Snow

"I'm tired," he said and stepped carefully around him.

"Alec--" David said, and when Alec looked back at him he wouldn't meet his eyes.

David waited until he was asleep. It took a long time but David finally heard his breathing even out, deepen. He turned out the lamp and went to bed. In the dark Alec's face was nothing but shadow but David waited and his eyes grew used to the dark, showed him the curves of Alec's face. They were softer in sleep, gentler, not pulled with worry or anger or fear. David traced the curve of his cheek with one finger, then two. Alec didn't stir.

David kissed him. Softly at first, careful to be gentle, and then, as Alec's mouth opened sleepily beneath his, harder, deeper. Alec woke up when David began to touch him but kept his eyes closed. David kissed the curve of his closed eyelids, touched him until Alec moaned and spread his legs, urged him forward by locking his legs around him.

Alec kept his eyes closed. David linked their hands together as their bodies moved, felt Alec's fingers close around his. He kissed him again, open-mouthed and deeply, and then whispered,

"Wake up," in his ear as his hips flexed. Alec arched up under him. His eyes opened.

"This isn't just now," David said. "All I'll ever want is you."

***

She received word in the evening, a sealed note waiting for her on a gilded tray as she stepped into a long crystal hallway. She read it as she walked. Her face, reflected a hundred times in the clear shining walls, never changed expression, kept the same disarming smile she always wore.

When she was done she folded the note in two. She did not hand it to a waiting servant. She continued to smile.

When she was admitted to see him he called her close and embraced her, said she was always a joy to see.

"I may have something for you," she said, and watched as his eyes lit. It was her duty to see him happy. Safe. She'd devoted her life to that, to him.

Later, alone in her rooms, she burned the note and changed. Dressed in drabness she left, rode down into the city. It was cold still, the new season yet to bloom, and her hands were red and white when she arrived at a tavern she'd been to many times before, mottled with cold. She sat down at the bar and signaled with one hand, a careful crook of a finger.

"I'm expecting someone," she said when the bar girl stood before her, head bowed, and slid two shining green coins across the counter. The girl bobbed her head and went back to the bar, rang the bell and announced they were closing early, shooed everyone home.

"I'll have a cup," she said when everyone was gone. The girl nodded and brought her one full of a deep rich wine, one she had them hold just for her.

He came in as she was setting her empty cup down on the bar, smiling in that easy way he had.

She wasn't fooled. She knew him, had trained him, and the look in his eyes told her he had news, perhaps greater than his note had implied.

"I was surprised to hear from you," she said as he sat down. "It's been quite a while."

"Been busy," he said. "Waiting, watching. Wasn't that your request?"

She ignored that. He knew better than to really question. "You said you had news."

"Spent some time with a miner recently. Lives over in their district."

"Behind the tan door." He nodded and she signaled the bar girl for another drink. "You approached him?"

"No. You said to wait, and so I did."

"He came to you?"

"Is it so hard to believe he'd notice me?" He gestured at himself, grinned charmingly at her.

She waited, and his smile faded. "He'd taken wormwood," he said shortly. "And was desperate about something. I didn't do anything more than start a conversation."

The drink came and when he reached for it she put her hand over it. "Henry," she said slowly, warningly.

"You weren't there, Judith. You didn't see him. I could tell something wasn't right. And it paid off." He reached for the drink again and she moved her hand away, watched as he took a sip. He sighed with pleasure, grinned at her again, and she knew now he'd tell her what he thought she'd want to know. "He's with someone."

She laughed. "That's your news? He's filling his head with smoke and sharing his bed with someone? Dear heart, I told you that before I sent you out."

He winced at the endearment. He knew she only used them when she never meant them. "The man he's with--he's not--he's different."

This wasn't news either, but his voice--"Different how?"

"Beautiful," Henry said, and laughed, a hollow sound, then tilted the cup to his mouth and drank deeply. When he put the cup down on the counter she signaled for another. Henry rattled enough to be silent was something she'd never seen before.

When the bar girl placed a cup in front of him he seemed to regain some of his composure, smiled the smile she'd taught him to use. The girl blushed and he said, "What's your name, love?" She'd taught him about endearments too.

"Go," she said sharply, judging Henry's composure to be well enough restored, and the girl bowed her head and left.