Black Marion

7

Sasha woke in Vaughn's arms, which was a first.

The clock at the bedside read Friday, September 8, 7:46 A.M.  It was a little later than she had been waking this week, but fairly in tune with her biological clock. She recalled an uncomfortable night, a hazy trip to the bathroom, and a lost sequence of dreams. The cold deck air, and Vaughn's warm body. Hushed murmurs as she was led back inside.

Vaughn had stirred her a drink to help her sleep. She was not sure when her sleepwalking had disrupted their night, or when the man had slept afterward, but guilt pricked at the sight of him still unconscious. By this time, the Regent was usually on his way to work.

Because work was running the entire State, and quite important, Sasha placed a hand on his sleeping face.

"Vaughn."

A stir. A soft noise.

Sasha brushed gently over his brow.

"It's nearly eight."

Those eyes flickered beneath a frown. Sasha was momentarily fascinated by this waking process—the unfocused vulnerability, the faint disorientation across an unmasked face. Vaughn blinked four times before he took her in, and then he stared.

A relieved sigh. The man closed his eyes again and pulled her into his chest.

"Stay," he murmured into her hair.

Sasha paused.

"No work today?"

Vaughn hummed. His fingers curled into the fabric across her back. Before Sasha could figure out what that ambiguous noise meant, the Regent seemed to have fallen back asleep.

His grip was resting, firm. His warm breaths swept her skin. It was not altogether uncomfortable, but she was beyond the point of sleep. She laid there regardless, captured by that soft stay. Curiously, she didn't feel the compulsion to count numbers. Even so, after twenty minutes in, the gnawing idleness and stiffening muscles extricated her body from Vaughn's hold. He reached after her but did not wake.

Upright, Sasha gazed down at his face.

It was becoming an intimately familiar face, but the cast of sleep colored it different. Less mystery, less power. Just beneath those dark lashes, his skin was lined with exhaustion, folding softly and darkly. There was age where his brow drew, along the corners of his eyes, the corners of his mouth. Yes, that was right—Vaughn Scio had about two decades on her, though the science of the State more or less halved that gap. But he was handsome for it—like age softened what would otherwise be too sharp, those bones beneath his cheeks, the sculpt of his nose and jaw.

Sasha had been wondering about love yesterday. Maybe she'd been overthinking. Maybe love was as clean and simple as this—a sense of security, a comfort in vulnerability, and a dash of physical attraction. It certainly sounded right. What could love be, after all, if not these things?

She sighed, releasing an unease from yesterday. In time, she would probably come to feel properly for Vaughn again. The whole truth might elude her yet, but in the process of grasping for it, there was no need to be unkind to this man.

Like a seal on that thought, Sasha leaned down and kissed his cheek.

She rolled out of bed afterward and went to the bathroom.

Walking over the tiles, she suddenly recalled that pocket note from yesterday. Yes—how had she forgotten it? She had been thinking about checking the balm bottle the whole day at the botanical gardens. With Vaughn asleep, it seemed an appropriate time.