Page 41 of Threadbound

And about the fact that he felt like he had to wake the smaller man up, because it really wasn’t good for him to go much longer without eating. He was already almost painfully thin.

So Jamie was standing beside the little alcove that held his bed, the curtain pulled halfway back, watching Bran’s chest as it slightly rose and fell. He knew he needed to wake Bran up, but waking up an almost-stranger who had been badly beaten and through the veritable wringer just felt… mean.

But Bran needed food. And he probably wouldn’t appreciate having his entire circadian rhythm thrown off. Jamie pushed the curtain back a little farther, then carefully sat on the edge of the bed. Bran shifted a little, his brow furrowing, but his eyes remained closed.

“Bran.” Jamie kept his voice low and soft because he didn’t want to scare the poor man—if Bran was startled awake he might sit up too quickly and hurt himself. “Bran?”

There was no response, so Jamie tried a little louder.

“Bran?”

Still nothing.

Jamie reached out and cautiously put a hand on Bran’s shoulder—the shoulder that didn’t have a broken arm attacked to it. But the gentle contact wasn’t enough to rouse Bran, either.

The depth of his sleep was making Jamie even more anxious.

He carefully shook Bran’s shoulder, repeating the smaller man’s name. “Bran!”

The furrow returned to the pale skin of Bran’s forehead, and the steady pattern of his breathing hitched as his features shifted. And then those brilliant green eyes slitted open.

“J-Jamie?” His voice was rough, thick with sleep and probably pain.

“Yeah.” Jamie offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “You’ve slept most of the day, and I thought you might want a shower before dinner.”

“Shower?” Bran felt as though his head was filled with thick mud. He’d immediately recognized Jamie’s voice—no doubt thanks to the threadbond—so he hadn’t panicked, but he honestly had no idea where in Habetrot’s name he was.

“Yeah,” Jamie repeated, a frown starting to mar the smooth skin of his forehead. “A shower. Or at least a washcloth-bath or something.”

Because I am undoubtedly filthy. Pain as he tried to sit up was a sharp reminder of the events of the night before. Getting easily distracted thinking about Jamie. Having the life nearly beaten out of him by the Taranis-cursedgeàrd soilleir. Jamie calling for an ambulance against his wishes, but then going with him to the hospital. Jamie staying with him and not letting the doctors give him anything. Bringing him a sandwich and a granola bar. And then… bringing him home.

Bran had been curious about where Jamie lived—he knew the building, knew the main window and the little half-window in the kitchen that were Jamie’s, but he’d told himself many times that it was impolite to pry into the half-breed’s life any more than he already had. That Jamie deserved some amount of privacy.

And now Bran was in Jamie’s apartment. In his bed, too, judging by the lack of any other similar furniture in the small space.

Bran felt an odd surge of emotion. There was gratitude there—naturally—and guilt. Shame that he owed Jamie so very much. That he owed Jamie his life. But layered in among all of those completely understandable feelings was something soft and warm that Bran didn’t recognize. He didn’t like it.

“Did you want to shower?” Jamie asked him, and Bran forced himself to refocus on the half-breed, who looked deeply concerned, no doubt because Bran couldn’t manage to actually focus on what he was being asked.

“I—” He paused, swallowed. Now that attention had been called to the fact that he was, in fact, absolutely disgusting, he did very much want to be clean. And the prospect of being able to clean himself in human form—instead of bathing as a raven, as he’d been doing for the last two months—was especially appealing. The problem was that he wasn’t entirely certain he could manage to get himself into or out of a bathtub. Or a shower.

“I can help,” Jamie offered, and then the half-breed’s face and ears flushed a bright pink, no doubt because he’d just realized that helping Bran bathe would mean that Bran was likely to be nude.

The fae wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or insulted. Humans tended toward the prudish, that much he knew, although he really didn’t understand the strange combination of repulsion and fascination that they had with nudity. He’d seen enough photographed and painted nudes in the museums to know that plenty of people spent plenty of time staring at depictions of human nudity. And yet the prospect of being in the room with him naked had caused a clearly uncomfortable reaction in Jamie.

“I—I mean?—”

“I would like to be clean,” Bran answered. “But I’m afraid I don’t feel very… steady.”

Jamie nodded, his cheeks still flushed. “I can put the folding chair in the shower?”

“The folding chair?”

“Yeah.” Jamie pointed across the room at something wooden. “It’s bamboo and cheap, so it’ll be fine if it gets wet.”

He wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but now that the prospect of hot water and soap had been offered, Bran really wanted it. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’d like that.”

Jamie smiled, a slight rosiness still on his cheeks, and stood up, stepping away from the bed. “I can put some fresh clothes in there for you? And I’ll set out a towel.” Then he grabbed a stack of cloth from the side table and disappeared into a small room near the door—the bathroom, presumably.

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