Page 44 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“Oh, yes, just surprise apprehending an assassin outside my brother’s bedroom in the middle of the night. Unfettered violence in the tourney, from all those men who hated you for daring to enter. Fighting off the guards of a would-be usurper who was hell-bent on killing you. Nearly dying on the battlefield. Killing said usurper. It’s all just a regular Tuesday for Bridget Leclair.”

“It’s—”

Gwen threw her hands up in the air with frustration. “Apigjust tried toeatyou!”

Bridget shook her vambrace mostly free of water, then sat down next to Gwen on the rock. Gwen moved up a little to make more room, then took the armor from Bridget’s hand and started drying it with her cloak.

“A pig tried to eat me,” Bridget repeated.

“And it was a big deal,” Gwen prompted, biting her lip in concentration as she scrubbed a stubborn smear of congealed blood from the smooth steel.

“Yeah. Guess it was.” Bridget cleared her throat. “I was scared.”

“Thankyou.” She handed the vambrace to Bridget, who began strapping it back on. “You’re only human. Of course you were scared. I’m sorry I threw this in the river, and shouted at you. Even if you did deserve it.”

“You didn’t shout much.”

“I did a bit. God, you really are covered in quite a lot of blood. We should… seek the others, they must be looking for us. Regroup. Find a bath.”

Bridget closed her eyes, noted the faint nausea in the back of her throat, the almost feverish exhaustion in her limbs. The day had taken a lot out of her. It still felt shameful to admit it, even to herself. “That sounds nice.”

The peace was broken by Arthur, with a shout of “Jesus fuckingChrist!” followed by Gabriel’s quiet, “Don’t shout, Arthur, she’ll only maul you harder.” It seemed the plan to contain the wildkitten was going about as well as could be expected.

Gwen sighed and rested her head against Bridget’s shoulder, and Bridget let herself lean in, her eyes still closed, seeking comfort—just for a moment, she told herself. Just until Arthur’s next shriek.

Twenty

Cats. Why was italwayscats?

Last winter, Merlin Lucifer had been ill. It was the sort of thing you weren’t supposed to notice about a mouser, but Gabriel loved his cat. He spent long hours with the ginger tom in his lap, Gabriel accommodating his rotations through various ridiculous sleeping positions while he worked at his desk or in his chair by the fire. Sometimes Merlin Lucifer interrupted council meetings, demanding with horrible yowls that the guards open the door, and would only calm down when he’d rubbed himself against Gwen’s chair, bitten Lord Best on the ankle, and safely ensconced himself on Gabriel’s thighs.

Every item of clothing Gabriel owned was covered in a fine layer of sunny orange cat fur. The pages probably complained about it behind his back, because when his things were taken away to be cleaned, they always came back spotless. Gabriel had no idea how they managed it. Vigorous wiping with a sweaty palm only seemed to move it all around.

A palpable barrier had already begun to form between Arthur and Gabriel by the end of January, lumpy and hulking, filling the spaces between their words and bodies until it felt like they had to constantly talk around it. That frosty morning, Arthur had knocked on Gabriel’s door, and Gabriel had actually considered not answering it, wanting desperately to see Arthur, but simultaneously terrified of the cracks he might find in their relationship when forced to examine it up close.

“Have you seen ML?” Arthur said, once he’d been admitted. He was wearing one of Gabriel’s mother’s knitted monstrosities, a long, chunky cowl with arms, an immediate hand-me-down from Gwen, who—unlike Arthur—didn’t find ugly clothes funny, and felt no need to wear them for the delight of horrifying all those who beheld you.

“Hello,” Gabriel said, putting down his book. “I think he’s under the bed.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Um…” Gabriel stalled. What was expected of him here? He never knew. “I said hello, didn’t I?”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. His lips were slightly chapped, and there was a fine sweep of dark stubble on his cheeks. It made him look sharper. Older. “Not a kind word to spare for my cowl?”

“Oh. It’s very… nice.”

Arthur looked disappointed, but rallied. “The one thing it’s not isnice. Your mother is an evil genius. Anyway—cat? Cat, where the hell are you?”

He disappeared into the bedroom portion of Gabriel’s chambers and began talking in a low voice. Gabriel tried to get back to his book, but just knowing that Arthur was in the next room made it impossible to focus. Eventually he put it down, and went in to find Arthur lying on the floor, headand shoulders under the bed, legs crossed absentmindedly at the ankles.

“What are you doing?”

“He’s been sick,” Arthur said, muffled.

“Yes, he does that sometimes.”

“I know he does that sometimes, he likes to do it on my pillowsometimes, but usually he’s fine afterward. This time he looks miserable.”