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Detraeus woke, for once in his remembered life, slowly.

He took in the details in fragments, one at a time. The warm blanket of dawn easing in over his shoulders. The heat of the air around him, so much more pertinent than he had become used to in the days of late. Cloth tangled at his feet.

And Araceli.

She was sleeping yet — her hair loose about his pillow, one of her legs tangled between his and her arm over him. His tail had looped itself over her, as it often seemed to, and she looked peaceful. Then came the memories of the previous night.

It seemed surreal to him, to have spoken of such things aloud. He never had, not to anyone but the woman who birthed him, and that had been in spite, anger, and viciousness. Not this. This had been vulnerability. Trust. And weakness. He’d allowed himself to fall apart at her feet and he wasn’t yet certain why she had not turned him away. Been disgusted. Terrified. Angry.

The fact that she hadn’t, though — the fact that she had not only bore the weight of the knowledge but stayed beside him all through the night — made him second-guess a whole new slew of assumptions. She had asserted that she loved him, previously, but she hadn’t known then, so how could she truly? Now, she knew everything. He was out of secrets to hide from her, and perhaps, if she could truly handle that and bear it, he owed it to her to attempt the impossible.

If she loved him, despite everything was, he owed her the world.

In absence of any pressing need to go anywhere and no desire to move regardless, Detraeus shut his eyes again and savored the simple fact of her presence, waiting on her to awake in her own time.

“Mm…no,” Detraeus murmured, and he shut his eyes as she kissed him, letting it linger gentle and unassuming for a long moment before leaning into it. When it ended, he brushed his lips over her shoulder, and rested there.

He knew he ought to move. Ought to get up, particularly now that Araceli was also awake. Ought to do something with his time. But he still did not want to. Much as he hadn’t wanted to leave Ayr, now the far more irrational desire to never leave bed took him over, and for the moment, he let it dominate, looping his hand loosely over Araceli’s waist and contenting himself to simply lay there. After a semi-extended pause, he gave voice to one predominant and persistent thought:

“The night’s rest has not changed your mind, then?”

Detraeus watched Ara leave, simultaneously appreciating the view and regretting the loss of contact. He knew he ought to follow her. He couldn’t stay in bed all day, but his limbs felt lethargic and heavy, so for a moment, he let himself roll over, back to the bed, and shut his eyes.

‘Nothing,’ she had said.

He didn’t believe it entirely — there was always something — but just the same, it made him desperately confused and thankful simultaneously, and when he heard the sounds of her beginning to work in the kitchen, he forced himself to sit up. Breath. Get up. One step at a time.

He ushered his legs over the side of the bed, stretched, and for the first time in many months, he kneeled at the bedside, and sent a direct, outright prayer of thanks to his mother goddess. He begged her forgiveness for his failures, his confusion, and his lack of direction, but swore on his honor and his life, that he would do everything in his power to live out his purpose as promised, and pleaded that she additionally take Araceli’s safety under her wing, or at the very least, permitted him to remain healthy enough to protect her safety himself. That accomplished, he stood, donned a pair of pants, and headed towards the kitchen.

It was sometime in the aftermath of preparing breakfast that their meal was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Detraeus frowned when Ara went for the door, pointedly aware that she was still in nothing but her nightgown, which — while fine for his eyes — was not something he liked the thought of anyone else seeing. Before he could object, though, she headed over, opening the door for their unexpected guest and greeting them. Just as he finished with the dish he’d been working on and moved to approach, Casseth stepped through the door. Detraeus stilled in his tracks.

Upon spotting Cas’ wings — tucked unassumingly behind him, but out all the same — he narrowed his eyes and stretched his own, tail flicking. But he said nothing aloud before finishing his trek over to Ara. There, his tail curled of its own accord, looping possessively over the opposite side of her legs in a mirror to his arm as he brought it to a gentle but meaningful rest at her waist.

“You’re up early,” he greeted, well aware that ‘noon’ often constituted early for Casseth if he could help it.

Immediately upon watching Casseth withdraw his wings, Detraeus relaxed a fraction. He knew they were there now, and that was enough. The fact that Casseth had come in with them outstretched had felt like an assault — testing him, attempting to draw him out — but frankly put, he was tired of fighting with Cas. Despite everything, part of him still considered the man a ‘friend’ if highly more warily than he did before, and he still needed to work out how to mentally classify him properly. In the meantime, however, he wanted every excuse not to worsen their relationship, and seeing Cas put his wings away helped that.

It meant he wouldn’t need to demand it of him.

At Casseth’s smile and then apology, though, Detraeus blinked, entirely thrown. However much he might have felt himself deserving of one, receiving a concession of guilt and regret was among the last things he expected, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. Notwithstanding his personal anger, he recognized that Casseth couldn’t truly help or change the blood that ran through his veins, and to watch Casseth take a step back instead of demanding such an apology from him felt…

Pacifying.

He shrugged, thumb absently sweeping up the curve of Ara’s hip on instinct. A self-reassuring gesture now, as much as it was affectionate. “Still fighting?” he asked.

Despite almost doing it himself, the thought of others attempting to kill or even hurt Casseth still managed to put Detraeus on the offensive, and in retrospect, the idea that someone had poisoned Cas made his instincts bristle. If Casseth was still fighting in the pit, perhaps he ought to rejoin soon himself after all.

At Ara’s kiss, Detraeus flushed, lashes dipping to half-mast, and he almost turned to kiss her properly, but then she was pulling away. So, he hummed instead, grip on her relaxing and gaze following her out as she disappeared to go — presumably — fetch proper clothes. In his distraction, Detraeus wound up paying at least half as much attention to Araceli’s retreating backside as he did Casseth’s answer about the pit, but he picked up enough to get the gist and tuned his attention back in fully just as Cas asked about Ayr.

He flushed hotter. “It was…difficult to leave,” he said. “I…” ‘…would have kept her there forever, if I could…’ “…enjoyed it. Greatly.”

Detraeus glanced down, lashes lowering with his gaze, then flicking back up when he looked again to Cas. He eyed him critically, amused in spite of himself. Casseth’s enduring positivity, and stubbornness — for better or for worse — never ceased to amaze him, and so, despite taking the time to ‘think’ about it, Detraeus knew he had only one answer to give.

“I suppose,” he said, “I could take time out to help assure no one else kills you…” He rolled his shoulders, thoughtful, before tilting his head. “And perhaps down the bird who poisoned you to begin with…?”