Amazing, what a bribe can do.

The cabbie still seemed reluctant to come to this side of town. It was a shitty side of Paris thirty years ago. Those three decades haven’t been kind to me or to the neighborhood. The sidewalks have cracked to pieces. Even the prostitutes won’t stand near the gutters; they lean against the walls to avoid the smell of piss and stale wine, smoking cigarettes and looking bored. Many of the windows have bars over them now; the ones that don’t are cracked in places.

Still, sadly, the worst part of Paris is still somehow cleaner than the best part of LA. There are still lights behind the stutters, soft music through the walls, ghosts and old gods in every alley. The city never sleeps.

Another thing we have in common these days.

I think I know where I’m going now. I recognize these buildings. That’s the corner we used to stake out to play for coins, making just barely enough to eat and pay rent. There’s the alley where Rick had to save me from an untimely death at the hands of a rich boy who’d known just enough English to piss me off. I don’t remember what he said; probably not much. I was easier to piss off those days. I’m too tired, lately. The best I can manage is snarling and pulling away. I’ve gotten good at it, with practice, and reputation counts for much. They haven’t eaten me alive yet.

The fire’s guttering, though. I can feel it, and it terrifies me. But there’s not much I can do about it.

There’s an easy rhythm to lighting a cigarette, a hollow comfort in watching the match burn down. I let it burn down. It almost becomes a futile point as someone, too close, murmurs a few husky words in my ear and I nearly drop the match.

I look up, barely managing not to whirl. That’d be weakness. Showing throat at the wrong time can get you killed. So I turn just enough to catch sight of dark hair, leather duster. The duster’s expensive, but that says jack shit.

The rasp in my voice actually helps with snarling. “I don’t speak French. Go away.”

A moment’s pause. Then, with just the edge of humor, the voice tries again. It’s soft, male, smoker-rough. Familiar. “Can I get a light?”

I turn, because despite his penchant for assault charges on the press, this is about as close to safe as you’re going to get on Paris streets at 3. Even if my brain made the connection between his voice and his name, it’s still a little disorienting to find oneself looking at someone you know an ocean away from home.

He’s gone downhill again; his hair is lank around his face, and his face is streaked with dirt. Still, there’s no missing the Cherokee cheekbones or the wicked look in his eyes. Scary, how he can go from lost to so grounded that you feel like you’re the one who should be confused.

When someone said they should forward his mail to ‘An actor, some bench in some park, some country, Earth’, they weren’t kidding.

I hold up the match and offer a pale smile. “Johnny.”

He smiles, like he’s always surprised when someone remembers him, and gives me a polite nod.  He leaves the cigarette between his lips, just bends to touch the end of it to the match.  If the wind acted up, it could backfire and burn that pretty face to melting.  The wind doesn’t act up.

I shake the match out just before it burns my fingers.

I half expect him to be gone when I look up, but he’s still there, studying me. He doesn’t bother looking away or hiding it. But then, I don’t suppose he would.

I meet his eyes, hold them, then go back to my cigarette. Fuck it; I’m too tired to be polite.

Johnny seems to accept that. We settle into a silence, warm and comfortable. I’ve seen him do this with Tim; I wonder, if I looked up, if we could hold a conversation of glances. Probably not. They live off appearances. I live on sound.

Still, when I start walking again, Johnny follows.

His heat is almost a solid thing against my side, carrying through the still night air. When I look up, he’s studying the closed windows like he’s never seen them before. It takes him a second to notice the scrutiny, but all he does is look back at me. Whatever he sees makes the edge of his mouth turn up in the smallest smile before he looks up at the sky. I follow without thinking. The sky’s just as blank here as it is in LA, the stars blotted out with smog.

I look back to my side, and Johnny’s gone.

Well. I’m surprised that lasted as long as it did. Still, I end up looking over my shoulder after him, not really expecting anything.

Johnny blinks at me from a few steps behind, like a cat that can’t quite figure out the strange behavior of humans. He catches up with a few longer steps, crosses his arms over his chest and stares at something straight ahead.

Right. Johnny’s insane. With that issue resolved, I can get back to walking.

Memories. I remember there used to be a street market here. It was usually my job to go get food and take Bodhi with me, more for Rick’s benefit than Bodhi’s. He was always such a little fucking hellion with Rick, but he managed to behave himself with me. There was probably more than a little hero worship involved there; he was young enough to mistake me for someone he wanted to be when he grew up. Thank God he grew out of that and into much better heroes. Sticky fingers in my hair, skinny arms around my neck and his mother’s eyes peering up at me every time I stopped. Usually he slept through the walk home.

Home.

Jesus, I can’t see it fucked up like the rest of the places on this street. I can’t look at the cracked windows and remember that even if we were starving, packed 5 deep in a one bedroom apartment, we always kept that place clean. Have to leave at least one memory pure.

Johnny stops when I do, even if he’s looking in the opposite direction. He looks and tilts his head at me, still curious, and somehow that conveys more actual concern than anything I’ve felt in months.

“Lost my way,” I lie, and start to turn left. He doesn’t move for a second, letting me take a few steps, then shakes his head.

He seems to make some sort of decision between one second and the next. His voice is almost a jolt after the silence. “Danny. This way.”

I don’t take directions well. For a second, I almost resist to defend a spur of the moment decision, but the look that crosses Johnny’s face changes my mind. If it was important enough to bother with words…

I follow him. The smile he spares me, sudden and warm in the dark, makes it worth it. What the fuck; I’m going to end up taking a taxi to find a hotel anyway.

There’s more energy in the way he’s walking now. He doesn’t look up at the sky anymore, just stretches out an arm and lets it trail along the wall, leaving long stripes of clean on the otherwise dusty brick. Funny, the things you notice with insomnia. Like the fact that he smells like lavender and cigar smoke, richer than the cheap shit in a pack of Marlboros. Expensive tastes, apparently, even if he is running around in Salvation Army rejects and boots that are held together by tape.

The area gets better the farther we walk. The barred windows get fewer, and cleaner. There are bright posters stapled to the poles, fresh paint on the fences. A sign in one of the windows declares ‘Free Tibet!’ and then, further down, ‘Joey Ramone, 2001’. The air smells cleaner, somehow. There’s something bizarrely comforting about the chalk drawings on the sidewalks, even if the walls have decades-old bullet holes.

The houses turn into storefronts, though some look so dusty that they obviously haven’t opened in years. Wonder what happened to them. Disease, or bankruptcy, or did they leave one day and decide to not go back?

I shouldn’t like that last possibility half as much as I do.

Johnny stops in front of one of the stores, a vintage shop with dust caked thick on the glass. There’s a sign over the door that reads something about Jesus and whales in French. It actually takes a moment for me to get the hint, but when he starts digging for keys, it’s not hard to miss my cue to leave.

Right. I nod at him rather stupidly, even though he isn’t looking at me, then add, “Night.”

He glances up from under sickeningly thick eyelashes, and there’s something almost painfully young about that expression that I stop. Then his mouth curves again, a slow and secret smile. Putting the keys back in his pocket, he comes back down the steps and stops just out of reach. With the streetlight reflecting off his hair, he doesn’t look quite human, more like something strange and beautiful and utterly alien. Even with a smudge of car oil streaked up his jaw.

Jerking his chin at the building, he asks, “Are you coming in or not?”

I blink at him. Maybe with sleep, this would make sense, but not now. Somehow I’ve gone from my basement to an unprovoked offer of hospitality from someone I haven’t seen in almost three years. I’d feel guilty, but it’s so random that it has to be just a whim of his.

Yeah, Elfman. He always adopts wayward composers and offer to let them come in his loft. You look like shit and he’s probably high. Say no.

My mouth doesn’t quite work. Johnny blinks at me, then takes that last step. His fingers close around my wrist with a grip that might as well be steel. I look at his face, expecting annoyance or at least exasperation, but he just looks sympathetic. I wonder how many homeless people have ended up going home with him like this. Maybe he’s set up some sort of shelter for the unfortunate up there.

The skin of his fingers up to the third knuckle feels like silk, the tips rough with calluses from hours of guitar playing. Some part of me wants to feel the roughness under my tongue.

Pervert. Compared to me, he’s just a baby. A very beautiful kid with a good heart, who is currently humming something and pulling me behind him towards the alley at the side of the building.

His eyes are on some mural that covers the cement ground, vibrant pinks and lurid blues in what looks like a representation of the Sistine Chapel ceiling. If his hand wasn’t still on my wrist, I’d guess that he’d forgotten I was here. Maybe so, but I still end up coming with him as he goes to one of many doors. It looks like a service exit, but opens with a twist of Johnny’s key into a dark stairway.

He turns just enough to give me another smile that curls up like a knot of warmth in my stomach. “Make sure to close the door behind you.”

Great. I can handle direct orders. I let him pull me into the dark, tugging the door shut behind me. It locks with a metallic little click, plunging us both into a dark so thick I can feel it against my skin.

All I hear is breathing, soft and warm in the dark. If it wasn’t for his grip on my wrist, I’d probably be panicking about now. Not particularly fond of enclosed spaces, me?

Finally, Johnny makes a little “aha” noise. Another click, and there’s light as harsh as the darkness was soft. I can’t help flinching. It takes a second to focus, blinking, until the blur of light and pain is replaced by actual vision. Ratty, worn gray carpeting over cement steps, a bare lightbulb dangling from a chain just in front of the doorway. It’s a very honest lighting, making it hard to miss the cigarette butts clumped at the foot of the steps or the waterstains along the walls. It makes Johnny’s face mostly light and shadow.

He tugs at my wrist, urging me up the stairs. They creak treacherously with each step, but the light thankfully gets a little dimmer with each step up. Two flights later, it’s at a nice, dark level. Johnny lets go of my wrist to start fumbling with his keys again. The door is scratched, missing paint in the shape of an A. I’m guessing that’s where the letter used to be.

I rub my wrist, feeling cold.

The door swings open with a long, satisfying creak into more darkness. Johnny nods at me, then steps over the small pile of takeout menus gathered in the doorway. I follow, more in lieu of anything else to do.

At least this time there’s a light switch. A couple of lamps turn on, just enough light not to kill yourself by. Johnny’s in full motion, not looking at me as he shrugs out of his coat and throws it across a chair already stacked high with scripts. Scrubbing at his face with one hand, he toes out of his boots and says to no one in particular, “Make yourself at home.”

That said, he disappears through an open doorway. His voice rings out, soft and lilting like someone talking to a child, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.

Definitely high. Jesus, why didn’t I just go to Africa if I wanted to have bizarre drug related experiences?

I pull off my coat and set it on the arm of the couch, trying not to disrupt the stack of scripts. Most of them look like they haven’t been touched. With titles like “Sleepless in Seattle 2”, I honestly don’t blame him. Somebody needs to fire their agent…

It’s a nice apartment. Hallucinogenic, yes, but nice. Apparently his Goodwill tastes don’t stop at clothing. Still, it all looks comfortable, lived in. Warm. More than I can say for my apartments, anyway.

The couch groans rather alarmingly when I sit down, but doesn’t collapse into a pile of dust. I suppose that’s something. It’s remarkably comfortable when it stops complaining, soft and well worn in, buried in so many blankets you can’t really tell what the upholstery looks like. It’s probably better that way.

Something rattles, then groans. I can hear a shower start in the other room, just loudly enough to let me know that the door isn’t shut.

Interesting idea of hospitality you have, Johnny. Not that I’m complaining. I couldn’t handle having somebody up my ass at the moment, asking all the polite questions, looking stiff and courteous and cold. Don’t need to feel like any more of an intruder in life than I already am.

I climb off the couch, wincing as my back protests loudly, and go to the side of apartment with windows. Not much of a view, seeing as all they face is brick wall, but if you listen you can hear someone in the next apartment sharing their music with the neighborhood. Guitar, it sounds like. It’s not bad. Not good, but definitely not bad.

Yeah, I remember being like that, when life had potential. I’m not that fucking old. I remember when I used to own the music, not the other way around. Back then, I would have done anything for the chance to play it for the rest of my life.

Which I am. So what’s the problem?

Yeah, Elfman. What is the problem, other than it’s not your music anymore? You’re still getting paid. Isn’t that enough?

C’mon now. We paid good money for you. Do what we say. Williams would. We’ll give you a pretty gold statue if you make it heroic, if you make it something we can understand. We’ll respect you. We’ll make you one of us.

So what’s the problem? Everybody has their price.

Shit. I don’t want to do this anymore. Even if the music shreds at my insides, rips me apart, I just… I can’t. Not if I don’t believe in it anymore. Not if I’m not sure I ever will again.

Sad. It’s been thirty years since the need to run, to go underground and pretend I can live in someone else’s skin, first kicked in. I should’ve outgrown it by now.

There must be some way to get out.

The water’s stopped. Maybe I can leave by the time he’s dried off-

No. Damn it, stop. It’s just Johnny. Besides, where the fuck do you think you’re going to go? Hollywood’s about as small and inbred as it gets. You live in a glass bubble, and it’s running out of air, and you can’t. get. out.

Footsteps on wooden floor ring out behind me, and I turn around without really thinking to find Johnny standing there. Thankfully, he’s not looking at me, his attention focused on a ball of gray fur curled up in his arms. He doesn’t seem to be much daunted by the fact that his hair is dripping on the ball, or that said ball is shedding on his bare chest.

Bending just enough that the worn hotel towel threatens to go sliding off his hips, he presses his lips between two furry ears and catches the paw that comes up to swat at his nose. With a grin, he kisses the paw, then sets the bundle of fur down. It takes off like a streak to crouch in the shadow of the kitchen table, eyes glowing balefully.

Johnny sniffs, dusting the fur off his chest for a few seconds until it seems to occur to him that it’s a moot point. Then he lifts his chin to look at me.

And somehow, I get the feeling he knows, because everything about him changes. He straightens, blinking at me, then shakes his head. His voice is almost conversational, like he’s been following an exchange in his own head. “Well, c’mon. Sit down. You need a drink more than I do.”

Maybe I’m the one who’s high. Probably the sleep deprivation. Or hell, maybe I finally passed out and I’m laying in an alley somewhere with a bum looking through my wallet. Maybe I’m still in LA. Maybe I’m curled up in an asylum somewhere, rocking back and forth and muttering to myself.

I’d accept that, at this point.

Regardless, I cross the room and drop on to the couch. I think my hands are shaking a little, or a lot. Can’t seem to decide between too hot and too cold, judging from the chills and the cold sweat. Maybe I’m going to have a breakdown. Fuck. And I didn’t even schedule one in.

Okay. Hysterical laughter is not the best way to deal with this. If you’re doing to snap, do it in your own apartment. Or hell, in Rick’s. He’s earned it.

The other end of the couch bends under someone’s weight. I’d like to think my head didn’t snap around. Then again, I’d also like to think of myself as stable, and that’s not going well tonight.

Johnny just presses a mug of something into my hands and slumps against the opposite arm of the couch. He doesn’t even pretend to pay attention to anything else, just fixes those almost-black eyes on me. Somewhere in the last few seconds he threw on black sweatpants. His bare feet look soft, tan against the worn pastel of the fleece blanket.

So. I turn to face him the same way, sparing a distracted moment of guilt for putting my feet on his couch. He doesn’t seem to care a whole hell of a lot. Still, I look down into the mug. It’s a warm mahogany brown, about the same color as the floorboards, and smells rich. For the first time in a while, my stomach doesn’t utterly rebel.

“Thanks.” It’s a weak sentiment, not quite enough, so I try again. “Sorry.”

He blinks at me, once, then smiles without showing teeth. Taking a drink, he cradles the mug in his lap like a precious thing. “You,” he seems to decide finally, “are fucked up.”

I’d like to say that didn’t sting. If Johnny Depp the drugged up, press assaulting wonderboy calls you fucked up, you’re as much as a lost cause. “Yeah. Well. Obviously.”

Those dark eyes don’t flicker. How the fuck can he go from expressive to blank like throwing a switch? “I like that.”

“Great. Thanks.” A cautious taste tells me that there’s enough alcohol in this drink to strip paint. I respect that. I keep drinking.

Johnny snorts and leans his cheek against the back of the couch.  A tendril of hair slides out from behind his ear to tangle in front of his nose.  “You think I don’t know how it happened? It always happens, no matter how much you love what you’re doing.”

How very comforting. I palm the mug, trying to get warmth back in my fingers, and somehow the words slip out. I sound too close to choked. “A fucking noose.”

“Or a leash. All the same, really.” Shifting down until his head is resting on the arm of the couch, feet almost touching mine, Johnny closes his eyes and seems to address no one. “It’s gotten worse, recently. They don’t want to hear it unless you’ve made them a few million. Any less than that and they think they can all but fuck you up the ass off camera.”

The noose eases, a little. “Never mind they’ve never made a thing in their lives.”

“Except money. I suppose that’s the important part.” Johnny cracks open an eye. “You want to run.”

Not fair, going from impersonal to so close to the bone. My throat closes around the words, so I just end up staring at the coffee table and pretending to read the titles of the books piled high.

“But it’s not just the scores, is it?” Something clinks as it’s set down on the coffee table. “You feel like you can’t feel anything anymore. Frozen over. Numb. So you’re doing whatever you can to get it back.” A soft huffing noise that could be laughter. “Though I have to admit, wandering the French ghetto is a new one.”

Damn it. Honesty’s a bit like a knife in the gut, twisting very slowly. My head fucking hurts.

“Yeah. Okay.” The weight on the couch shifts, and suddenly there’s a body crawling over mine. My head snaps around so fast I almost hit Johnny, who just ignores me and takes the mug out of my hands. Before I can reach for it, trying to bring back the warmth in my hands, he lowers himself to his elbows. He’s almost hot to the touch from the shower, just heavy enough to be comforting. Resting his forehead on mine, he closes his eyes. His mouth almost touches mine as he says, “But you don’t have to do that, all right?”

Anger flares up, bright hot, and it almost feels good enough to act on it. Almost good enough to shove him away and snarl cutting words, or maybe just hit him until he feels the anger too.  I can almost hate him for being so fucking calm.  Some of that venom spills into my voice. “The fuck else am I supposed to do?”

He blinks, eyelashes dragging across my cheeks. He’s not smiling as he bends down and presses his mouth to mine.

And… oh. Warm. His mouth is soft, the place around it rough with stubble. The quick, almost animal swipe of his tongue across my lower lip gives me the strange feeling of being tried out, tasted. Whatever he found, he apparently approved, because the next kiss is hard enough to bruise.

Dizzy, like there’s not quite enough air in the room anymore. When he licks again, I press back, less asking than demanding. He lets me in anyway. The inside of his mouth tastes faintly like alcohol and curry, wet heat. Somehow my hand ends up tangled in his hair, wet long strands wound between my fingers. He makes a hungry noise and fists his hand in my shirt, then breaks away.

Too soon. Jesus, I’m dizzy. The room’s fucking spinning, and I’m not really sure how I feel about it. I close my eyes, willing away the faint echo of pain in between my eyes, then open them again. Probably not a good sign that it takes me a minute to focus.

I expect to see him leaning over me with that “how do I fix it?” look on his face, but instead there’s just ceiling so far away it’s blurry, and a warm mouth at my throat. Which is… wonderful, actually. It’s the swipe of a tongue and the sharpness of teeth as he bites down like he’s trying to brand, a knife’s edge between good and too much.

I don’t know what kind of noises I’m making. I don’t really want to. Easier to close my eyes and shut that out, concentrate on how it feels. The weight of him as he shifts down, squirming until he’s sprawled between my legs. It sounds like he’s purring, fingernails biting into my hip where he’s kneading with one hand while pulling my shirt up with the other. The touches are just this side of rough.

I have to hear the sudden, sharp gasp that gets torn out of my mouth. Johnny makes a happy noise against my throat. The sweatpants are gone; I’m amazed that they lasted this long, frankly. He gives up on the shirt and works a hand under the small of my back, pulling us into a tangle of bodies. The heat-pressure of him makes me want to dig my nails into his shoulders. So I do, probably leaving marks. The golden child doesn’t seem to mind, if the shudder is any indication.

Insane. All of this is absolutely… we shouldn’t. Hell, we can’t.

We are, though. And I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.

His hips rub into my thigh, rhythmic and absent and wonderful, as he starts in on the jeans. I reach down and help him, probably making things more complicated, but they go down.

“You,” Johnny murmurs, then stops. His hand slides down from ribs to mid-thigh, a lingering touch that somehow gives me chills. Doesn’t touch anything important, but important is subjective, apparently. He bends, another hungry kiss, and shifts to fit against me. It’s possibly the most awkward thing I’ve ever seen him do, but it’ll goddamn well work.

I like the sound he makes when I pull him down. I like a lot of the sounds he makes, actually. The soft, quick breathing, the gasps, the low moans that sound like they were pulled out by force.

He moves. We both move. Slide and burn, impossibly hot and hard against my skin. It’s been way too fucking long. He’s slick, shudders when I reach down and touch. I can’t help the noise that slips free when he does the same, pulling back just enough to give me a shaky, crazed grin.

Hot. Fast and slick and sweaty, Johnny’s teeth in my shoulder and his low crying noises in my ear, the arch of his spine, the calluses in his fingertips and the way he knows how to use them. The rhythm and the heat and feels good, so fucking wonderful-

Johnny jerks once, sharply, and arches back. The stretch of his throat in the dim gold light, and the sudden wet heat on my fingertips as he shivers and makes sounds that could almost be whimpers and doesn’t stop.

It jars something loose. I close my eyes and it still seems flashpaper bright. Dizzying again, like I’m going to faint or fall, only the rough couch fabric and the palm laid over my mouth keeping me from slipping. His skin tastes like sweat and coffee. I think I probably bit him.

God. I don’t think I can move.

The hand moves slowly away, and I have to open my eyes. It’s even harder to focus this time, but Johnny’s there as expected. His eyes are black, pupils lost against irises.

“Fuck,” he says, his voice rough from use.

Please, no. That might kill me. I blink at him, but the most intelligent thing I can manage is, “Yeah?”

He smiles, bright as a child. His lips are swollen, dark with bruises, and his hair is sticking up in places. If I could lift my head, I’d kiss him again. “No. I mean, you asked what else you were supposed to do besides self-destruct. I was just demonstrating.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I try to sit up, but it doesn’t go very well even before Johnny takes pity and pushes my shoulders flat against the arm of the couch. Okay then. I reach down, trying to swipe away some of the mess smeared across my stomach, and he swats my hand away and bends. The warm swipe of his tongue lets me know before I can ask. I twitch, and he sits up to grin at me. I glare back. “Bastard.”

“Thanks. You look better already” His fingers trail the places his tongue touched, then slide back up as Johnny swings his feet off the couch. My ego is distractedly glad that he staggers that first step forward. “I’m going to get a cigarette. You stay here and be naked and sleepy-looking.”

“M’kay.” Sad. It almost takes too much effort to curl up on my side. My body is not happy with the concept of moving and breaking the nice warm inertia working its way through my veins. Something warm and heavy lands on my hip, then gets pulled out to stretch over my shoulder. I’d glare at him for tucking me in, but that would require something like opening my eyes. Fuck that. His fingers slide through my hair, then slip away.

The darkness slides in with the familiar smell of smoke and the sound of his breathing, and I let it come.