Angelo rolled over in bed for what must surely be the hundredth time, unable to fall asleep. Not because he wasn't tired - they had pressed hard all day to reach Ascantha before nightfall, and then stayed up well into the night in hopes of an audience with the elusive King Pavan - and certainly not because of the accommodations, which were the finest he'd seen on the journey thus far. He couldn't even blame Yangus's snoring, which barely penetrated the sturdy wall separating their rooms, and the city itself was quiet as a tomb.
He was simply restless, had been restless since they arrived, since Jessica had stopped just inside the gates, gaze sweeping over the somber crowds and black-draped castle, voice shaking as she said how it reminded her of when Alistair died. Then that buffoon had started on about funerals, oblivious when Jessica flinched, and Angelo didn't need to know her well to know she had been on the verge of tears when Yangus finally wound down.
It had been tempting to berate the man's insensitivity, but Angelo had instead wondered loudly about "cheering up" a few of Ascantha's lovelier women, as that was bait Jessica never failed to rise to, for all she disavowed any interest in him.
Jessica hadn't retaliated, though, hadn't even looked up, and so hadn't realized his gaze never wavered from her.
She'd barely spoken the rest of the day, ignoring jibes both subtle and pointed. Her temper had flared after they'd seen King Pavan, still mourning his lost Queen two years after her death, and Angelo had responded immediately, hoping to fan that spark back to her usual fire. He'd stifled a laugh when she called him a floppy-haired choir boy, and perhaps he shouldn't have; perhaps that would have fed her anger enough to keep her from slipping back into this worrisome melancholy.
And that was the problem, of course. He was worried about her, and there was absolutely nothing he could do.
With a sigh, he abandoned the notion of sleeping and got out of bed, reaching for the clothing he'd discarded across a chair. Perhaps there was a pretty face, or at least a willing body, to be found in Ascantha at this time of night, Pavan's orders notwithstanding.
He didn't bother with the jacket or his gloves, and given that Ascantha's king didn't seem particularly stable, taking his sword was likely just asking for trouble from the city's guards. Besides, if, as he hoped, the streets were less empty than they seemed, his swordbelt would merely be another obstacle.
He slipped the door open and moved quietly down the corridor, vaguely amused to realize he was using the same care with which he used to sneak out of the abbey. The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen, but the front door opened easily, revealing an empty yard and even emptier streets beyond, all of it far too quiet; even Simpleton's nights held more life than this.
A city of ghosts, he thought, or at least, one ghost, and that only in the king's mind.
For a moment he simply stood there, reluctant to be the only living thing violating such stillness, then a sound drew his attention left, toward the tree at the far end of the yard, silver-splashed leaves above a pool of shadow, and movement in that pool, the sway of skirts and rustle of fabric.
Jessica.
Angelo supposed he shouldn't be surprised that sleep had eluded her as well, but he could be surprised to find her outside, her gaze fixed on the oppressive, shrouded bulk of the castle.
Without conscious decision, he turned toward her, worried at how oblivious she seemed to his approach. She turned only when he stepped into the shadows, her hand dropping to the whip coiled at her waist before she recognized him and turned away.
The obvious dismissal stung, but she was far too tense to be truly ignoring him. "Too quiet to sleep, isn't it?" he asked conversationally, moving behind her - too close, and he expected her to shift away, but she didn't - so he could lean against the tree's broad trunk.
"Yes," she whispered. "Too quiet."
"Jessica," he began, and the words that followed weren't what he had intended to say, but he felt their rightness the moment they were out of his mouth. "Tell me about Alistair."
Jessica half turned, and he could see her well enough to read the suspicion in her gaze. "Why would you care?"
"You've met Marcello," he said dryly. "Perhaps I just want to know what's it's like to have a brother worth mourning."
Her expression softened, the suspicion easing. "You'd mourn. Even for him."
Angelo inclined his head, acknowledging the truth of her words. "Tell me?"
"Alistair..." Jessica turned away, her gaze now on the empty streets rather than the castle. "Alistair was the only one... the only one who cared what I thought, what I really wanted." Her voice cracked, and tears shone on her cheeks, crystalline in the moonlight that sifted between the leaves; silence stretched between them, and Angelo let it, waiting.
"Mother was dead set against me learning to ride properly," Jessica said finally. "She said it wasn't sufficiently ladylike." Her voice twisted on the last word, so that Angelo heard a lifetime of battles in it, but the venom was gone when she resumed. "One day, Alistair told her he was taking me to the tower; he said it was our duty as Alberts to tend to the statue of Alexandra, and he wanted to be sure I knew my way around the secret passages.
"Only he'd hidden a horse and some of his old clothes out of sight of the town, and he taught me...whenever he could slip me away, he taught me..."
She buried her face in her hands, nearly succeeding in choking back her sobs. "Later, when I asked, he taught me to fight; he said if it was good enough for our ancestor...and he tried to teach me magic, but by the time we worked out what magic suited me..."
"I'm sorry." Angelo reached for her, intending only to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, somehow ending up with his arms around her. She tensed, pulled back, suspicion again warring with raw pain when she looked up at him. He knew he should let her go, intended to let her go; perhaps she sensed that willingness, or perhaps she saw something in his expression that he would rather have kept hidden. Whatever the reason, after that initial, reflexive retreat she abruptly sagged against him, crying openly now, her entire body shaking.
Angelo rested his cheek against her hair and held her.
At length her sobs faded, though she was still shaking, her hands knotted in his shirt. Angelo said nothing, didn't move until she pulled away.
"I'm sorry." Her voice was stilted, controlled, so very unlike her, and now she wouldn't meet his eyes, every movement, every stiff gesture, proclaiming her embarrassment. "I shouldn't have presumed..."
"Jessica." She didn't look up at the interruption; he had to catch her face between his hands, tilt it up until she had little choice but to look at him. "I know we're no replacement for your brother, but you do have friends now. Please don't apologize for including me in their number."
Her breath caught in a way that made him worry she'd start to cry again, but after a moment she reached up, pulled his hands away from her face and held them. "Thank you."
"I told you I'd look after you, didn't I?" he asked, and she laughed, shaky but genuine. "Do you think you can sleep now?"
"Actually, I think I'd like to talk. If...if that's all right?"
She was looking up at him, raw and vulnerable, and when he leaned forward she didn't draw back. He thought, in the space between heartbeats, that at this moment she wouldn't fight if he kissed her, and just as swiftly dismissed such a betrayal, pressing his lips chastely to her forehead. "It would be my honor."
Written for 101 Kisses. Theme: #56 - Crystal tears
