Super•Villainous

XLIX

When my eyes shot open an indeterminate time later, I suffered a moment of blank panic, the brand of panic accompanied momentarily by utter emptiness of mind. In thin beams creeping through broken eastern windows, the autumn sun lit up the dancing dust motes floating languidly through the air. I'd only meant to sleep a few hours, just enough to take the edge off of my fatigue, but I knew innately that it had lasted far longer than that.

Then I turned my head to the side and practically flatlined.

Long lashes feathered soft shadows over Atticus's cheeks. In his sleep, the forced tranquility he sculpted over his features during the day was stripped away. A thin crease formed a worried line between his brows, his lips pulled slightly down into a frown.

At that distance, so close that our breaths mingled in the space between us, I could count his every sun-marked imperfection, every nearly invisible scar. More alarming, I realized that the hand that pillowed beneath his head extended into the same arm that had also served as my cushion throughout our shared slumber.

Our legs overlapped into a tangle that made all plans of sneaky extrication impossible. As soon as I tried, those distractingly long lashes fluttered open, and we both went statuesque.

Although staring directly at him from any distance conjured it's own version of pain - a constant, hollow ache in my chest that became magnified in his presence - being beheld by him in turn felt infinitely worse. Something about the way his expression went from open to guarded, like he was constantly having to brace himself for a blow whenever he looked my way. I wanted the barrier gone, to rip it down brick by brick.

I didn't like the feeling. Not even Ezra had made me feel that way on our best days.

"Uh," I began tentatively, "morning."

He caught me off guard by sharing a small smile. "Not quite morning anymore, is it?"

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut at the sight, unsure if I preferred to burn the image into the back of my eyelids or completely erase it from memory.

"Is something wrong?" I heard a frown in his voice then, and, damn him, he placed a finger beneath my chin to tilt my face up for further scrutiny.

Reluctantly, I opened my eyes, and when I did I noticed other things, such as the absence of bruising underneath his eyes from an extended period of time without sleep, an ease to him that hadn't been there yesterday. "You look better every time I see you," I said, before I stopped to process how that might sound, and I promptly went on damage control. "I mean - physically! No, not physically in that way; more in — you look healthy. That's all."

I cringed. I sounded deranged.

His frown only deepened, and he shifted his torso so that we no longer faced one another. He gazed off somewhere into the middle distance of the rafters above us. Still, we touched almost everywhere else; my head pillowed on his arm, a separate hand grazing my own, and neither of us made a move to rectify the situation. For once, for the first time in what could have been days, we shared a small bubble of peace. We weren't surrounded by luxury, exactly, but nor were we in any immediate danger. Off the streets, and unable to leave until nightfall, what was the rush? Besides, our joint accumulated warmth within the sleeping bag made the crisp outside world all the less enticing. It held us in place, flies caught in a web.

"I've been stalling," Atticus eventually admitted, somber. "I should have told you what happened to your grandfather as soon as you mentioned him. It wasn't right. I was putting off the inevitability of you despising me more than you already do. I rationalized it by telling myself it would do more harm than good, and make our continued time together impossible for you to bear."