Harry sleeps for thirteen hours.

It's enough time for Alouette to grow worried, but then she thinks about it and it just makes sense. He hardly sleeps more than four hours per day usually, and he was already running on empty last night, considering he didn't go to sleep. And then he got hurt and it was such a close call, of course his body has to recharge.

Still, though. She is more than just slightly worried when she wakes up five hours later and Harry gives no signs of having woken up at any point in the morning. She goes as far as to put her finger under his nose, and she's so glad when she discovers that not only he's breathing, but he's also breathing more steadily than before. His fingers aren't as cold as they were last night as she slowly untangles them and lowers his hand on the blanket gently.

He turns his head to the other side but doesn't wake up. She has to fight the urge to play with his hair until he stirs awake. She doesn't know what's wrong with her. Usually she isn't this affectionate towards him—how could she, when a simple hug is enough to make him tense up? But last night is still so fresh in her mind, and she really thought she'd lose him and she was so scared, and he's right here beside her now, and she wants to touch him. She wants to play with his hair and brush her thumb over his knuckles, kiss his cheek and sleep on his shoulder like she used to because he's here and he's alive and she's still so terrified—but then she remembers he's Harry, and maybe he wouldn't like that. Maybe it would just hurt him.

She sits up slowly, and discovers there's a dish and a bottle of water with two plastic glasses on the desk. Her stomach rumbles and she walks towards it. There's a card on the dish, next to a sandwich that has long gone cold. She picks it up and reads it.

Figured you'd skip lunch. Everything's fine.
Anthony

She smiles and takes a bite out of the sandwich, sitting on the chair and looking at Harry. Dark bags are starting to develop under his eyes, and she wouldn't say he's been sleeping for nearly eight hours—she doesn't count the five hours it took Anthony to save his life because, even though she's quite certain he wasn't conscious through it all, it could most definitely not be referred to as resting.

The blanket is resting halfway through his torso, so she stands up and cleans her hands on the paper napkin Anthony left before walking to the bed. She turns off the main light and turns on the bedside lamp on her side of the mattress, the dimmer illumination makes her eyes stop stinging.

She pulls the blanket up, very slowly, as to not wake him up by mistake. Then, she curls up on her side of the bed and closes her eyes. She doesn't sleep—she can't get her brain to shut up long enough to—so she starts going over the events of the night in her mind, trying to rationalise and explain them. It does nothing but make her grow anxious and restless. She wishes there was someone she could talk to, so that everything would make more sense and seem less scary. But, she realises, she doesn't want to talk to Elijah, Anthony, or even Elodie.

She wants to talk to Harry. She wants to talk to him and hear him answer back, because the last time she spoke to him he was barely living, and now she can't open her mouth—she's quite certain she'll start crying if she tells him something without getting an answer from him. The only thing that would ease her fears is hearing Harry's voice—which isn't a good thing, considering he's not going to be up for chatting anytime soon.

She listens to the sounds of the Revolution coming from the other floors—the steps above her, the low murmur of voices, even some laughs coming from somewhere in the building. It's two in the afternoon; life at the Revolution is in full swing, even though Alouette feels like she's entered a stasis. It's a peculiar feeling to sit here and know everyone else's day is going on as normal while she doesn't know what to do with her existence just yet. She has a feeling Harry would call it a sign of weakness.

She opens her eyes and looks at him again, even though his face is turned the other way. There has to be some irony in this situation. She wonders if the world is forcing her to make up for all the times Harry waited for her to wake up over the past six weeks.

He seems to be quite unconcerned, if compared to the way she's slowly losing her mind because of him. He's still sleeping peacefully and—that's when it hits her.

Fuck, I think I love you.

Oh, she didn't.

She sits up so fast that the mattress shakes under her, and for a frightening moment she thinks Harry might wake up—but he doesn't, which is good, because she's about to have a breakdown. She's going to lose it, because she told Harry she loves him and why did she? How could she? Did she think she was in some kind of movie, confessing her undying love as the object of her admiration was dying in her arms? She might throw up again.

What if he heard her? What would he think—what if, when he wakes up, he'll try to bring it up? What if he doesn't feel the same way? What if her confession is enough to make him run? She could cry. There's no way to tell if he's heard her or not, and all of a sudden she's terrified of having to face him. She's so terrified that she considers leaving the room, but she could never leave him alone. Then she thinks hiding in the bathroom could be a good solution, but then she remembers that, while she's home, now, he isn't. He's hurt and he'll likely have no idea of where he is when he wakes up, and that's enough to convince her to stay next to him. She can deal with this—whatever will happen. It certainly can't be worse than what almost happened last night. She can take it.

It's odd to think about the fact that less than eighteen hours ago they were on the bed of her mother's apartment in Dacran, and Harry was calling her his queen—even though he meant it in an ironic way. And she was telling him about her plans for taking over the country, and she couldn't stop smiling and feeling like everything was finally right at last. Now, she's drained. She's still exhausted, but sleep won't come to her. And her hand is hurting, too. Enough to make her wonder if it would be okay to ask Anthony for another ice pack. And Harry has decided to live up to the title of prince Amina has so kindly granted him and sleep the next hundred years away. Not that she's blaming him, of course—he's the only one not at fault in this. But she feels lonely.

Time passes slowly. The vertiginous speed from last night is nowhere to be found now, and the hours hobble by, each of them feeling like three. Anthony comes to check up on Harry again, and this time he changes the dressing on his wound when he notices it's stained red. He discovers he has a slight fever, but doesn't seem to be too worried. He checks to make sure he's receiving antibiotics, and then leaves again.

The afternoon is starting to fade into evening now, and Alouette has been awake doing nothing for so many hours that the world doesn't even feel real anymore. The dramatic, sudden change in their location and situation is finally starting to settle, and it makes her head spin. She's so tired that she doesn't even feel tired anymore—she feels so detached from the world that if Elijah came into the room and told her he has a crush on Harry, she wouldn't even feel surprised.

And then Harry wakes up.

It's seven in the evening when he frowns, lets out a little sound that is quite underwhelming in truth, but Alouette has been waiting for so long that she jumps up anyway. There's a pause of a second, and then he lets out a gasp. His eyes fly open and he pulls himself up, fast, almost falling off the bed.

She grabs his shoulders to steady him. "Harry!" She gently pushes him back against the pillows. "Be careful."

But he isn't listening. His eyes are wide and there's a yawning fear in them, and it takes her a moment, but she finally understands.

I wouldn't be able to handle the sight of my body or someone else's touch on it, no matter how kind, if I could remember all those moments vividly.

She doesn't know the details, but she knows enough to know that, in his mind, he associates being hurt with a very specific something. And he's hurt now.

He isn't listening to her because he can't hear her. There was truth in her worries—what happened has awakened something in him, and now he's crashing. His hands grab her arms in an attempt to free himself, but he isn't strong enough to break free of her hold and she keeps her hands on his shoulders to keep him from falling down.

"Harry!" she calls him again, urgency in her voice, "Harry. You got hurt in Dacran, remember? We were running away but we had to stop at the gas station, and we were attacked." Harry's eyes are wide and burning into hers, and he looks so scared that she finds herself saying words she would've never expected to let out. "You're twenty-six. You're safe. Whoever hurt you... they aren't here. You're safe."

They aren't here. She can see some clarity flash through his eyes, and he stops fighting against her so hard. She doesn't relent.

"Deep breaths, okay? Breathe with me." She takes a deep breath to show him the way, freeing a hand to count the seconds for him. "See? Like this."

She gets him to slow down his breathing, and the fear slowly fades from his eyes as he comes back to the present. "Lark?" he whispers, voice rough, and she nods.

"Yes, it's me. Hi." She lets go of his shoulders now that he doesn't seem to want to run out of the door, and gently unclasps his hand from her hoodie. "It's a miracle you haven't ripped out your IV," she comments, leading it back to the mattress, and then assesses his looks. He still seems a little shocked, but confusion enters his eyes as realisation starts to dawn. "You're safe," she repeats, "but you're hurt. Be careful."

His head falls back against the pillows. His outburst has exhausted him, and he looks around the room like he doesn't quite know what to make of it. There's a certain haze in his eyes that Alouette is quite sure belongs to the meds he was given or the shock of losing consciousness in the middle of the street and waking up here, but she can see he's trying to look for reference points, anything that might tell him where they are.

"You're at the Revolution," she tells him, and for a moment she fears it might be too much for him to handle so soon after waking up and that he might pass out altogether, but he doesn't.

"At the..." His voice fades. Maybe it is too much to handle. He turns his head slightly to glance around. She can see he seems to be quite confused, still—a heavy sort of confusion, the shadow of someone that might fall asleep soon clouding his face. Maybe telling him this soon isn't the best idea she's ever had. And maybe she feels a little bad for him because he simultaneously looks like he's slept the day away and hasn't fallen asleep in a week, so she takes his free hand and caresses the back of it.

"It's okay. You're fine," she says, mustering up a somewhat soothing tone, "you're safe. There's nothing to worry about. We can talk later. You're safe." She's never thought Harry would be the type to need reassurance, but she knows he has many previous bad experiences with pain—experiences that go beyond the simple physical effects—so it's also not surprising to see him on edge. She brushes her thumb up and down the back of his hand, soothingly. "You can go back to sleep if you're tired. I'll stay here."

Harry doesn't reply. His head is turned, he's looking away from her. His body is still tense, even though he isn't as on edge as he was before. Alouette leans against the headboard and brushes back a fallen strand of his hair. He doesn't acknowledge the action, but she doesn't mind. She starts combing his hair with her fingers, slowly, just like she did last night. Now, though, it makes her feel at peace, instead of making her heart hurt more. Slowly he starts to relax as well and his blinks get more frequent, and then he drifts off to sleep again.

Alouette keeps sliding her fingers through his hair. Now that she's actually spoken to Harry and looked into his eyes, she doesn't feel so other anymore. She's been wrenched back to the real world, and she can finally, slowly, start making sense of what has happened.

He doesn't sleep for long, this second time. Just a couple of hours, and then he's stirring awake again. It's a remarkably short time, after all the hours Alouette has waited.

"Hi again," she says when his eyes blink open again, observing him carefully and trying to tell if he remembers waking up not long ago.

Some of the haze from before has faded away, now, and he seems to be much calmer. "Alouette," he says, the t is silent against his teeth. He clears his throat. "Where—"

"You're at the Revolution," she tells him again. He immediately tenses up, so she adds, "Don't worry, you're safe here. They saved your life." She purposely leaves out the fact that they don't know how safe he actually is—not until the news of his arrival settle at the very least.

Another long silence follows, and Alouette observes him attentively. She isn't touching him, now, because maybe he needs a little distance to process what's going on. It isn't like him to act like this—though he doesn't look scared nor anxious anymore. He's just... still. Like he's trying to understand what's happening but is brain is refusing to answer. Maybe he's still a little shocked, she thinks, and all they can do is wait. After all, while she's had hours to come to terms with the situation, he's only had a few moments. If she's struggling, he must be as well. Though she can't tell if it's because of the actual physical shock of being wounded, the emotional one of almost dying, the surprise of finding out where he is or the memories this situation is bringing back to his mind. Or a mix of all four.

"Harry?" she calls him, but the truth is that she doesn't know what to say. So she starts talking, hoping it'll clear some of the confusion he's feeling. "You got hurt during that fight. You needed help, so I called the Revolution. Do you remember? I'm not sure if you do." She purposely leaves out that moment. "Elijah came. You were brought here. You've been sleeping for fifteen hours. You woke up a couple of hours ago, but you were quite out of it."

The door opens, and Harry jolts.

Anthony stops in the process of stepping inside. He must not find it surprising that he's finally woken up, but still he freezes for a moment. "Well, good evening," he says, staying right where he is. It takes Alouette a moment to understand he's keeping his distance on purpose. "Was wondering when you'd wake up. I'm a doctor. Can I come closer?" He's speaking calmly, there's no doubt he's noticed how on edge Harry is. Maybe he thinks it's because he fears he might be here to harm him, but Alouette isn't so sure.

He walks towards the bed without waiting for Harry's answer—it isn't hard to understand why. He's the only doctor they have, so whether Harry trusts him or not doesn't really matter.

"Are you uncomfortable?" he asks him, keeping that same low, somewhat gentle tone. "Pain? Feeling anxious? Both?" He checks his IV as he speaks. The conversational tone sounds a little absurd in the silence of the room. He nods to himself. "I'll let you be for now, but you should consider start walking in a couple of days, it makes for a faster recovery." He sends Alouette a look. "Come outside with me for a moment."

She follows him out of the room.

"He seems a little on edge," he tells her. "It's not so uncommon considering what happened, but let me know if it lasts until morning. I could give him something to help him relax a bit, but I'm not sure just giving him more meds would be of actual help with processing everything."

Processing everything. That's the issue. She's said it herself; Harry needs to rationalise everything that happens, he needs to be in control, in order to feel at ease. But too many things have happened in such a short amount of time and he wasn't in control at any point during it, and paired with the panic she fears might still be somewhere in his mind, it's too much to deal with at once. Maybe he needs some sleep—some actual sleep, not the drifting haze induced by the physical trauma and meds.

She goes back inside the room and locks the door. Harry stares at her as she walks towards the bed and sits on her side of the mattress with her legs crossed. She has to know. "What do you remember about last night?" she asks him. She makes sure to keep the tone of her voice low to hide the sudden tension she's feeling.

He blinks a few times, looking down. His eyebrows furrow slightly. "Bits and pieces," he replies. "Not much."

"Do you remember talking?" She's so scared she feels a little sick, now. She lifts the necklace out of her shirt and shows him his ring. "You gave me this. Do you remember that?" An event close enough to what she truly wants to ask to be able to discern the truth from his answer.

Harry frowns. "I don't—" He stumbles trying to look for the right words, and she quickly reassures him, relief washing through her in waves.

"It's okay," she says, "you were a little out of it." She lets the necklace go, and it falls back into her shirt. "I'll keep it safe for you." The rest of his rings are on his nightstand, but the secrecy of the way he gave her the green stone one is enough for her to know that he'd prefer it doesn't join the others in a location where it can be easily stolen.

She feels a lot more relaxed, now. He doesn't remember. He hasn't heard her say I love you, and maybe it should make her sad, but she's unexplainably happy because it means he isn't going to laugh at her for her confession. She doesn't know why she's so certain he'd react in a less than ideal way—he just doesn't strike her as the kind of person that would ever enjoy confessing his feelings for someone else—that, of course, assuming he'd feel something more intense than simply liking someone, which feels a little absurd. Harry doesn't strike her as being emotional.

She lies next to him and takes his hand, covering it with hers. It's warmer than hers, but she finds it reassuring. He's still very quiet, and it makes her uneasy. She wishes he'd tell her what's going on in his mind—if he's feeling tense, if he's feeling anxious. If he's in pain, or if he's tired. But he doesn't, because he doesn't like letting people in his mind, and maybe he isn't even keeping his distance consciously anymore, he's just so used to it that it would feel unnatural to let her know if he needs help, or just some rest.

"What do you want me to do?" Alouette asks, brushing her hand over his again. "Do you want me to give you some privacy, or to talk to you, or to just be quiet and let you sleep?" After a moment of hesitation, she adds, "Should I stop touching you? Just let me know how I can make you feel more at ease."

He looks at her hand, at the way she's holding his, tracing the back of it with her thumb. "Stay," he says in the end. He furrows his eyebrows. "Tell me something. Anything."

Alouette thinks about it for a moment. "Do you want me to tell you about my sister?" she asks.

He nods. His breath is starting to slow down again, now, and he rests his head on the pillows. He looks absolutely exhausted, and it shouldn't surprise her but it does, because even though he's no stranger to sleeping much less than he should, he's never let it show like this before.

She sits closer to him and drapes her arm over the top of Harry's pillows, brushing back his curls with her hand. "Her name is Amina," she starts, "She's five, but she'll be six soon. Her birthday is in November. I actually went to see her this morning, when you were sleeping." She lets out a sigh. "I hadn't seen her in months. I felt so guilty, when I was at the Palace." She keeps running her fingers through his hair, but she can't tell whether she's trying to reassure him or herself. "I was supposed to be back in two months, you see. But I kept asking for more, because I wasn't sure I could do it. You know. I think I believed that, if I waited long enough, the perfect opportunity would come up, and it wouldn't feel so... I don't mean wrong, but not right, maybe?" She suddenly realises that talking about the way she was supposed to kill Harry might not be the best idea to make him relax, and moves on quickly. "She expected me to be back in two months, but they turned into three, four, five. And nobody really knew what was happening, only that I kept asking for time and then suddenly disappeared."

Harry's fingers brush against her bruised hand. She rests it over his and slides her thumb up and down his fingers. There are little cuts on them from the fight—scratches, not deep enough to require bandages. He moves his head and glances down. "Your hand," he says, tapping against it with the back of his finger.

"One of them stepped on it while I was trying to grab my gun."

He hums. "Rule one of getting into fights: never lose your weapon," he says. His voice is a bit faint because of how tired he is, but Alouette lets out a little laugh anyway.

"Rule two of getting into fights," she continues, speaking lowly near his ear, "don't misplace your weapons in other people, because they'll misplace them in you." She immediately regrets joking about it, because it's still too fresh in her mind and Harry did almost die from it so it might be a sensitive topic, but he lets out a little chuckle as well.

He lays his head on the pillows again and looks up at her, noticing the worry in her eyes. "Are you waiting for me to have an emotional breakdown?" he asks.

She blinks. "What?"

"About—" He lets go of her hand and gestures at himself.

"I..." She thinks about it from a moment. "Maybe. I mean, it wouldn't surprise me if you did." She feels a little ridiculous, now. "I'm not exactly expecting you to, but it would be okay. If you did. What happened was scary. Really scary." Her mind is faint just thinking about it.

He hums and looks away. He takes her aching hand and gently holds it between his. His touch on her fingers is so light. "You know, the thing with almost dying is," he says, his voice low, "after the first three times, the novelty of it tends to get lost."

She presses a kiss to the side of his head, immediately being thankful that she can't see the look on his face when she does it. They've been somewhat affectionate with each other in the past, but it was always on purpose. Hugging in the car because there wasn't enough space, heated kisses that were always the promise of something more, grazes that turned into touches that turned into pleasure. This type of affection is untrodden territory. It's the kind that always makes him tense up, the one he never seems to know what to do with.

"Did it scare you?" he asks. Alouette shouldn't be surprised he caught on so quickly, but she is, a little bit, because it's almost been a whole day since she last had a proper conversation with Harry.

He was calling her his queen only yesterday.

She considers making up a lie to make it less embarrassing for herself, but—fuck it. "I was so scared," she confesses. Her voice breaks a little. "I thought I was going to lose you."

"You would've completed your mission, then," Harry says. There's no anger in his voice. "You would've been free. Isn't it what you wanted?"

Alouette is repulsed by the thought. "No, it's not what I wanted." Without even realising to, she pulls him closer to her in a half hug, her arm on his shoulders, and presses her cheek to the top of his head. "I don't want to be free, I want you. I only want you, and I want you to be okay."

Harry's taped hand grazes her neck, and his breath tickles against her skin as he kisses her jaw. "So I see you've decided to become the pride and glory of the Revolution," he comments sarcastically into her ear, and she'd consider getting mad at him if she wasn't so happy, because he's awake and he's making fun of her, and maybe this isn't how she thought it would go but, somehow, it's a thousand times better anyway.

"Oh, shut up," she mutters, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I haven't waited for you to wake up for fifteen hours just for you to make fun of me." She lets out a sigh and then takes his hand, that's still leaning against her collarbone. "I don't want to feel that way ever again, Harry," she tells him, truthfully and quietly. "The thought of being without you... I was dying inside."

His eyes find hers, a new intensity in them. "You're the only one that's allowed to kill me, Alouette," he tells her, "I thought you knew."

"I have no intention of killing you," she says with a frown, and he gives her a dark sort of smile.

"Good. Because I have no intention of letting you kill me, nor of killing you either."

"So our truce is only out of self-preservation," she whispers, and he nods.

"Yes. Yes, it is." He kisses her jaw and her cheek and they just hover, faces close to one another, basking in the sensation of physical closeness. It takes her a moment to recognise how affectionate he's being, and after another she realises it's because he's trying to find reassurance—maybe, trying to soothe his own mind.

She gently pulls him closer, careful not to hurt him nor make it too obvious, because something tells her that if he noticed she's trying to help him relax, he'd back down. It feels so right to have him in her arms, like this, and she feels herself calming down, because he's not as unnaturally still as he was last night, his breaths are deep and he's awake, too, so he moves every once in a while, adjusting his back against the pillows to find a more comfortable position, tilting his head towards her. She feels so warm inside—it spreads through her chest, down to every inch of her body, releasing the tension in it.

"You met your sister today," he suddenly says. He's speaking lowly, tasting every word he lets out, as if he feels unaccustomed to letting out sound. "But not your parents." It isn't a question. Alouette isn't even surprised that he figured it out from what she told him.

"My parents aren't here," she replies. Harry is silent. It's something that defines him, this peculiar habit of his—he rarely asks questions. He gets people to say what he wants to discover through statements and long silences, designed to let others know he's waiting to know more without explicitly saying it. "My father died years ago," she shares, going through information to figure out what is fine being said—not that it matters, anymore. If the deal does take place, he won't care she's an Ivenhart—he'd find it intriguing, sure, but it wouldn't put her or anyone in danger. Still, though. After the load of information she's dumped on him since he woke up, admitting that too would certainly be too much for him. "And my mother... I don't know where she is."

"The apartment was your mother's, wasn't it?"

She should've known he heard her conversation with the neighbour. "Yeah."

There's another silence, but a thoughtful one. She can sense he's trying to piece together everything he knows but failing at doing it. Alouette has to thank the situation, because she has the very strong feeling that if he were in a more comfortable position he would've already seen right through her.

She hesitates for a moment. "What about you?" she asks him carefully, carefully weighing her words. "Where's your family?"

There's silence. "My sister is dead," he then says. It isn't the first time he tells her, but it hits her all the same. Maybe he's having a harder time dissimulating his emotions, because his voice is much lower than usual, and there's something in it that makes her heart hurt. "She was my only family." He sighs. The fingers of his free hand close around hers. "She died when I was thirteen." He frowns.

Alouette tries to match Harry's image with a thirteen-year-old version of him, but fails. It's odd to think about the fact that he's a human being just like her, that there was a moment in his life in which he wasn't the person she can see now.

"My father killed her." His voice is suddenly stripped of any emotion. It happens so suddenly it makes her head spin for a moment. He speaks as if he's reading a list, not talking about a murder. "It was either her or me, I suppose."

She takes his hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, not knowing what to say.

"After our mother left, she kept giving him a hard time. About me. So he killed her. I went to him when I found out." There's a longer, heavier silence. "I fell down the stairs and broke my shoulder."

Alouette knows there's a part he skipped, and now that she's starting to piece together all his silences, all the things he's said and hasn't said, she doesn't like what she's seeing. For the first time she realises that, if it's been hard for them to live in a country ruled by a man such as Harry's father, it can't have been easy to live with him every day.

He lets out a sigh and hides his eyes with his hand. "I don't know why I shared," he admits.

She takes his hand and kisses his knuckles. "I can take it as the secret you owed me, if it makes you feel better," she tells him somewhat playfully to loosen up the tension of the moment. She's shaken by what he's told her, but she tries not to let it show. They're still within Harry's first twenty-four hours, and she doesn't want him to get upset if she can avoid it. "Now you don't owe me anymore."

He lets out a sigh. "In truth, I..." He pauses, she can't tell if it's because he's trying to find the right words, or because he still doesn't know what he's trying to say. "I'm not quite feeling like myself."

Alouette isn't sure she knows what to respond to that. There's truth to what he's saying, though, because she can feel it too—that sense of not being the same person she was twenty-four hours before. Even now that she knows Harry will be fine, there's something that makes her feel not right. "You've had a long day," she says in the end. "Give yourself some time." She leans her head on the corner of his pillow, and he does the same. She fluffs it up with one hand for him, and he tilts his head slightly towards her.

"Are you tired, my Lark?" he whispers. He's looking at the ceiling, blinking often. Alouette knows he's asking because he is but would never tell her.

"I am." She leaves out the detail that she is because she spent her night crying on the floor instead of sleeping, and even when she knew he would be alright she was still so shaken that she couldn't sleep properly. She's so tired that she notices the way he called her only well after her own answer. My Lark. She thought she'd never hear him say it again.

His hand grazes against hers. He doesn't intertwine their fingers, but slowly folds his over hers, somewhat experimentally, as if he's trying to decide if he actually likes the way it feels or not. He doesn't move it away.

"I'm not going anywhere," she murmurs, answering his unasked question. Then, "Goodnight, sir."

He chuckles. "Now, you didn't have to call me sir again because I've nearly died."

"I thought you liked it," she replies, her eyes closed. "Thought I'd grant you that one."

"I'm honoured." There's a hint of sarcasm in his voice, and she lets out a little laugh.

"Goodnight, Harry."

He doesn't answer and she lets her consciousness drift, not quite sleeping yet in case he wants to talk more, but lingering in the warmth of his hand on top of hers, in the feeling of him holding onto her for once. Her heart beats a little faster, but this time it isn't because of fear.

Yes, she thinks. She might not have been able to deal with the weight of her words until now, but now that she is, she knows there's truth in them. She knows she didn't only say them because she was terrified she'd lose him and confused that fear for something it was not.

She loves Harry.

And she truly, wholeheartedly doesn't want him to know.

Feelings are such a dangerous thing to wear on your sleeve. It's too easy to use them against others, to ruin others beyond repair thanks to them. Alouette is scared of Harry, because now he's the only person in the world that could destroy every fibre of her very being. And while she hopes he wouldn't use it against her, the truth is that there's no way for her to actually know—and she's not going to act like it's beyond him. She isn't blinded by her love for him—she's still very aware of the danger he poses to her and everyone else that gets too close. Yet, somehow, knowing that isn't enough to get her to stay away from him. And even though she might tell herself it's because it's better to have someone like him as a friend rather than an enemy, the truth is that even if he were her enemy, she wouldn't be able to stay away from him. And he doesn't need to know she loves him to be aware of that.

There's a knock on the door.

Alouette opens her eyes. Her bedside lamp seems unusually bright—her eyes' reaction to it tells her it has to have been ten minutes at the very least. Harry's eyes are closed, but he frowns when she slides her hand out of his and gets off the bed. She walks to his side and raises the blankets so they're resting against his chest and then touches his forehead, but he doesn't seem to be considerably warmer than usual—his fever must be going down. He turns his face to her and blinks a few times, stirring awake, but she grazes his cheek and fixes his pillows and says, "You can go back to sleep, I'll only be a minute."

Harry nods and closes his eyes again. Maybe Alouette is a little unsettled by how easily he seems to be falling asleep today. While it does make sense, it's also Harry, so it really doesn't. She doesn't think she'll ever be able to explain why it's so surprising to discover that he's a real human being that can be affected by the world around him. Maybe it's because he's so good at pretending he isn't.

She opens the door and sees Elijah is standing on the other side. There's no way she'll let him into the room when Harry could wake up at any moment, so she steps out and closes the door.

"What is it?" she asks in a low whisper, because the corridor is still closed off and the world around them is very quiet, and she has no intention of letting Harry listen to their conversation on the other side of the door. Especially when she has the dangerous feeling she knows where it's going to go.

"Ezra wants to speak with him," he says.

She freezes. Ezra. She'd completely forgotten about him. "He can't speak to him now, he's in no condition to be holding meetings," she replies. Harry hides it well, but she can see he's still very tense and restless. Paired with the fact that he's only been awake for a few hours, she knows he doesn't want to see Ezra now. Not to say he'd look weak, and she doesn't him to openly tell her to know that rule two of making deals is to never appear weak in front of your opponent. Sure, he's already half-failed at doing that since she's certain Ezra is very aware of Harry's current condition, but knowing about it is one thing, seeing it is another. She has to make sure that, when they do meet, they'll be on equal ground—which means there's no way she'll let him see him now.

"Then you should convince him before he comes," Elijah tells her, "because he knows he's awake and I think he's going to come by sometime tomorrow."

Absolutely not.

"I'll go talk to him right now." She pauses. She'd ask him to watch over Harry again, but... it doesn't feel quite right. She knows he'd hate it if he woke up. "Can you tell Anthony to come here?"

"Sure."

She turns around, but Elijah stops her when her hand is on the handle by grabbing her wrist.

"Al."

She looks at him and tenses. Not now. She can't think about this now. Too many things are happening for her to find a way to tell him the truth without ruining everything between them. She hoped he'd wait a while longer. This is too soon. "I... I..." She can't find the words.

"I know," he says. There's pain in his eyes, and it makes her heart sting as well. She may not be in love with him, but he's her best friend. He's been for so long, and it breaks her heart to hurt him. "I just wanted you to know that."

"How?" she can only ask.

"How couldn't I?" He sighs and looks away. "Last night you looked at him like... like your world was ending. How couldn't I notice?"

She grips the handle. Her throat feels tight, and she thinks she might cry. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugs, pretending it's nothing, even though he already knows she can see right through him. "It's fine," he tells her. "I guess it's my fault for waiting too long to tell you. Yeah. Let's just pretend I never did."

"Elijah..."

"I'll call Anthony." He walks away before she can say another word.

She leans against the door, her eyes wide. Something aches inside of her.

She's thought about he'd react for months. She's thought he'd hate her for liking—loving—Harry. She's thought he'd be angry, she's even thought he'd shout at her, at times. But she's never expected this. Somehow, this is worse than every other option, because, in the end, she's only ever thought he'd be simply disappointed in her—not that it would actually hurt him. But it did. It did, and now she doesn't know what to do about it, because she can't fix it.

It takes her a long minute to collect her racing emotions, and then she goes back into the bedroom.

Harry seems to be very much asleep, thankfully. She grazes his cheek with the back of her hand, gently trying to get his attention. It's much easier to show him affection when he isn't awake, and especially now, when she could easily tell him and herself that touching his face is purely out of convenience and nothing more, because she wouldn't want to risk hurting him by shaking his shoulder. But that's not the truth, and she has the feeling that, even though he'd pretend to believe her, he'd see right through her.

"Harry," she calls him gently, slowly coaxing him awake, "I'm leaving for a few minutes, Anthony will stay here. You met him earlier, remember? Don't worry, you can trust him. He's the one that saved your life, he won't harm you."

He hums in reply, his eyelids fluttering. She makes sure he's still well-covered and then steps out of the room just as Anthony steps in.

"Ezra?" he asks, and she nods.

"Sorry for bothering you at this time. I'll be quick."

"Be back before eleven, or else the main entrances will be closed and you'll have to call."

She walks away. There aren't many people around, now, since it's a little after ten in the evening, but she still looks down to avoid being noticed. She wonders what they think of her, now. What has Ezra told them? Has he painted her like a traitor, or has he let her keep the dignity of her name in front of everyone else? The first option scares her, and she finds the second one disheartening.

She walks into the main building, feeling oddly observed by everyone she walks past. She ignores them all and gets to Ezra's office.

She opens it without knocking—a troublesome habit she took on at the Palace—and Ezra looks up fast. When he sees it's her, he gives her a displeased look. He isn't alone.

"Look who's here, finally," he comments. There's poison in his tone that no doubt comes from the argument they had the last time they talked, but she doesn't let it scare her. She isn't the same person she was then. "What brings you here at nearly eleven?"

"I heard you were planning to pay us a visit. I thought you missed me?" She closes the door with a kick and steps forward. "Or do you find it annoying when people come by unannounced?"

Ezra laughs and rolls up a map he was observing. Jesse takes it and puts it away, sending her a subtle glance.

"How's your pet?" Jesse asks her. "Has he bitten you yet?"

Alouette tilts her head, faintly annoyed. "If he heard you say that he'd bite your head off, so I suggest you watch your mouth when you speak about him."

He raises his eyebrows. "It was only a joke."

"Your timing was off."

"And to think I even gave you my shirt."

"He says thanks."

He narrows his eyes. "Does he really?"

"No, he doesn't," Alouette replies.

He lets out a sigh. "Well, that's a relief. You had me fearing I'd have to pay him a courtesy visit." He taps his finger on his chin. "Or would've a card sufficed? I could've written 'get well soon, please don't kill us all during the night' on it."

Something tells her that receiving something like that would be enough to convince Harry to set the Revolution headquarters on fire even if he wasn't planning on it beforehand. She opens her mouth and—

"Are you children?" Ezra mutters. "Jesse, scat and do whatever it is you do at night."

"I'll go sleep upside down in your closet then," Jesse replies, earning an appalled look from Ezra. "I was kidding, again. People literally have no sense of humour here. You're all toxic."

Alouette waits until the door is closed again before speaking. "You can't see him now."

Ezra rolls his eyes. "You expect me to house him in here for free? He's here for a reason, our deal."

She steps forward. He automatically takes one backward, it's so instinctive that she doesn't even think he's noticed. She has, though. "What kind of alliance starts with a party trying to turn the situation in their favour?" she asks. "It sounds like sabotage to me, and he'll think the same if you come to him now, when he's in no frame of mind nor physical shape to be talking political propositions."

"The more you talk, the more I wonder whose side you're on."

She gives him a little smile. "Mine." Another step forward. This time he doesn't back away, but neither does she. "Rest assured I want this deal to happen just as much as you do. And that also means that I'm not going to let you ruin it for us because you're too eager. Styles can't be scared into compliance—believe me, I've tried. If you want to work with him, you'll have to mind his rules, too."

Ezra regards her with one long look. "I'm only going to listen to you because I don't think you have anything to gain from the deal falling through. And because you could've let him go back to the Palace at any time over the past month but didn't, which makes me think we're on the same page."

"We are." Alouette doesn't show how relieved she is. "In this moment, we very much are. This is what I've always wanted, you were just unwilling to listen to me."

"So you truly believe a deal is more convenient than killing him?"

"I do, yes. If you kill him someone else will rise, and everything will be lost."

Ezra scoffs. "That's yet to be seen." He opens the closet on the side of the room and throws the map inside, then turns around and grunts when he sees Alouette is still there. "I'll give him two weeks. Just leave, now."

She smiles and walks out of the room. Fourteen days nearly feel like a century when she thinks about all the things that have happened in the past twenty-four hours.

The walk back to Harry's room feels a lot shorter this time around. She considers going to see her sister, but she knows she's fast asleep, and she doesn't want to wake her up. After all, she has school tomorrow.

When she enters the bedroom, Anthony is sitting on the chair, a book on clinical psychology open in his hands. He looks up when she closes the door. "Was wondering when you'd be back." He closes the book and stands up. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thanks for watching over him."

She locks the door after him and crawls up on the bed, sliding under the blankets. Harry is sleeping, but his head gravitates towards her shoulder as soon as she leans against their pillows. She doesn't even think he notices.

I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! x
Miki