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WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: March 23
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly specifically, anyone else who wants to come hang out in the kitchen
WARNINGS: so many feelings
STATUS: ongoing

It's been over a month. A whole month of sleeping in Kira's room, of avoiding Kate's eyes, of trying to keep himself as busy as possible when there still wasn't much to do.

It's difficult, being helpful in the Inn, since any and all chores he might set his eye on would run a high risk of having him bump into Kate, and they've been avoiding speaking to one another since their fight in the kitchen, the night Benedict burned his arm. His arm has healed, only slightly-pink and shiny skin left to mark his stupidity, but his relationship with Kate was not so easily mended. (Perhaps it might have been, had he been brave enough to step forward and apologize, but Benedict hadn't been able to find the words to say what he wanted to say, and then too much time has dragged on for any attempt to be plausibly accepted, so now he has to come to terms with the fact that he's managed to cock up the one really good thing he's found for himself here, and he'll never get it back.)

The empty houses around the habble had been drawing his eye, but somehow, the thought of leaving the Inn made his rift with Kate seem so much more permanent, and he hadn't the courage to take that step. Besides, Kira had told him that he was planning on moving out of the Inn soon, so Benedict needn't worry about overstaying his welcome in the room they now share.

Like he has so many times before, he creeps down to the kitchen after everyone else has gone to bed, intent on making himself a cup of tea. He's much more careful with the kettle now, the cracked tile on the floor from where he dropped it the night he burned himself enough of a reminder to not be so careless, but he can't resist the comfort that a hot cup cradled in his palms brings. Leaning against the counter as he waits for it to steep, he looks out the window towards the tree line, absently missing the swirling colors of the Aurora. The fireflies that have taken to chasing and stinging people are just as dangerous, but if he was given the choice between the two, he'd almost certainly pick the former. There had been something peaceful about the lights in the sky, something that reminded him in a strange way of Etherealist magic.

He hopes Ferus and Folly are well. And Gwen...the fact that he's barely thought of her for weeks makes him feel suddenly guilty. He's been so wrapped up in his own hurt feelings that he'd all but forgotten his family back home. She'd shake her head at him and cluck her tongue disapprovingly, then threaten to tell his mother the way she had when they were children.

Almost despite himself, he smiles.

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A month is a long time. A month is barely any time at all. She's often gotten frustrated at how fast so many people here want things to go: quickly, quickly, train and telegraph quick, faster. No patience. And yet, this month has been long and hard and lonely, and she's got no one to blame for herself.

Benedict's right. He was right at the time, she just didn't want to hear it. He loves her but she'd been all snarling, backed into a corner and hurting, and messed it all up.

She's good at that, and has spent a while working out her self-pity by scrubbing. Of course, then the night comes, as it always does. It's then, now, when she can't escape, when the bottle is just there. But Benedict had been right. Tea, then. The tea Dr Magnus set her to drinking, that Thorfinn had. Never worked as well, but it's. It's better. It's better than lying there, running from ghosts and wallowing in her mistakes. So Kate pulls on her coat, slips her feet into her boots, and makes her way downstairs to the kitchen. There should still be warm water on the stove, at least.

She doesn't get far enough into the kitchen to check. It's dark, of course it's dark, but she's always had good eyesight and she knows the shape of Benedict very well. Even in the barest light here. She also knows that his hearing is exquisite, and there's no possible way she can slink away.

No choice for it, but to walk forwards. Into the kitchen. Make herself some herbal tea. Pretend everything is fine, she can be polite. She can.

Just...

As soon as she can make her feet move.

He hears the tread of feet long before anyone appears in the kitchen, and though he wants to believe it's Kate, he tells himself not to be so foolish and single-minded. Many people live in the Inn, not just him and his former sweetheart, he doesn't need to think every footfall belongs to her.

But when those footsteps falter at the threshold to the kitchen, he can't help turning to see who his companion is, and then, of course, he's proven correct.

The moon is bright enough to lend illumination to the kitchen, enough for his eyes at least, and he's able to see Kate in exquisite detail, the dark pools of her eyes, the darker swirl of her hair caught out of her face and braided to keep it tidy at night, the heavy fabric of her coat draped around her shoulders to keep her warm leaving her looking like a floating head and hands, like some kind of ethereal spirit come to haunt him.

For all his experience with magic, he's far too sensible to believe that, though, which means it really is Kate, and she's between him and his escape back to Kira's room.

"I can... I can leave," he offers quietly, forcing his eyes down to the tea he holds cradled in his palms, suddenly aware of the fact that he's wearing one of the shirts she sewed for him, the sleeves rolled up and the neckline gaping open. He hadn't been cold, but now he feels oddly exposed, like she hasn't seen him wearing less than this, like she hadn't touched him before. How long will he continue to feel so desperately awkward around her?

"I'm sorry," he continues, shifting awkwardly on bare feet, wishing she would just get out of his way so he could escape and also desperately wishing she would come closer, within arm's reach. "The water's still hot enough for tea. If you like."

"Don't," Kate starts. Quietly, involuntarily, with enough honesty which surprises her in hearing it. Don't go. She takes a deep breath. "It'd be right unfair of me to ask you t'leave just because I've come down," she continues, more clearly.

Not that she can move. She feels frozen, caught in a trap in the doorway. She wants to retreat and she wants to move forwards, but unless he goes outside and around, she's in the doorway and he can't leave and she doesn't want him to leave. She wants... She wants..

"I came down for some tea. I should, make it."

Stupid Kate, she thinks. What else is she going to do, wake up the servants? She forces herself forward, moving into the room which should be her domain but now feels fraught and awkward.

"You can stay," she adds, and she's not sure if it's a quiet command, a request, permission, or something more like pleading.

She tells him not to leave and he freezes, still so attuned to her that he obeys her without even thinking about it. That is, at least, until he realizes what he's done and flushes dully, a slow tide of red creeping up from his collar.

"I'll do it," he says, feeling foolish. At least turning his back on her and fussing with the tea allows him an opportunity to school his face into something less painfully open. There's no reason they shouldn't be able to speak to one another like civilized people, just because they had an argument — just because they shouted at each other loudly enough for the whole Inn to hear, just because whatever nebulous relationship they had was shattered on the tile beneath their feet like a dropped glass, just because he hasn't slept in her bed for a month — and he's closest to the kettle and the teapot, so he's willing to make her tea for her.

After a minute or so of silence so he can meticulously prepare the drink he's made for her countless times before, he pads silently across the room to hand her a steaming mug.

"There."

Kate watches him move because it seems impossible to do anything else. She's always liked how he moves through the world, all elegant and economic grace. Feline. Just that now, it has an air of forbidden about it all. Can look, but you fucked up your chances of touching, girl.

She doesn't disturb the silence, but she is reckless when she takes the mug from him. It'd be all so awkward to try and take it without touching him anyway, awkward and obvious and rude, but Kate doesn't try. More than that, she lets her fingers brush his.

It's a mistake. She knows it is a mistake, because oh, it's like drinking, isn't it? It's never enough. But she's never been consistent with making sensible, level-headed choices.

"Thank you." There's a Ben there, resting in her mouth, wanting to be used. Ben. Benedict.

Her fingers are cool where they touch his, even with the hot porcelain of the cup between them, and for a moment, Benedict is brought back to all those nights they spent curled around each other, right from the beginning when he was simply there to keep her nightmares at bay, all the way to the end when they curled together like commas, as comfortable with each others' skin as they were with their own.

He's standing too close to her for comfort, he should step away, but he's almost forgotten why.

"You're welcome," he murmurs, watching her quietly in the half-light of the moon outside, and his free hand lifts almost without his consent to brush a loose lock of hair out of her eyes the way he has countless times before. His fingers never make contact with her skin, however, as he seems to realize what he's doing once he's lifted his hand and freezes, standing stock-still before her with his hand raised like an idiot before shrinking back in on himself and taking a few shuffling steps back.

"I'm sorry."

Benedict doesn't touch her and she feels the lack of that touch more keenly than his fingers gracing her skin would have. He doesn't touch her; he retreats away. Before her bottom lip can tremble, Kate tilts her head up. Chin up, back straight, trying to keep her poise together.

She's concentrating so hard on that, his apology tips her off-balance. Kate falters, frowning at him in confusion. She's lost on what he's referring to all of a sudden - sorry for the argument?

It's that train of thought which prompts her words.

"You said you love me."

Then, only then, does Kate realise he's probably apologising for presuming to touch her. But there's nothing she can do to take her words back.

She's so beautiful, it's like an ache in his chest, knowing that he had her and then he stupidly let her slip through his fingers.

He's replayed their argument hundreds of times in his head, a self-flagellation that never gets any less painful no matter how many times he forces himself to live through it, always wondering what he could have said differently to avoid the outcome that they've been forced to live with. Benedict has always quietly prided himself on his ability with words, the quiet skill he has in being able to diffuse a situation before it grew too volatile. He'd had plenty of practice, following Gwen around the way he used to, but apparently all that skill flies out the window when it comes to someone he loves.

"I-I did," he confesses, the hard line of the counter digging into his lower back as he presses himself against it, avoiding her eyes. It hurts to look at her. "I do," he adds quietly, nearly a whisper.

Kate has a temper. She'd been keeping it under leash, here, with too much riding on her and too much to prove being a young, poor woman amongst all of these educated types, but she has a temper. Like her ma, like her brothers, like her older sister Maggie. And that night, she'd been short-tempered. It'd started off fine, just a grumpy practicality at Benedict's own sulky anger over his injury. Then it... exploded. Gunpowder explosion, all lashing out and snarling as he pressed into her.

Her da drank himself to death. It's not as if Benedict was wrong. She's been thinking that's what made her lash out all the more.

And she...

She'd been weighing what she has, what she had with Benedict against that which she had with Joe. It's not fair. It's different, she's different, it's a different man and a different thing and a different... a different love. Not that she appreciated it as much as she should have until suddenly, Benedict was gone from her bed and their easy comfort was replaced by tension and awkwardness.

"Oh," Kate says, quiet and unhappy. She's not drinking her tea. She's standing there, gazing at him, fingers almost burning against the increasingly hot cup. "You. You weren't... wrong. When you, um. You weren't wrong, before."

Benedict desperately doesn't want to be having this conversation.

He's never called it off with a sweetheart before, has never even had a proper sweetheart before Kate, and he doesn't know what to do. He'd only had practice politely turning down propositions from society women of varying degrees of blatancy, and those were all more or less strangers. To have to distance himself from someone he's grown to depend on...

He should have made more friends down here. Then he wouldn't feel so adrift without Kate at his side.

"I know."

He's not an idiot. He knows he was correct, when he had accused her of attempting to drink herself to death. He certainly shouldn't have said it the way he did, but the underlying message was definitely true. Kate has a problem, and the fact that she wouldn't even acknowledge it was almost as bad as the problem itself. He doesn't try to deflect his response, to couch it in softer language, because he's not trying to wheedle his way back into her good graces. That ship has sailed, and it left harbor the night he burned his arm. Since he won't ever get another chance with her, he might as well be honest.

Now her gaze drops. Not to study anything in particularly, because she's shut her eyes, but she's no longer gazing at him. She doesn't know what to say, how to continue. She wants to throw herself at his feet and beg forgiveness, beg him to come back.

"If you ever have to wait for family to be executed, I suggest not a local pub," Kate says softly, bitterly. "It imprints bad habits." Then, because she's opened that box, she keeps going. "My family are farmers and thieves because the farming's shite. The law killed two of me older brothers, along with two mates of theirs. Da was a convict. I'm not a nice, good little posh girl like you deserve. I drink too much and I know, I know I do. Runs in the family a bit. But I...

I love you."

He hadn't known what farmers were until a few weeks into his life here on the Surface, but he understands what she's saying.

Kate wouldn't have lived in Habble Morning. Kate would have lived far lower down the Spire, where her family would work as laborers, perhaps in a vattery, perhaps doing...something else.

The thing is, he's known that for months. It doesn't take a genius to realize that Kate knows far more about running a household than he does, that she's used to hard work and long hours, that she's practical and sensible because she's never had to wrestle with the agonizing dilemma of choosing between the sky-blue silk for her gown or the leaf-green brocade. She's a pretty girl, and she obviously takes pride in her appearance, but it's a far quieter sort of pride than he's used to from girls like his cousin, and the girls he went to school with.

He frowns at her, stuck on one thing she said. "...Like I...deserve?" That makes no sense. She was there when he told her what he was, what that meant. He doesn't deserve anything. Certainly not a girl as wonderful as Kate, no matter her faults. "Kate, I..."

His words fail him and he trails off.

"I love you too," he says finally, as if they hadn't already established that. As if he hadn't shouted it at her, flung the words in her face like an accusation, pointed and barbed and aimed to hurt.

Once, she spent several pounds on a bonnet. Stolen money, and she shouldn't have been so frivolous. But she and Maggie have always been vain, and they'd been so unhappy and so stressed, that it felt good to just go to shop, and buy things. A bonnet with flowers for Kate, a Gainsborough-style hat with feathers for Maggie. It'd all seemed so stupid later. Vain. But she'd just wanted something nice and pretty.

Benedict isn't a bonnet she can buy with stolen money, but there's something of the same longing attached. He's nice and kind and beautiful and he loves her and he's too good for her.

"Yes, like you deserve. Someone whose brothers weren't on wanted posters, or has a sweeter temper, or didn't break the law or fool around or, or, or..." Someone not like Kate.

Except then he says that he loves her and she stops with a hiccuping breath. It's not a slap in the face like last time, but she flinches anyway. Not badly enough for her tea to slosh over her the cup, but enough to remind her what she's holding. She puts the cup down and tries, tries not to wring her hands.

He loves her. She loves him. So what are they doing?

Kate takes a deep breath and then moves forward, falling onto her knees and looking up at him. She's not begging for her brother's life this time, but she is going to beg. "I'm sorry," she says, reaching out for his hand. "I'm sorry, you were all concerned and I just threw it back in your face. You're good, and I... I can promise to try to be better. I will. Please forgive me."

"That makes no sense," he mutters, dumbly repeating his thoughts because nothing more intelligent is circling his brain. "I don't care about your brothers." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he winces, acutely aware that that was the wrong thing to say. He has to think before he starts speaking, especially in regards to sensitive subjects. That's what got them in this mess in the first place. His stupid mouth. "I mean, I don't care what they did. Or what you did. That was then, and this is now, and I..."

She sinks to her knees, and if the counter wasn't stopping him from backing up any further, Benedict would be scuttling back in a startled retreat.

"Kate—" He carefully folds her narrow palm in his larger one, his fingers pressing into her skin as she babbles and he stares at her in dumb confusion. "Kate, sweetheart—what are you doing—come here already, get off the floor—"

The sight of her kneeling in front of him is so absurd he doesn't even know what to do with it, so he decides the only thing to do is join her.

"I'm begging," she says, and almost laughs. The sound is full of tears, but for all her dramatics, she is aware (a little) that she probably looks a little ridiculous. It's not a posture that works well unless one is fully dressed, not hanging around in a chemise and boots and a coat. "And the floor's clean, I scrubbed it-"

What she wants is to throw herself at him, wrap her arms around him, cling. Instead, she clutches at his hand.

"I made a bloody mess of it all, and us. But I miss you so much."

"But why?" he asks, sounding forlorn like he's annoyed and dismayed that everyone understands something he doesn't. He doesn't see why Kate should be asking his forgiveness. She should be forgiving him.

Her hand clutches at his, her nails digging into his skin, little pin-pricks of pain winding their way up his arm, but he wouldn't shake her off for the world.

He's not crying, but his breath is a little shaky, and when he pulls her closer to him so he can wind his free arm around her, his hands tremble slightly. "Katie," he breathes, tugging her all the way into his lap, their legs tangled hopelessly on the cold tile, his arms curling around her and his face pressing into her hair the way he's been dying to do for weeks. He feels like he can't say her name enough.

"Jesus Christ," he continues shakily, a laugh as choked as hers had been bubbling in his throat but never quite making it free of his lips. "I've been such a wreck." As if that hadn't been obvious.

"I know, I know." She does know. She's been watching and worrying after him since she calmed down from the fight, wanting to look after him and knowing that it's due to her that he's been in such a bad way. "I'm sorry. I should have, I should have said earlier."

But her pride was there, trying to protect her and it from humiliation. And fear, and shame, all of those twisting up to still her tongue and keep her from walking over. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned and been a prideful little brat.

His arm around her feels right, the length of him against her. How close he is, and she's missed this, she's missed him, all so much. Too much. Enough that she turns her head, twists a little to be able to face, and kiss him. Finally.

Benedict had tried to hide how miserable he'd been, but he's fairly certain he failed. Miserably. Thankfully, outside of a few stilted attempts, Kira hadn't mentioned the obvious reason for Benedict's sudden bout of listless melancholy, which had made it easier to pretend.

He's been disappointed before. Enough times that he'd learned that the easiest way to keep from being disappointed is to not get your hopes up in the first place, a lesson he'd forgotten the first time Kate had looked up at him and smiled wide enough to make dimples pop into her cheeks, to make her eyes sparkle with suppressed laughter. He'd tried not to remember those moments too much, because it hurt to dredge up memories of what he'd lost.

The trick to get over disappointments is to ruthlessly squash them down and pretend they aren't there until they stop hurting.

But Kate is in his lap once more, warm and solid against the tops of his thighs while the cold of the tile beneath them seeps through the fabric of his scrubs, worn thin and smooth in places, close to breaking if he's not careful. It's easy to forget everything else with her weight in his lap again, with her body pressed against his, her hands on his chest and her breath against his neck.

She turns her head to kiss him and he can't help the noise he makes deep in his chest, a low, rattling groan that sounds far too loud to his own ears.

Kate shivers, but not from any chill. Dimly, she's aware that her legs are cold, her feet, too. She's aware that she's on his lap, on the kitchen floor, wearing a shift and a coat. But she's on his lap and she's kissing him, and she shivers at his groan. Purr, deep down and low. She's missed making him sound like that, too, all the times they've messed around in bed.

Messed around, fooled around, but never that final step. Her choice, that one. She's not sure why, now. Not with him like this, kissing her back and purring.

Kate pulls her hand free from his, but only so she can cup his head, hold him a bit more still so she can kiss him deeper.

It's like a dam has been broken somewhere in his head, and now that Kate is back in his lap, clinging to him, kissing him, holding his head in place so she can lick past his lips, all Benedict can think about is the things they've done together, the countless nights spent curled around each other in bed, their hands slowly exploring under the cover of darkness and blankets alike.

Before he met Kate, he never really understood what everyone's preoccupation with sex and romance was about. It had seemed single-minded and stupid, really.

...And then he understood.

He's spent over a month without her touch, without her presence, without her scent clinging to everything he touched, and it's been torture. He rumbles again, sounding less like a rusty engine spluttering to life and more like something well-oiled and powerful, and clutches at her.

Kiss him like this is heavenly, almost made more intoxicating, more pleasurable, just more because of the time spent away without him.

Almost.

She'd been a fool, not to beg forgiveness before now. She's missed him, she's missed him, and she's missed this. His hands on her, his mouth under hers, the sheer heat of him against her body. Of knowing that she did all this to him not because she's just a pretty girl, the oh so delectable Kate Kelly, but because he, Benedict, loves her. Loves her. Respects her. Needs her. Wants her.

So Kate kisses him and kisses him, and shifts in his lap so she can press herself even closer. Her knees on the floor, she can move until there's nothing between them and it's not enough, not nearly close enough. She wants, she wants -

She breaks off kissing his mouth only to kiss his face and then duck down, kiss his neck. Kiss everywhere she can.

Truthfully, Logan was feeling more exhausted in the last few days than he had in a long time. The dampening of his healing was the obvious conclusion, but there was something a little more underlying. In fact, it was prominent enough of a feeling that the mutant managed to sleep in later than he usually did and made him decide to leave the chopping of wood for that day.

Later in the morning, he did end up making his way to the inn for something to eat and something hot to drink.

Entering the kitchen, Logan noticed the guy. With a simple tilt of his head in greeting, he glanced around. "Any coffee today?"

Before he arrived in this habble, Benedict would have laughed probably far too hard if someone had insinuated that he'd wind up most comfortable in a kitchen, puttering around, tending to simple tasks that needed doing and not out somewhere with his sword at his hip, stirring up trouble.

(Alright, the stirring up trouble part usually isn't his fault, but Gwen's, and as her elder cousin, it's his responsibility to clean up after her. That's not the point.)

He's been down on the Surface for six, maybe seven months, and he's settled almost disturbingly comfortably into the quiet pace of life here, where there are no Guards and no Etherealists, no vatteries and not even a Temple. He's found ways to keep himself busy.

The sound of footsteps herald the arrival of his companion long before he speaks, so Benedict doesn't even turn away from what he's doing at the counter. "There's a little chicory root left," he replies, using his elbow to indicate the little clay pot that they've been storing it in. It doesn't make nearly as satisfying a cup of coffee as the beans that grew in the vatteries in Habble Landing did, but it's the next best thing, down here.

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