Julia

Sleepily I rubbed my eyes, then gently ran my hand over Fry's warm, long body next to me, which set his tail to wag for a moment.  I had to smile.  I liked him best asleep; he wasn't quite such a nuisance then.

With a tired sigh, I opened The Great Gatsby back up again.  I'd pushed myself through about half the book, starting from the first page; I usually sailed through books much faster than this, certainly books I'd read as much as that one, but I'd been reading only at short intervals.  I had had other outside  things to take care of- such as finding a nice, well-obscured home for Jim Hutton's memoirs, someplace where even the sneaky Danny Phantom would not think to pry.

Marvelous, Stuart; something else to stress about, I said to myself, still feeling a tad bitter about his, shall we say, ill-timed gift. Thank you, dear.  Let me just add Freddie's current lover's book to the million things I have to f---ing hide from both Freddie AND his child.

Before I could get myself riled up again (and it would not have taken much), I settled back into the classic piece of American literature- and found the following passage alarmingly familiar:

The truth was that Jay Gatsby, of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from [James Gatz's] Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that—and he must be about His Father's business, the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen year old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end...

But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock ticked on the wash-stand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing.

Sounds like Freddie, I noted.  Sounds just like him. 

"What doesn't," I said aloud.  It was true; it didn't take much at all to remind me of Freddie.  Just about everything conjured up some little thing he would say, do, or be; not even the Great Gatsby was immune.

I repeated the last line talking about a fairy's wing, and found myself reminded of yet another song.  "Mother Mercury," I mouthed to myself, "look what they've done to me..."

But I didn't stay sidetracked long.  I stretched, tapped my phone's screen to look at the time- and groaned aloud. It was twenty-two minutes after one in the morning. I should be in bed; I've got work. Freddie, dear, hurry back.

As much as I wanted to curl up under the covers and get cozy, I had promised myself I would be awake to greet him. Not that he would have really cared in the long run, I knew; but I wanted him to, on one hand, understand that it really was not my intent to avoid him this way. But mostly, if we were being perfectly truthful, I just wanted Freddie all to myself for at least five minutes.

Of course, our moments alone were no less dangerous than they had ever been.  In fact, thanks to my missed happy pill this morning, my once-steely armor didn't stand a chance against his power- and my own suppressed, but still very real, emotions.  But tonight, I didn't care.  I knew our time together was limited- and every impossible moment mattered.  Every second I spent near him, the clearer that seemed. 

For, contrary to popular belief (and everything I had told myself since Day One), I still cared for Freddie.  I would not have offered to take him in otherwise. 

And if not for Stuart...

But I shook my head.  It was ridiculous to ponder on things that, even if circumstances were different, still could never truly be- not even with all the wishes, hopes, and prayers to the contrary.  I knew that better than anything.

I felt myself slipping into melancholy again; I closed the book.  Gatsby's was not an uplifting story in the first place.  I decided to meet sleep halfway, and stretched out on the couch, careful not to jostle Fry too much.  My eyes closed.  All I needed to do was keep one ear awake for any knocks, or doorbell rings-

BAM BAM BAM

Speak of the devil.

I leapt up from the couch- but was surprised to find as I opened my eyes how blurry everything appeared.  With a little annoyed grunt, I rubbed fiercely at my eyes, thinking my contacts had slipped under my lids, but it did no good.  Still I didn't want to waste any more time.  Half-blindly, I hustled up the stairs and threw open the front door.

But instead of Freddie, I found K standing there.  I squinted, unsure of what to expect.  "K, what are you doing here so late?"  I asked.

He cleared his throat.  "Can I come in?"

"Uh- sure!  Of course."  I backed up, shut the door behind my friend.  "What's up?"

For a moment or two, he didn't answer.  Quietly he shuffled down the stairs, seated himself on the couch where I had been laying.  Then he took a deep breath and patted the cushion next to him.  "You'd better sit down, Julia."

That did not sound good at all.  "K, what's happened?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you."

So I did as he asked.  For a couple of minutes the only sound was that of the heater overhead.  And then, K said it.

"Freddie's gone."

I blinked.  "Gone?  What do you mean, gone?"

"He left."  K sighed again.  "He went home."

"Left?"  My voice seemed to shrink. 

"He just showed up at Princeton, demanded we send him back now or never, so we did."  He shrugged.  "Problem solved."

The words were barely leaving his lips when my vision suddenly sharpened, leaving everything clear-cut and crisp.  But I found no pleasure in this; I was still too stuck on the news to care about much else.  

"But- but Stuart said it would be a few more days before Speck was fixed," I whispered. 

K shrugged again.  "We, uh- somehow we managed to get our sh- stuff together, and he showed up- very conveniently, I might add, right when we had everything recalibrated, and he said he wanted out- said he couldn't take another minute in this place, that he had a party to go back to, that the champagne was getting warm and he'd wasted enough time already as it was- stuff like that."

I swallowed.  "I see."  I covered my mouth.  "Well- at least he's home now."

"Isn't that what you wanted?" K asked.

"Uh- sure it was.  Yes.  Yes!"  Somehow I forced a smile, letting out a sharp bark of a laugh.  "That's exactly... what I wanted... this whole time."

"You wanted him gone, right?"

I nodded weakly.  "Uh-huh..."

"I mean, that's what you've always wanted, ever since you met him."

Mid-nod, I paused.  Slowly I lifted my eyes to his blue ones.  "What?"

K explained, in a voice far too calm and smooth to be his own, "You've always wanted him to be gone.  If you didn't, you wouldn't have left him ten years ago."

My flesh seemed to catch fire.  I rose to my feet.  "That is not why I left him."

"Why did you, then?"

"You - you guys said I had to!" I cried, words violently shaking.  "You said we didn't have a chance-"

"If you loved him as much as you say you did, you wouldn't have given a rat's ass what we said would happen.  You would have stayed."

My hands and knees trembled.  "I-I couldn't have stayed!  Not even if I- You always say yourself, and I quote, 'Nothing happens that isn't supp-'"

"If you cared, you would have stayed."  K stood as well, and walked toward me. 

In spite of myself, I started backing away, with my heart feeling like it was being clenched in somebody's fist.  "You can't talk this way to me!"

"If you cared, you would have stayed with him- and Danny, sweet little Danny, would have a father- and Freddie, the man you said you loved, would not have died." 

K moved ever closer, gazed steadily into my eyes, blurring again, but this time, with tears.  I backed into the comfy chair in the corner and fell onto it, shivering, staring up into those cold blue circles. 

"But let's be honest," he sighed softly, "you never really did care, did you?"

With a scream I lurched upright, moving so fast I knocked Fry off the couch.  I looked around wildly and found I was alone in the living room, my empty glass on the coffee table, a baffled Fry watching me cautiously from the floor.  With a gasp of relief, I leaned back against the sofa, clutching at my heart.

Damn those dreams, I cursed under my breath.  Five days, they left me alone, why can't they just go away forever?  Is ten f---ing years not long enough a sentence?

But now I had to wonder.

What if that was exactly what happened? 

Perhaps Freddie never intended to return.  Perhaps he had indeed gone straight to the university, convinced the lab rats to take him home that very evening.  Heaven knew he was suffering, living here, unrecognized, with no Mary or Jim or Paul or Queen for company.  Speck was his "Get Out of Hell Free" card- and I was the sadistic harbinger of ennui, the lapdog of one Stuart Preus, a man he clearly loathed inside and out.  Why wouldn't he have flown the coop?

"If he cared, he would have stayed," I repeated half-facetiously, although my hands were still shaking.  "Surely it works both ways.  After all, we do have so much in common, everyone said so-"

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM

I jumped a little.  "If this is the real life, and not just fantasy, knock again," I said aloud.

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM

"Good enough."

I leapt off the couch like it was a springboard, flew directly to the front door.  Please be Freddie, please be Freddie, Oh, God, please be Freddie.

However, I was more careful in real life than I had been on the dream-scape.  Instead of simply flinging the door open like an idiot begging to be burgled at half-past one in the morning (after all, this was still New Jersey), I peered around the corner, checked the shape of the shadow in the window.  I saw a dark form there, obviously that of a man, but not the familiar five-foot-nine, slightly slouching silhouette I was looking for; rather it was massive, ramrod straight, and formidable. 

I crept away from the front, and edged my way toward the hall and hoping for all the world our visitor couldn't see me.

He knocked a few more times, even after I'd made it to my bedroom, then all was still.  Still listening, I put my hand tentatively toward the drawer where the .38 lay dormant.  I didn't know the stranger at our door, and it was too late at night to take the risk; say or think what you will of me, but at least I knew better than to jeopardize my son's and my welfare.

A few minutes later, the phone rang.

Nervously I debated with myself whether I should answer it- but was convinced when I saw the caller ID.  I lifted the phone to my ear and cleared my throat.  "Hello?"

"Yes, Ms. Samuels?" the deep voice on the other end greeted me- a voice I definitely wasn't anticipating.

I blinked.  "That's me.  Who are you?"

The man ignored the question.  "Ms. Samuels, please open the door."

"Who are you, sir?"

"I am the man freezing to death outside your house who would like very much for you to open the door so I can go home and get some sleep."

"What do you want?"

"I'm making a late night delivery," he quipped. 

"Of what?"

A pause, then: "Rick."

I hung up right away, ran back to the door.  Still, I was wary; I unlocked the door, but left the deadbolt in place.  I peered up where I thought the man's face would be.

"Rick, who?" I asked suspiciously.

I could almost hear him roll his eyes as he scoffed, "Rick Dubroc, your ex-boyfriend, that's who."

I squinted.  "You're Charles, right?"

"Yes, Ms. Samuels, that's me, and I've had a very rough night thus far, so would you please just take me at my word and help me get this guy inside?" 

Half-relieved, half-confused, I looked around behind Charles.  "So where is he?"

He waved behind him.  "In the car, out cold."

I pulled down the first coat my hands found on the rack behind the door, and followed him down.  "He must have had a very good time, then," I mumbled to myself.

"Mm," was all Charles said. 

Only when the passenger door lifted, did I allow myself to relax, and believe.  For there he was- unconscious, as Charles had warned me, but present nonetheless.  For that much, I had to smile.  Far be it for me to actively try and keep Freddie apart from his world- but I could still be glad we at least had him for another night.  Charles took one side, and I took the other.  Very carefully, we lifted Freddie's limp body out of the little yellow dart, and carried him up the steps into the house.

"You live alone?" Charles asked casually.  "I mean- the two of you?  You and Rick?"

I shook my head.  "No, I have a little boy, as well."

"Ah," Charles hummed.  "How old?"

"Nine."

"Ah, yes- and the name, what is it- Danny?"

"How would you know that?"

Charles turned his head my way.  "Rick talks about you quite often."

"He does?"

I received no answer, for we were in the house by then.  I shut the door behind us and locked it.  Now I could see everything.

And I was horrified.

"Oh, my God!" I cried.  "What happened to him, Charles?"

"I wouldn't, ah, say he had a good time, per se- 'eventful', more like," Charles replied.

Quickly we carried him a little further, laying him gently on top of my bed so I could inspect the damage.  Freddie was decked out sumptuously, in clothes he had not been wearing before he left; Charles went on to explain behind me that the first stop he demanded once they hit Manhattan again was someplace where he could shed the "tradesman" look.

"He wanted to be, as he put it," Charles droned, "'absolutely fatal.'"

Were it a different situation, I might have laughed, while simultaneously noting that Saks Fifth Avenue had certainly done the trick indeed- but I couldn't take my eyes off of his face, specifically his bruised, delicate nose with a little bloody piece of tissue sticking out of one nostril. 

"What happened to him?" I whispered again.  "Did he get in a fight?"

"A little bit of one," Charles nodded.  "How, or what over, I have no idea.  I just saw this one man draw back and almost break Rick's nose- and before Rick could tear him apart with his bare hands, he- collapsed."

Wow, I whistled to myself.  He was that drunk?

"You know, Fre- Rick has a very high tolerance for alcohol," I mused aloud. "Makes me wonder how many he had, if he passed out."

Charles shook his head.  "Honestly, he didn't really overdo it all that much.  I mean, he was on his way to sloppy drunk, sure- he was making the rest of the guys at the bar look like lightweights, as usual- but- I don't know where  that faint came from.  It just hit him out of nowhere, his eyes rolled back in his head, and down he went.  Pow."

"Strange."  I opened up Freddie's jacket, moving slowly in case I might rouse him.  His eyelids twitched a little at my touch, but he stayed asleep, even when I slid my hand gently over his chest and rib cage in search of any stab wounds or bruising.

"He's not seriously hurt; I checked," Charles assured me. "But I would certainly suggest you keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours."

Just out of curiosity, I asked, "When he passed out, did he start having a seizure?"

"Not that I know of.  He did convulse a couple of times, but not for very long- and they weren't very serious.  He's a lucky man."

"Yes- lucky you were there keeping an eye on things," I sighed, standing back up. 

Charles looked down, put his hands behind his back.  "Well, I'm just doing my job."

I smiled.  "Can I offer you a drink before you head home?"

But he turned me down, saying, "No, I had my fill at the bar, but thank you." 

"No, Charles," I replied.  "Thank you."

I walked him back toward the front door- and just as I was about to send him off, I stopped.  "Wait- he made you drive all the way back up to New York City?"

The big man, still standing with his back to me, shrugged it off.  "I didn't mind.  He's the boss."

"He's not, though- not your boss, anyway," I insisted. 

"True; then it's just force of habit, I suppose," he chuckled lightly- then continued, a little more on the serious side, "But- all things considered, it really was a very small thing in the long run.  I've dealt with worse, believe me."

"You're a very generous man," I said. 

"Not generous," Charles shook his head, handing me Danny's phone.  "Just grateful." 

With that, he opened the front door again and tromped back down the steps, waving as he went.  Suddenly I noticed throughout all that time the man did not once look me straight on in the face.

But before I could do or think much about it...

"Is Freddie back now?" Danny's high voice pierced the air.  A few heavy, fast-paced stomps later, Danny sped into my bedroom.  Not long afterward he ran to me and cried, lip trembling, "Mom!  Why's he all beat up?"

"It's not as bad as it seems, sweetie, he's just got a bloody nose; apparently he got in a fight with somebody, and they hit first."

"Ooo, man," Danny seethed.  "I'll punch them in the face, see how they like it!"

I had to stifle the smile.  "Settle down," I said softly.  "He's all right, he just- had way too much fun, I guess."

"Will he have to go to the hospital?"

"I don't think so; Charles would have said so, I think.  That's his driver, he's the guy who brought him back."

"I know.  With the yellow car, right?"

"Right."

Danny looked at Freddie, who still lay fully dressed and sprawled out on my bed.  "Is he just going to sleep there like that?"

"Uh..." I trailed off, then realized I didn't know how to answer.  How was I going to handle this?  Leave all his clothes on, let him lay there all night only to wake up uncomfortable and bitchy the next morning- or get him at least partially undressed and risk him opening his eyes and catching me tugging his arms out of his sleeves?

If only Charles hadn't left so quickly, I groaned inwardly.  He could at least lend a hand, make the job look a little less scandalous!

Finally I answered my son, "I'm going to at least take off his jacket; leather's not very fun to sleep in.  Why don't you go back to bed?"

"Can I help?"

"No, offspring, I got this," I smiled.  "You've got tests in the morning, you need to be rested and ready."

"Okay," he sighed.  Before he paraded back to his bedroom, however, Danny gave Freddie's unconscious form one long last look, and shivered.

"You all right, Danny?" I asked.

"Yeah- just- I was so afraid he wouldn't come back."

I pretended to be amused.  "Daniel-san, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were getting very attached to our guest."

"I guess," he murmured.  "But he is my friend- and he's weird like us- so- it's just nice, I don't know."  He rubbed his bleary eyes and let out a hippopotamus yawn.  "If he's sleeping in here, where are you gonna sleep?"

"Same pla-" I cut myself off, realizing that all this time Danny never figured out that we had been sharing the bed- but in a strictly platonic sense of course, if one could excuse Freddie's, ahem, "exciting" dream the night before.

But it was too late to make up a story now.  "You guys are sleeping together?" he frowned. 

"Uh- yes."

"Why?"

And before I knew it I launched into the silly excuse Freddie had made up before: "He- has very bad dreams- and he needs somebody with him at night to keep them at bay."

Danny understood- and even more miraculous, he believed.  "Ugh.  Bad dreams are the worst; we should get him one of those dream catcher things- do they work, Mom?"

"I- wouldn't know."

"I bet they do," he said decisively.  "Or else, people wouldn't make them, right?"

I nodded.  "Right."

"Good.  Then I will get him one.  Night, Mom."

"Good night, Danny. I love you."

"Love you, too," he mumbled, then, with one more yawn, disappeared into the hall. I shut the bedroom door, shaking my head in disbelief.

God, he's so dear, I marveled to myself.  How on Earth did I end up with such a pure, innocent boy- even now, when that innocence should be wearing off exponentially?  I was naive at nine, but not that naive.  What does that say about Freddie when he was that age?  Was he the same way- a sweet, angelic little creature with a simmering impish streak- or did I just get impossibly lucky?

A very soft little moan left Freddie's throat as he shifted in his sleep.  That reminded me.  Well, I sighed, back to swimming in dangerous waters. 

I cleared my throat, sat down at his bedside.  With ginger hands I began to peel the handsome jacket away from his chest, taking almost too much care not to wake him as I drew one arm, and then the other, out of the quilted sleeves.  It took me an ungodly amount of time, but I succeeded.  Next off were the shoes- another new purchase, it seemed, courtesy of his radio stunt.  The toes wiggled a little once free from the shoes' constraints; it was all I could do not to tickle his sock feet- not that I'd ever done that before, of course. 

I might have gone even further with the undressing, if not for what happened because of his belt. 

All I was trying to do was make him more comfortable- but the moment I put my shivering hands on the belt and loosened it, my flesh broke out in goosebumps and a twinge shot through my insides while wrong thoughts flashed through my mind; and the moment I actually undid the buckle and started pulling it gently through the loops, a little smirk curved Freddie's full lips while he snickered suggestively to himself.

Even that wouldn't have been so bad, except as I slowed down the process for fear he would stir, that seemed to "arouse" him even more.  One of his hands twitched, seemed to drift a little closer to his crotch.  On instinct I moved my own hand away altogether- but that didn't seem to fix anything.  At all. 

As he let out a soft, dreamy purr, that same big, wayward paw of his planted itself right on top of what was gradually becoming a rather noticeable hard-on.  I gulped.  Freddie, what are you doing?

In my infinite, sleep-deprived wisdom, I decided the best way to approach this was to simply finish taking his belt off and then immediately hightail it to my closet to dress, and staying out of the picture till he calmed down.  So I took a deep breath, and went for it.  Seizing one end of the belt, I took to pulling it the rest of the way.  I almost had it finished, too, when that damned hand suddenly found mine and wrapped its fingers around my palm.  I froze.

And the next thing I knew, he was pressing my hand against the bulge.  I shut my eyes.  Look, I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not them.  Stop!

But he didn't stop.  Eyes still closed, brain still very lost in the dream, he lifted his other hand, fumbled sloppily with the button as though he was trying to unfasten it and free- himself.  This he decided he couldn't do in such a state- so he moved my hand a little further up, grazed the tip of my finger against the zipper.

Oh, God. He wants me to take his jeans off. Good Lord, I did not sign up for this tonight!

Freddie let out one more moan, but this one was immensely more frustrated in sound- and followed by muffled, but actual, words.  "C'mon, baby... stop f---ing round, jus' do it..."

The worst part, however, wasn't the way Freddie was acting; it was the way I was reacting inside.  Ten years of living without him, against two weeks of dwelling with him in his flat, with barely two days of that time I spent serving as another of his lovers- and still the thoughts flew, and the feelings churned, as violently and as white-hot as though we had only parted yesterday.

Still, I set my jaw, and announced against my will, "Fine, let's make a compromise."

So with inhuman self-control, I yanked the belt through, unbuttoned the jeans, and slid my hand away.  Heart pounding, I drew the covers over him, crept away from his side, and rushed to my closet for my pajamas- the most modest things I could find- and made off to dress in the bathroom.  Believe me when I tell you it's not what I wanted to do, but it was what needed to happen. 

As I readied myself for bed, I occasionally pressed my ear to the door, listened for any telltale signs that he was winding down.  I splashed a little cold water on my face and neck; I was so flushed, and over something as relatively low-key as that! 

I need help- and I am not, repeat NOT, passing up my happy pill tomorrow.  I can't deal with this again.

By the time I finished, Freddie was still moaning, but not in a sexual way.  I took that as a good sign; quietly, I tiptoed out, clothes under my arm.  When I opened the bedroom door, I heard him gasp a little, but I let it go, deciding that perhaps it was just part of the "aftershocks" of a yummy dream.

After dropping the clothes off in the laundry, I checked the locks around the house, made sure everything was safe and snug.  In spite of the last bit of time, I was no less glad Freddie was home than before.  All I wanted was to know he was all right- and despite a slightly battered nose, so he seemed.  He could tell me about his adventures tomorrow, assuming he still wished to speak to me after today.

If there's time, that is, I corrected myself.  What with work, and Danny's rehearsals tomorrow- there may not be.  Ah, Time: there's too much of it when you don't need it, and there never is enough of it when you do...

 I might have waxed even more philosophical, if I hadn't heard a sharp, anguished cry come from the bedroom.  There was so much pain in the sound I dropped everything and ran back up, thinking maybe Freddie had fallen out of bed and landed face-first, or something ridiculous like that.

However, when I reached my room, I found him still very much under the covers- but he wasn't peaceful, or even suggestively smug, like before.  Freddie lay there gasping, as if he could scarcely breathe, his limbs thrashing about under the duvet, head rolling back and forth against the pillow.  At first I thought it was some kind of seizure, some kind of Speck relapse- but then he started crying out again- and much more coherently this time.

"No... oh, God- no- please- no, darl- come- come back- don't go-"

I didn't stop to think.  At once, I climbed up onto the bed, almost straddling him, and grabbed his hidden wrists to try and calm him.  But Freddie only seemed to convulse more violently, slipping further into his own nightmare. 

"Please dear," he cried, "we c- you can't- don't do this t- PLEASE-"

"Freddie, sh, it's all right," I murmured shakily, my hands gripping his upper arms.  "It's okay, I'm right here."

"...Please don't go-"

"Shhh, I won't, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, now calm down, go to sleep." 

And then, very slowly, the thrashing began to lessen.  "...Don't-"

"I'm not," I whispered, reaching up to stroke his dark hair.  "You're okay, you're safe.  You're not alone."

Curiously, that last phrase alone seemed to do more good than anything else; his breathing started evening out again, his contorted expression relaxed.  With a lump in my throat, I kept running my fingers gently through his hair, letting the other hand trace the curve of his well-defined cheekbone.  I whispered the words "You're not alone, Freddie, you're not alone" over and over again till finally he subsided back into sleep.

For many minutes, I simply lay there, studying his tranquil face.  It was perfect in every way, except for his poor, bloodied nose; the teeth to me were just as beautiful as the rest of him, so they didn't count as a liability the way they would to some.  I went back to the bathroom, ran a washcloth under the cold tap, and came back to dab some of the sweat off his brow.  His black, bristly lashes fluttered a little at the cool touch; incredible, that he hadn't awakened once so far.

If he's this volatile now, I may indeed have to stay and watch him tomorrow, I realized, remembering Charles's suggestion.  He may need a little help in the morning- hangovers and all that.  We'll see. 

With a weary sigh, I finally shut off the nightstand lamp, plunging the room in darkness.  But I still watched him, listened to the cadence of his breathing as he lay beside me.

He's so afraid, I realized.  He's so scared of being alone.  Always was, in a way- but it's worse now.  Oh, Freddie, what happened?  Are you simply homesick for the ones you love?

Or is this my fault?

I left the rhetorical question floating in my mind, unanswered; I was too tired to ponder anymore.  Instead, I curled up next to Freddie, slid an arm over his chest, and held on.  As if in response, I heard him sigh- but it was a content, quiet sound, with no fear or pain attached.  

I wasn't his ideal companion- but I was somebody. And clearly, that made enough of a difference.

I closed my eyes, and just before dropping off, I murmured sleepily through a yawn, "What am I going to do with you, my prince?"