Page 23 of Hush, Little Baby

Then, “Debt. Mostly medical and credit cards. Nothing surprising, considering.”

Nikolaus’s arm tightens around me.

I wait for the judgment.

For the little shift in the air, that means someone has decided I did this to myself, that I’m irresponsible, or lazy, or too much trouble.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, Nikolaus bends his head, his beard brushing faintly against my hair as he says, “My poor baby. You’ve been struggling without your Daddy.”

My eyes squeeze shut again.

That should not make me want to cry more.

It does.

Nikolaus’s hand keeps moving, up and down, over my back and side and arm, patient as the car glides through the city. His thumb remains in my mouth until my jaw loosens around it, until I’m not really sucking anymore so much as resting there, eyes half-closed, breath slow and damp against his skin.

The voices above me start to blur at the edges.

Hotel.

Airport.

Clothes.

Doctor.

Security.

No, not security—Constantine says something about keeping things quiet, about making sure no one asks the wrong questions, about my car still being at the club.

My car.

I should care about that.

I think I do care.

Somewhere.

Far away.

5

Nikolaus

Charlie falls asleep with my thumb still in his mouth.

It happens gradually, in slow little increments I doubt he notices, even if some small, frightened part of him is still trying to fight it. First, the frantic tension leaves his hands, those cold fingers uncurling from the front of my shirt until they rest there instead, lax and harmless against my chest. Then his shoulders soften beneath my palm, the fine tremors running through him fading into the occasional hiccuping breath. His mouth loosens around my thumb last, no longer actively suckling so much as holding me there, his damp lips parted around the intrusion as if even in sleep, his body somehow inherently understands to seek mine for comfort.

He is small in my lap, smaller than I expect once I have him properly tucked against me, his frame nearly swallowed by the worn hoodie and loose sweats he wore to the club. At first glance, one might mistake the softness of him for simple neglect, for lack of discipline, for a body that has never been shaped with intention, but I have spent too much of my life reading men to settle for lazy assumptions. Charlie does not carry himself like someone careless with his body. He carries himself like someone whose body has become an adversary, something unpredictable, something he has learned to move around rather than inhabit.

The thought displeases me.

A lot of things about his life displease me already.

His apartment. His debt. His apparently extensive medical history. The way he comes to that little room alone with nothing of his own except exhaustion. The way he looked at that borrowed plush toy before we left the club, like he was yearning for something of his own.