are you led to the assumption that your company is something that I need?

[more_magic]

To say that he and Alex have come to an understanding about the kind of work she’s chosen to pursue is something that seems to carry implications about his character Darlington’s not sure he likes. They’re deserved, maybe, given how poorly--and wasn’t that an understatement--he’d reacted at first, but deserved doesn’t mean at all that he has to like them. But they’ve talked, the two of them, and tried to acknowledge each others’ perspectives with clearer and more level heads than they’d managed before, and while it all should have happened much sooner than it did, at least now they’ve settled into something the both of them can live with.

It doesn’t entirely stop his concern, nor his tendency to sleep a little shallowly on nights she’s working until she’s home and curled up beside him, and certainly hasn’t lessened the way he still bristles at any mention of Joseph Kavinsky’s name, but perhaps nothing ever really will.

By choice, he hasn’t been back to the club--and as far as he thinks Alex knows, that’s the only time he’s ever been--since the night he’d come to apologize, the night when he’d let go of the difficult, stubborn parts of himself he’d clung to for reasons he stopped believing in almost as soon as they occurred. He’d have happily kept it that way, at least for the time being, but Alex had texted about an hour and a half into her shift; a short message about having forgotten a pair of heels she needed for a set at the back of her closet and asking him to bring them by. And, well, saying no to Alex Stern is something he’s never been particularly good at doing anyway.

So he goes, finding the shoes and putting them in some tote bag one of them got for free at a city event, hailing a cab outside the Bramford and once again weathering the smirking, winking look the driver shoots him in the mirror when he rattles off the address. The cab turns onto Paper and pulls to a stop outside the club; Darlington pays, already typing out a message to Alex--Outside now; where should I meet you?--as he gets out of the car and starts towards the front doors.

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[more_magic]

Darlington sees the skepticism in that lifted brow and the smirk still evident on Kavinsky's face, and he could answer it; could admit that he was wrong, and he knows he was wrong, and knows he'll be spending his life making up for so many of the things he'd gotten incorrect. Maybe if he did, it would bring this to some kind of detente, something that would allow the both of them to get through what ought to have been a minute-long handoff of a pair of shoes without coming near to snarling at one another. But to do so would be to let him in, even slightly, to reveal himself and admit to vulnerability--and Darlington learned, years ago, that such a privilege should only be extended to a select few. Even if it wasn't, he doubts someone like Kavinsky would've made the cut anyway.

He and Alex understand one another about this. That's what matters, and if she hasn't seen fit to explain it to Kavinsky--if Kavinsky hasn't seen fit to listen, if she has--then there's no need for Darlington to attempt the same, is there?

Kavinsky steps towards him, the shoes dangling from one hand, and Darlington stays where he is. "Not her keeper, no," he says. "But we're each the only other person we have from home. Which means something to me, even if it's of little consequence to you."