Damon gives his head a quick nod. “Right you are.” He looks towards the staircase, which can be seen from the kitchen, and asks, “How’s your mum?”
I shrug one shoulder and reach for another biscuit.
“An inspiration to us all as always.”
Damon follows my lead and takes a second biscuit out of the packet. We both munch on our biscuits, allowing the silence to stretch comfortably between us. Damon just doesn’tdosmall talk, which is fine by me. I’ve lost patience with idle chatter for the most part, and I avoid it at all costs like a grumpy owl.
“Are you going to be okay staying in the house with her when I leave?” he asks, genuine worry lacing the edges of his question.
Damon knows. About Mum. About how she can be when it’s just the two of us alone together. I don’t talk about it much, but he knows enough that he doesn’t like to leave me here with her when she’s drunk or hungover. Which is most of the time. So.
“Never,” I say with sardonic cheer. “But I’ll make do.”
He doesn’t look happy, but there’s nothing he can do either. Short of forcing her into rehab, or physically removing me from the house, he’s stuck. This is just the hand of cards that we’ve been forced to play with.
Damon raises his mug and tips it in my direction as if giving a toast.
“You’re tough, Leo.”
I shrug again, more loosely this time.
“I’m going out in a bit, so I won’t be alone with her for long. I’ve said she can phone me if she needs to.”
Damon does that thing where he looks at me like he’s trying to hide the pity he feels behind something, anything, because he knows how much I hate it. That acidic form of sympathy grinds my teeth whenever I see it on someone’s face or hear it in their voice.
I have to stop myself from getting pissy about it because I know it’s no one’s fault; there are worse things, and I should bury that hang-up deep in the wardrobe of my brain and leave it there to gather dust and get eaten by coping-mechanisms moths.
“If you need anything, just let me know. If you need to get out, I’ll help with that too,” Damon offers, just like he’s done countless times before.
I think about telling him I can take care of myself. But he already knows, and besides, I like that he offers even if I won’t take him up on it. I should have, really, years ago. It’s too late now. I’m too old to make up excuses anymore.
“I’m alright,” I blatantly lie.
Damon hesitates before dipping his head in acceptance. He isn’t one to push, which I appreciate.
“Did you get much sleep last night?” he asks.
I almost laugh at that.
“Yeah. Got my full seven hours. I’m healthy and very, very awake right now.”
Damon snorts, mouth twitching in a rare show of amusement.
“You’re a danger to yourself and everyone else in this city, you know that?”
I grin mischievously at him.
“Some lunatics think I’m a world-class government agent.”
Damon looks at me for a few long drawn-out seconds. His expression softens into something patently fond.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’ve heard that rumour too.”
I duck my head to hide away from how those words bind themselves to my heart and make a deep impression on it.
Damon has a way of making me feel like everything he says is true and permanent. There’s a strong bridge of solidarity we’ve built up between us over the years.
We don’t speak much after Damon’s pronouncement, letting another comfortable silence settle between us as we finish off the packet of biscuits.
