Hierarchy of Need [t.r]

Chapter Twenty Six

Leading her over took a moment longer than necessary, seeing as he was supporting most of her weight. Sitting Delilah down, his dark eyes raked over her for a moment to asses what to do.

"Do you remember that breathing technique I showed you? Back at Avery's manor?"

Her brows furrowed, was she hyperventilating? She hadn't noticed, everything was sort of a blur at the moment. Except him, Tom remained annoyingly in high resolution.

Sighing through his nose, Tom sat himself next to her, turning so their knees bumped and they were facing one another. "Purse your lips," raising a hand, he placed it over her own mouth. His mind quickly took note of how soft her lips felt pressed against the palm of his hand.

Shaking his head, he placed his other hand on her upper stomach, where her diaphragm was located. "Breathe into your stomach and hold."

They did it a few times, her eyes locked onto his. Pulling his hand away, he patted her on the cheek, "good girl."

She didn't have the energy to narrow her eyes, instead one question sprung itself forth. How did he even know how to do that? Had he taken medical training, perhaps?

With the tick of his jaw, Tom pulled his other hand off her and leaned back against the stone frame. He must've read her mind because he sighed then and ran a hand through his hair.

"Everyone has their moments when their fear catches up to them."

Her expression didn't waver as she looked at him, but there was obviously a glimmer of being perplexed behind her shining blue eyes. "What on earth could you be afraid of?"

Rubbing at his cheek, Tom looked at her for a moment as he debated on what he should tell her. Or if he even could. He took in the faded freckles that were scattered across her cheeks and nose. How her golden hair framed her face in a mess of curls. And the ever present aroma of peppermint, petrichor, and a sea in a storm.

When he was a child, he was afraid of many things. All varying in degrees of rationality.

The orphanage felt awake at night. Shadows appeared to be a heavier darkness that loomed over Tom at every corner. When he would walk down those narrow decrepit halls, the old floorboards would creak. The echo from them resounding off the chipped walls in a groan.

He would just sit alone in bed, sometimes till morning. Anxiously awaiting till dawn to reared its head so the orphanage would go to sleep.

However, he couldn't tell her that. He's never told anyone that.

Lastly his eyes traced the slender contours of her neck, watching how they moved when she breathed. "Do you fear death, Delilah?"

"No." She answered easily as she toyed with the hem of her skirt, as if the question was about the condition of the weather.

Delilah grew rigid once she finally recalled everything Harry had told her about Voldemort. About how his initial goal was immortality. After killing Harry, of course.

"Do you?"

He half heartedly shrugged but she knew the answer was yes. A million times yes. What she did next was utterly stupid, but lately her motor functions had been betraying her mind.

Delilah grabbed Tom's hand, it was considerably larger than hers and there was a warm comfort to it. He himself stiffened at the contact, feeling a chill ripple across his skin like water from her ever cold hands.

"Don't," her voice was soft and steady, but none of the tension left his body language.

"I know that sounds utterly ridiculous, but don't fear death. Look at it as the next great adventure." She nearly laughed at the accuracy of that statement. Look at her. She was killed and then thrown into the 1940s.