She exhaled silently, eyes fluttering shut. The world felt still, the drift of snow having finally settled, the moon peeking out from above spindly, dead trees. The only thing moving out there in the silent world was the goat Roo and Giovanni had ridden on, though it looked less like a goat and more like some elven creature of fairy tale, complete with big blue eyes and glowing fur. It chuffed warm steam into the air and leaned down to lick the snow.
"They didn't know anything and we sat them next to the fire and fed them hot chocolate." she said. "And if they turn up, we'll just do it again. Roo said that they're harmless. They just want a warm home to stop by for some time."

"Listen," he said, tone slow and quiet. "I don't think we open the door for anyone after this."

"What, one demon sneaks into the house and you chicken out?" Pari teased, but her heart wasn't in it.

"I, for one, am not looking for a round two." He said, then added, "... though we made a half-decent team in there. Sorry my stupid thing didn't work better."

"You did what you could. I didn't think mine would work at all." she confessed. "... it was a fluke."

"It was impressive," he corrected. "...Thanks. For basically saving my ass."

"You'd have done the same." she said.

He wanted to ask her if she'd be okay. He'd posed the question instinctively while they were still in the throes of mortal danger, and she'd answered just as hurriedly, a quick assurance that she was surviving. But now, in the silence of the gently falling snow with their adrenaline all but faded, he could feel the emotional toll of the day sneaking up on them like a wild animal. He, for one, had already vowed not to sleep that night.

Something gave him pause. Maybe it was the likelihood of getting a non-response that came from a place of false, aloof self-assurance-- a defense mechanism, he knew, but one that stung in the face of an emotional bid for connection. Maybe it was already partially knowing the answer: she'd be okay, she had to be. As she had already pointed out, she'd suffered and survived comparable horrors. Would she wield his concern against him? Would she let him in?

He gently laid his hand atop hers on the edge of the porch instead. Words were complicated-- the eternal push and pull of the way they danced around each other nowadays was a headache and a half, a complex puzzle rife with mind games and guessing. But them sitting in the snow here, a pair of survivors, and his hand on hers-- it was simple.

The heat and weight of his hand on hers was like the smallest security blanket in the world, but it spread warmth over what ice remained of her heart. It reminded Pari of the old days, when she and the others would lounge around the palace or Kenneth Wellington or any of their other haunts without a care in the world. She would have sprawled on Kyros, much to her cousin's distaste, and Feo would be curled up with Sparrow. It was nice to have someone touch her because they wanted to. Not that Mirza or Vic would have ever minded, but it wasn't like they sought her out for hugs or for naps. The only person who ever treated her that freely was Sparrow, and then Sparrow had disappeared.
But she recognized the spiral of anguish she was heading into, one that always left her drained and angry at the world. For the first time, she turned her back to it. With an imperceptible exhale, she lay her head against Feofil's shoulder and continued to watch the snow. He could push her off, or, more likely, politely set her aside, but she didn't think he would.

The house was deafeningly silent around Feofil as he lay awake in the wee hours that night. He'd gone through the motions of getting ready for bed, not knowing what else to do and taking comfort in the familiarity of the routine, even knowing full well he wouldn't sleep a wink. He looked up at the ceiling in the utter darkness, trying not to read patterns into the shadows. There was no light pollution out here in the middle of nowhere-- when it was dark, it was dark, an inky black one could only dream of. Somehow, though, the shadows that had gathered around the entity in Melat's body had been blacker, perhaps heavy with the promise of death.

He tried not to think of the pools of tar-like innards seeping into the woodwork and carpet downstairs in the foyer and living room. They had been rudimentarily cleaned by Roo and Giovanni, with the assurance that they could get some people in to finish the job tomorrow. After they left, Feofil had stood at the bottom of the stairs for what felt like eons, just staring at the stains whose edges seemed to pulsate ominously in the periphery of his vision. Despite all the pair's assurances that the danger had been eradicated, he was unsettled by the prospect of having to coexist with these reminders, like it wasn't really, truly gone. Ultimately he had gingerly stepped around the trails and spatters and forced himself not to look back down.

The Altirians had treated the incident with about as much concern as a false alarm medical scare. Close call, but nothing to worry about. It happens. You learn. Lying in this bedroom that now felt fully like a sensory deprivation chamber, without anything to distract himself from the rhythmic thrumming of his heart and tightness in his chest and hands, he wasn't so sure. He felt marked somehow, whether by demons or by fate, it was unclear. He may not have been given the gift of precognition but he knew with all certainty this would not be their last-- or even their worst-- brush with the creatures that plagued his ancestral land.