All Hail the Shifter King
Title: Sorry
Word Count: 1094
Crossposted here at runaway_tales
Note: A quick break from the current three-part posting because this scene just jumped into my head and refused to be quiet. From late-ish in the book.
It was late morning by the time Eli woke, his body contorted to fit into his wide armchair and the muscles of his back and legs screaming from the awkward position he'd slept in. He winced as he pushed himself into a normal sitting position, the thin quilt he'd pulled over himself falling to the floor and revealing his mud and blood-streaked clothing. He stared down at his shirt for a moment, blinking the sleep from his eyes, until the night's events came rushing back to him - startled and confused, he shoved himself out of the chair and only succeeded in falling to the floor, his half-numb legs burning with pins and needles.
The house was quiet, and with sunlight streaming through the wide living room windows it felt so surreal and ominous. Easing himself off the floor and onto the sofa, he massaged his calves and looked around the room, at the muddy footprints across the wooden floor, the pieces of torn clothing piled near his feet. Leaning over, he picked up the closest piece and rubbed it between his fingers, the soft white cotton marked with seared bullet holes and...
Gasping, he half jumped, half stumbled off the couch, staring down at the pile of blankets where he'd just been sitting. When it registered that the couch was empty - and it most definitely hadn't been when he'd collapsed in the armchair last night - he quickly scanned the room. Nothing. Not a trace of anybody, save the bowl of blood-tinged water and scattered scraps of roots and bandages on the floor.
"Bekah?" he called.
No response. He wandered from the living room to the kitchen and found only a pair of plates covered in crumbs and spots of fresh jam, an open bag of bagels on the counter. He twisted it closed without thinking, staring out at the patio for any signs of life other than the swarming insects and a few lizards scurrying across the hot stones. Nothing there, either, and as he patted his pockets in a futile effort to find his cell phone his ears pricked at the sound of running water upstairs. He called Rebekah's name again from the bottom of the stairs just as the water shut off, and when there was no answer a second time he tentatively headed upstairs, eager to know where she was but equally unnerved by the silence.
He touched the doorknob on the bathroom door at the same moment it opened, and stepped back just in time to keep Ryder from colliding with him. Steam billowed into the hallway around them as the two men stared at each other, Ryder with his typical barely-concealed annoyance and Eli in complete shock.
"You're... awake?" he managed, stunned.
"You're observant," Ryder replied, scruffing his hair with the towel draped around his neck, and he took in Eli's disheveled appearance with a wince of disapproval. "And filthy," he added. When he saw the wide grin spreading across Eli's features, he narrowed his eyes and took a step back. "What?"
"And you're alive!" Eli exclaimed, his shock giving way to a giddiness born of exhaustion, stress, and a bubbling joy. "I... how... Lords and Ladies, I could kiss you!"
"Yeah, let's not?" Ryder commented, his words taking on the tone of an uneasy question. "And I'm not sure how. I was hoping you could fill..." He cocked his jaw to one side and backed up a little when Eli took a step toward him. "Elijah," he said warningly. "I said let's -"
Maybe it was a combination of the stress and confusion and frustration and exhaustion, the rollercoaster of emotions since Merrick had shown up on his doorstep. Maybe it was the fact that he'd drifted to sleep convinced that they'd lost the war, only to find out in this very second that they'd... well, they'd not won the war, but they'd at least secured a battle, and that was better than nothing. And the joy, the sheer, overwhelming joy that despite the odds their ragtag group had made it, entirely intact, was almost more than he felt capable of processing. So while he hadn't actually intended to make good on what was usually one of his many ridiculous figures of speech, he moved without thinking and grasped the sides of Ryder's face, pulling him down until their lips met and holding him there for what felt like only a split-second - judging by how Ryder recoiled in shock before his hands braced against Eli's chest and shoved him away, though, it was considerably longer.
"Are you done?" Ryder asked, his voice almost uncomfortably cold, and for perhaps the first time Eli noticed the near-black bruising across Ryder's chest, the twisted purple-red scars from the bullets that, within weeks, would just be smooth white marks to join the myriad of scars that made up the roadmap of his skin.
"I... uh..." He backed away with his cheeks burning, keeping his eyes on the floor so as not to meet what was most definitely another classic Ryder glare. "Sorry, I... got a little carried away and -"
Ryder's hand fell across the back of his neck and he was pulled forward, and every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation of a punch to the stomach, perhaps a solid hook to the jaw, something that would leave him in a curled and bruising ball on the hallway floor. Instead, though, he was brought so close their bodies almost touched, and Ryder pressed his forehead to Eli's with a soft chuckle.
"You're an idiot," he murmured.
"Y-Yeah," Eli stammered, his face flushing so violently he thought he'd be ill. "And I'm sorry, I am, I just -"
"Thank you." The words that interrupted him were so quiet that Eli thought he'd imagined them. "For giving a shit."
"What was I supposed to do?" Eli asked, confused. "Leave you there?" He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, but if Ryder noticed the faux pas - and of course he did, Eli thought miserably, he always did - he didn't take the opportunity to ridicule him for it. "I mean... I... you're... you're welcome." He felt so acutely aware of the heat of Ryder's hand against the back of his neck that he found it difficult to speak. The nearness, the smell of the soap on his skin, was so unexpected and bizarre and entirely intoxicating.
"I mean it, you know," Ryder told him.
"I know." Oddly enough, he did. "So do I."
Word Count: 1094
Crossposted here at runaway_tales
Note: A quick break from the current three-part posting because this scene just jumped into my head and refused to be quiet. From late-ish in the book.
It was late morning by the time Eli woke, his body contorted to fit into his wide armchair and the muscles of his back and legs screaming from the awkward position he'd slept in. He winced as he pushed himself into a normal sitting position, the thin quilt he'd pulled over himself falling to the floor and revealing his mud and blood-streaked clothing. He stared down at his shirt for a moment, blinking the sleep from his eyes, until the night's events came rushing back to him - startled and confused, he shoved himself out of the chair and only succeeded in falling to the floor, his half-numb legs burning with pins and needles.
The house was quiet, and with sunlight streaming through the wide living room windows it felt so surreal and ominous. Easing himself off the floor and onto the sofa, he massaged his calves and looked around the room, at the muddy footprints across the wooden floor, the pieces of torn clothing piled near his feet. Leaning over, he picked up the closest piece and rubbed it between his fingers, the soft white cotton marked with seared bullet holes and...
Gasping, he half jumped, half stumbled off the couch, staring down at the pile of blankets where he'd just been sitting. When it registered that the couch was empty - and it most definitely hadn't been when he'd collapsed in the armchair last night - he quickly scanned the room. Nothing. Not a trace of anybody, save the bowl of blood-tinged water and scattered scraps of roots and bandages on the floor.
"Bekah?" he called.
No response. He wandered from the living room to the kitchen and found only a pair of plates covered in crumbs and spots of fresh jam, an open bag of bagels on the counter. He twisted it closed without thinking, staring out at the patio for any signs of life other than the swarming insects and a few lizards scurrying across the hot stones. Nothing there, either, and as he patted his pockets in a futile effort to find his cell phone his ears pricked at the sound of running water upstairs. He called Rebekah's name again from the bottom of the stairs just as the water shut off, and when there was no answer a second time he tentatively headed upstairs, eager to know where she was but equally unnerved by the silence.
He touched the doorknob on the bathroom door at the same moment it opened, and stepped back just in time to keep Ryder from colliding with him. Steam billowed into the hallway around them as the two men stared at each other, Ryder with his typical barely-concealed annoyance and Eli in complete shock.
"You're... awake?" he managed, stunned.
"You're observant," Ryder replied, scruffing his hair with the towel draped around his neck, and he took in Eli's disheveled appearance with a wince of disapproval. "And filthy," he added. When he saw the wide grin spreading across Eli's features, he narrowed his eyes and took a step back. "What?"
"And you're alive!" Eli exclaimed, his shock giving way to a giddiness born of exhaustion, stress, and a bubbling joy. "I... how... Lords and Ladies, I could kiss you!"
"Yeah, let's not?" Ryder commented, his words taking on the tone of an uneasy question. "And I'm not sure how. I was hoping you could fill..." He cocked his jaw to one side and backed up a little when Eli took a step toward him. "Elijah," he said warningly. "I said let's -"
Maybe it was a combination of the stress and confusion and frustration and exhaustion, the rollercoaster of emotions since Merrick had shown up on his doorstep. Maybe it was the fact that he'd drifted to sleep convinced that they'd lost the war, only to find out in this very second that they'd... well, they'd not won the war, but they'd at least secured a battle, and that was better than nothing. And the joy, the sheer, overwhelming joy that despite the odds their ragtag group had made it, entirely intact, was almost more than he felt capable of processing. So while he hadn't actually intended to make good on what was usually one of his many ridiculous figures of speech, he moved without thinking and grasped the sides of Ryder's face, pulling him down until their lips met and holding him there for what felt like only a split-second - judging by how Ryder recoiled in shock before his hands braced against Eli's chest and shoved him away, though, it was considerably longer.
"Are you done?" Ryder asked, his voice almost uncomfortably cold, and for perhaps the first time Eli noticed the near-black bruising across Ryder's chest, the twisted purple-red scars from the bullets that, within weeks, would just be smooth white marks to join the myriad of scars that made up the roadmap of his skin.
"I... uh..." He backed away with his cheeks burning, keeping his eyes on the floor so as not to meet what was most definitely another classic Ryder glare. "Sorry, I... got a little carried away and -"
Ryder's hand fell across the back of his neck and he was pulled forward, and every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation of a punch to the stomach, perhaps a solid hook to the jaw, something that would leave him in a curled and bruising ball on the hallway floor. Instead, though, he was brought so close their bodies almost touched, and Ryder pressed his forehead to Eli's with a soft chuckle.
"You're an idiot," he murmured.
"Y-Yeah," Eli stammered, his face flushing so violently he thought he'd be ill. "And I'm sorry, I am, I just -"
"Thank you." The words that interrupted him were so quiet that Eli thought he'd imagined them. "For giving a shit."
"What was I supposed to do?" Eli asked, confused. "Leave you there?" He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, but if Ryder noticed the faux pas - and of course he did, Eli thought miserably, he always did - he didn't take the opportunity to ridicule him for it. "I mean... I... you're... you're welcome." He felt so acutely aware of the heat of Ryder's hand against the back of his neck that he found it difficult to speak. The nearness, the smell of the soap on his skin, was so unexpected and bizarre and entirely intoxicating.
"I mean it, you know," Ryder told him.
"I know." Oddly enough, he did. "So do I."