What Crawls Below

6 § Saving Grace

Cyrus did not tell her everything.

To explain how he'd gotten himself into that mess, he did have to backtrack a bit. This involved relaying a family-friendly summary of what Acheron had been planning and how Cyrus had made sure those plans did not come to pass. He watched Tuesday carefully as he spoke and she ran the washcloth over his bloodied skin. She did not meet his eyes, staring hard at her work as she cleaned him off.

Cyrus couldn't help but notice what a month away from him had done for her. Whereas before all the dark things about him hadn't seemed to phase Tuesday, she looked on the verge of throwing up, passing out, or both. Her hands shook as they touched him; her lower lip was held permanent hostage under her teeth as she chewed on it anxiously.

He began to say, "I told you you should have l--"

"Shut up," Tuesday muttered back sharply, scrubbing harder at a splotch of blood under his chin. She paused, hands falling down to her sides, and glanced up at him finally. "There's something you still aren't telling me."

Well, there were probably several somethings, so Cyrus remained quiet and waited for her to inform him just which one she was referring to.

She cleared her throat, turning to the sink and wringing the cloth out under the tap. The water ran red down the drain. "I saw on the news..."

It hung there between them, and Cyrus was unsure how to take it--as an accusation? He knew this would come up, inevitably; the media's coverage of Second Advent's downfall had mentioned just where they had been found. Coincidences didn't exist in Cyrus's world, and Tuesday wasn't stupid; it couldn't be hard to connect the dots between a bloodthirsty kid, a demon with a penchant for manipulation, and a group of faith-bound hostages.

He didn't know what to say, but a response wasn't necessary. Tuesday had begun speaking again. "I don't know what your uncle was doing with all those people, and I dunno if I want to." She turned to him again, eyes shining with tears that refused to spill. "Should I want to?"

Cyrus's shoulders slumped under the relief that came then. He didn't want to burden her. No, he didn't want to scare her away--that was the truth, because this truth very well may prove to be the last straw. Tuesday had wanted him to stop hurting innocent people, and Cyrus had gone ahead and done it anyway...all to earn the approval of a cold and twisted dictator.

He shook his head, and that was that. Tuesday nodded softly, dropping the bloodied cloth on the counter and shoving a balled-up article of clothing his way. Cyrus took it gingerly.

A faint blush creeping into her cheeks, Tuesday turned to face away from him. Her posture slumped, as if she could curl in on herself and disappear. She remained silent as Cyrus stripped off his stained shirt and replaced it with the new one, a crisp, long-sleeved flannel and fit snugly but not uncomfortably. Thinking it must be hers had a similar blush appear on his own face, though he couldn't fathom why. He cleared his throat when he was clothed.

Tuesday appraised him with emotionless eyes, and Cyrus looked over himself as well. His own jeans were black and if he hadn't been looking for the bloodstains, he wouldn't have noticed the very faint impressions they made on the equally dark fabric. All traces of the carnage had been wiped from his skin. Some of his hair was matted together, but it was as black as his pants and revealed no blood there either.

"You look like you could use a shower," Tuesday remarked. "And when's the last time you've slept in a bed?"

Cyrus shrugged, fiddling with the sleeves of his new shirt.

She sighed sharply, folding her arms tight across her chest. "Why didn't you ever reach out?"

"Was trying to protect you," Cyrus mumbled, not wanting to touch over the whole filled-with-dark-souls thing again.