All three of them groan in varying degrees of protest when I climb out of the bed. “We’re going to need supplies.” I explain, pointing to Dimitri. “Ice pack,” and then Tristian, “Ice pack and Motrin,” and then Killian, “Caffeine and whatever Dimitri’s stoned off of.” Ms. Crane will understand, and I’m sure the doctor probably already has her high as a kite, too. “All of us are going to need food, hydration, sleep—”
“Blow jobs,” Dimitri coolly adds.
“And beer.” Tristian throws me a wink.
Rolling my eyes, I snatch Killian’s hoodie from the floor. “The only action the three of you are going to be getting is rest. Look at you.” I zip up the hoodie and do exactly that, hands on my hips as I survey the scene in front of me. Dimitri’s still on his side, but he’s propped on an elbow, peering down the bed at me with his one good eye. Tristian is reclined back against the headboard, prodding at the bruise on his temple. Killian is sprawled out on his back between them, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his arms now that I’m gone. “You look like a defeated group of horny apocalypse survivors,” I note.
Killian finds out what to do with his arm.
He flips me off.
Downstairs, I discover the bottle of pain pills Dimitri had left by the sink, but I pause at the refrigerator. Feeding these guys is never anything but a harrowing task. Between Tristian’s anal retentive culinary preferences, the sheer volume of food Killian can consume, and Dimitri’s total lack of nutrition, I take my time putting something suitable together.
I’m just about to assemble the sandwiches when the phone in my hoodie pocket goes off. I guess Killian must have left his phone in it. When I fish it out, it’s locked. The texts still pop up, though.
Lord Tristian: no mayo, extra tomatoes, and use the whole wheat bread
Lord Tristian: please
My chin drops and I spin, scanning the kitchen. The camera is up in the corner beside the pantry. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. If I could, I’d be watching a screen to make sure they’re okay, too. The text alone is enough to make some of the tightness in my chest ease.
I don’t know if it can capture audio, but I still yell anyway, thrusting my finger toward the lens. “You’ll eat what I make, and you’ll fucking like it!”
I’m rooting through the lettuce when the phone dings again.
Lord Tristian: Ms. Crane has been a terrible influence on you :（
Ten minutes later, I’m planning to haul everything up the two flights of stairs to Dimitri’s room, but I discover I don’t have to. Tristian is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, shirtless and distracted. For the split second before he sees me, I catch the look on his face as he stares at the blood stain on the floor. He swears that the stun blast he took didn’t have a lasting effect, but the curve of his shoulders has an odd slackness that I’m not used to seeing. That, plus the caustically somber cast of his eyes, makes my chest clench.
“Hey,” I say, trying not to startle him.
His head snaps up anyway, blue eyes blinking as if he didn’t expect to find me here. It’s gone just as quickly, and he smoothly steps forward, taking the tray out of my hands. “You didn’t really have to go out of your way,” he says, gazing at the sandwiches. “I was just…”
When he trails off, throwing me a wretched look, I strain up to kiss the tension from his mouth. Everyone jokes and complains about Tristian’s fussy food demands, but I think we all know deep down that it’s not always something he can help. “It’s okay,” I assure.
He nods at the stairs. “After you.”
Together we take everything up to the third floor, entering Dimitri’s room to a greeting that’s more enthused than I’m expecting. Dimitri holds out his hands in a ‘gimme’ gesture, deftly catching the ice pack I throw a little off center. Killian goes for the bottled water, downing half of it in three gulps. Between us, we straighten out the bed to hunch around the tray in the middle, picking through everything I’d brought.
“Jesus Christ,” Killian mutters, reading the pill bottle. “Since when is Ms. Crane hoarding Percocet?”
As he’s picking the lettuce out of his sandwich, Dimitri nonchalantly explains, “Oh, I asked her to get some to keep on hand in case Story had those cramps again.”
Tristian snorts. “Those old bridge club bitches sling more weight than the Counts.”
“Pure shit, too. Not even generic.” Dimitri glances up to catch my eye, winking. “Only the best for you, baby.”