aphelion { killian }

Thank you, said Billie in response to a question that did not offer that as a possible answer. Killian pressed his lips together, nodded, and swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up again. "Right, I'll just -- see what's in the kitchen. I'll be back in, uh, five minutes? Maybe less." Ki hesitated, then wordlessly pushed the wastebin under his desk, not even half full with a bag of crisps and a broken pen, closer to the edge of the bed. The tissue box was empty -- he swore under his breath before dipping out of the room, returning quickly with another box of tissues from the washroom. Ki gave her a quick, faltering smile before ducking back into the hall, leaving the door partly open behind him.

He padded downstairs, quite as he could, unsure of what his parents had heard. Trevor was still working through the paper, a pencil tucked behind his ear as he stared at the sudoku puzzle. He briefly raised his eyes and nodded as Killian descended the stairs, but made no move to get up. Killian could live with that. If Dad was in his puzzle, then maybe he could make it through the kitchen and back without anyone bothering. The door to Mum's office was closed, jazz music softly drifting from within -- so, she was writing. With unearned confidence, Killian flipped on the electric kettle and turned to pull two mugs from the cupboard.

"Why is there a girl crying in your room?"

Killian jumped, startled, mugs clattering onto the countertop. "Jesus, Nora," he said, pressing a hand to his chest. Nora grinned, twirling the keys to the car around one finger. She was dressed up -- he knew she had gotten her hair done a few days ago, and her braids were down and her makeup was done. "Going out?"

"Mmm," she said, plucking an orange from the fruit bowl and tucking it into her coat pocket. "Pre-term party for the graduate students. Why is a little white girl crying in your room?"

At the repetition, Trevor folded down the top of the paper, eyebrow raised. "Killian," he said, in a tone that implied the rest of the sentence was what have you done now?

"I haven't done anything," Killian whined, ignoring Nora's question for the moment. "I'm making tea, I'm trying to be a good host, I did not make her cry!" He got the tea bags, put them in the mugs, poured the water, looked at the clock, looked at his sister, groaned. She was staring at him, head tilted like he was an interesting subject for an art piece or history paper. "It's wizard shit," he said, irritation creeping into his voice. "Weird -- wizard secrets. It's complicated."

This seemed to be enough for Trevor, whose sum knowledge of wizardry began and ended with his owl feud. "Right. Don't do anything, leave the door open." He turned back to the sudoku puzzle. Killian felt his cheeks getting hot again as Nora snorted.

"Wizard secrets," she repeated, edge in her tone, and he almost felt -- bad, for bringing magic shit home like this. The other times people had been over Nora had been away at school, she had not really seen a wizard at all since the first time the family had dropped him off at 9 and 3/4s. They didn't talk about the magic, she and him. Killian had a nagging suspicion that as much as he envied her normal life, her genius life and the praise and awards she was winning, that she envied him for his magic, for the other world that she couldn't know anything about or tell anyone about.

How could he then go and tell her about this, of all things? Oh, don't envy me the magic, it's full of wizard Nazis, was not a happy conversation to have, and he didn't want to have it with Nora, too. Mr. Flume had only barely survived telling Mum about it.

"It's -- hm. Its not my business to share, I think," Ki said hesitantly, staring at the minute hand on the clock behind his sister's head. One more minute, he could add milk and sugar and bolt. Nora nodded, unconvinced.

"Don't kiss her," she settled on saying. "It's awful when boys kiss you to try and cheer you up." Killian felt his whole face and ears get very hot. Nora laughed and gave him a little wave, stepping away from the counter and out the front door. Trevor said 'oh!' and added a number to a sudoku square.

Ki finished with the tea and came back upstairs, relieved to see that Billie had not snuck away in his absence. "Not sure how you take it, I just did it normally," he said, setting the green ceramic mugs on the edge of his desk. He settled back on the same part of the bed, looking at Billie with gentle concern. "Is there -- anywhere you want to start? Anything I particularly need to know first? Or can I -- should I," he corrected, "just ask questions, then?"   

Billie nodded again, not quite able to reflect his smile back at him as he dropped off another box of tissues. As soon as she was by herself, the blonde felt her shoulders relax somewhat, and when she inhaled – albeit a little shakily – the air seemed to go all the way down to the bottom of her lungs, for once. She looked at the scrunched up tissues in her hands and got to her feet, moved to his desk, dropped them in his little wastebasket. Her eyes lingered on the things on his desk, her thoughts frayed and distant. Oh, so they weren’t magazines after all. She stepped away.

There was a mirror in his closet, she’d noted earlier, and Billie moved on autopilot to make sure she was still proper. She stared at her reflection, feeling a strange sense of dissonance as the well-dressed, too-put-together teenager looked back at her. She was always a little red when she cried, and there was a touch of colour in her cheeks and a little around her eyes, but her hair was still done as it had been when she’d left Kendrick’s (half up, half down), and her clothes were neat and unwrinkled. She looked too contained for the way she felt; she supposed that was better. She reached up to touch her necklace, where it was tucked under her top, and tried to only feel a little sad.

Billie hovered for a moment, then moved back to the bed. She knew she should be using this time to think of things to say, to try and predict what he might want, or how he might feel, but she was exhausted, and couldn’t seem to do anything of the sort. She’d delay punishing herself for it for later. There were too many things to think about, all overlapping and confusing. Some of them were years old and still unexamined, and some were fresh and painful. She placed her hands back in her lap, not sure what to do with the white noise in her head or the ache in her chest. She felt undeniably guilty, but the rest was far murkier and more difficult to discern.

The waiting made her a little anxious, as waiting always did, but her mind didn’t spin anxious fantasies about him never coming back upstairs or anything, so that was a relief. She still felt a bit better – on edge again, but better – when he reappeared, though. “Hey,” she said, the word a little too-casual on her lips. Her eyes moved from his to the cups he’d brought up. “Thank you.”

Billie frowned a little as he sat back down, but it wasn’t a disapproving sort of frown. She was still a little confused, still a little in shock. Her mind couldn’t unravel it, so she let it be. She shook her head. “I didn’t think you’d want to know more,” she confessed, honesty clear in her tone and expression. She felt vulnerable, still a little nervous that her gut instinct was right after all, and that she shouldn’t let herself stop preparing for the worst. “I don’t know how to talk about it. You can ask,” she added after a beat, meeting his gaze.

She didn't go to take a mug -- Killian frowned, taking one himself and holding it out to her across the comforter, his hand wrapped around the pleasantly warm ceramic and the handle pointed towards her. She took it. Killian didn't mind if she didn't drink it out anything, but it was something warm to hold, something to ground yourself. His therapist, summer 2001, had been pretty useless all things considered, but Ki had internalized the grounding techniques. He took the second mug and took a small sip of tea, before lowering it and holding it low in his lap. The warmth was grounding. The warmth of the tea was real, and tangible, and he could tell with his senses.

This whole situation felt so insane. But the tea was real.

I didn’t think you’d want to know more, Billie said, seeming confused and a little shocked. Ki frowned. "Well, I mean, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, of course." But. But of course he wanted to know more. Wanted was the wrong word -- he needed to know more, he needed to get the context for this, why Billie had hidden it when others at school held their terrorist relatives aloft with some sick sense of pride, why she was sharing this now, why she had chosen him to talk to.

(Had everyone else known? Was stupid muggleborn Ki last in on some joke?)

Killian bit his lip. "But. It clearly seems -- important to you. To, like, being able to know and understand you,  otherwise you wouldn't have told me?" His tongue felt heavy and stupid. "And I would feel better with some context."

Enough beating around the bush. Killian took another sip of tea, resting the mug on his heels this time. "I know I kind of asked this earlier, but. I dunno. What did you think about Muggles, and Muggleborns, before meeting me?" He tried to keep his voice level this time, acutely aware that of Billie's friends, he was the only one born to a non-magical family.

Billie was glad when he offered the mug to her; her knuckles were a little sore from clutching too tightly. She cupped it with two hands rather than hold it by the handle, and didn’t drink yet, but blew lightly across the surface of the liquid. When he started speaking, she felt the dissonant feeling again - two notes played, a semi-tone apart, in her mind. How ridiculous that they could be so casually talking about her family. She glanced down at her drink and wondered absentmindedly what the usual way to make tea was for him.

Of course she’d answer: he had questions. She shook her head, dismissing the assertion that she didn’t have to. It made sense that he would want to know, she supposed, but only after assuming that he’d want to still speak to her after. She hadn’t let herself assume anything of the sort. But now she knew, and she’d give him anything he wanted. She frowned slightly at his use of important, but understood when he clarified. He wasn’t exactly right; she’d told him because she thought it would be a less horrible experience coming from her lips, rather than in rumours, but she didn’t say that. Billie didn’t presume to know what things would be important to understand get to know her; it didn’t feel like something she got to decide.

“Okay,” she started, nodding slowly. It made sense that he’d start there. She wasn’t exactly hesitant, but didn’t answer immediately. It didn’t flow so easily out of her, and she was thinking about her words. “I didn’t really know anything until I moved to my aunt’s.” She’d already said that, but it felt relevant to repeat. “And after that…” she frowned. What did she think about them? That they were people? Maybe that wasn’t her obvious answer, to him. Not now – after. “I don’t know,” she said, “I'm still quite ignorant about the muggle world, the cultures of muggle Britain. Muggles and Muggleborns, though… I never thought they were anything other than – " A shrug, "– People.” It seemed too simple an answer, but she wasn't quite sure what he was asking. Did she hate them for their blood? Think they were less than? She felt compelled to expand, and really assert her position, but knew she would wait for his prompts instead.

I didn't really know anything, Billie said, and Killian felt the twisting knot form at the bottom of his stomach. It was what she had said before, and it didn't -- it didn't sound like a lie, exactly. It just was so unfathomable to him. Anything? How good were wizards at hiding, then, to be able to hide a whole person away from the world, give them no tools to understand it. The extent to which Billie apparently had been sheltered was baffling.

But she did, say, people. Killian would have liked her to say human, equal to wizards, but that was the second time he had asked that question today and he didn't want to push too far on that button. And if she, like so many other wizards, thought of Muggles as a separate sentient species, like goblins or what have you, Killian thought he might vomit. The urge to ask and the sick feeling of not wanting to know were at war.

He filled his mouth with tea instead, nodding slightly to indicate he had heard her. "Okay," he said, keenly aware he was saying okay a lot right now. Maybe too much. "Uh. Good. Like, equal to wizards, all that, yeah?" Killian had just decided not to ask and his tongue was betraying him. Stupid.

His fingers pulled tighter around the mug. "Okay. Um. Is there, like, anything else you think I should know? About your parents?" Killian bit his lip before clarifying -- "I didn't recognize the name. But the way you said it. Makes me think other people know things. And I'd like to be on the same page."

“Yes,” Billie said clearly, glad that he gave her a chance to be more explicit. In all honesty, it wasn’t something that she’d put much thought into. What did equal mean? Equal in what way? She didn’t let her thoughts drift too tangentially, though; Equal to wizards didn’t sound like a trap question, meant to make her think philosophically about the lines between cultural, genetic, social differences. It wasn’t a question asked at the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room. It felt more straightforward than that.

His next question made her heart hurt, but she understood why he’d asked it. It felt unfair that she had to explain it, when she herself had only understood it a few years ago, but of course she bit down on that feeling. Any unfairness she felt about it came hand in hand with guilt and a stern sense that she’d done something wrong by feeling it. She nodded again. “I think you’d know it if you grew up learning about the first wizarding war,” she said. It was different, but she’d felt behind, too, learning that her parents were murderers only after May, nineteen-ninety-eight. It felt unsettling to realise that she’d probably learned about a lot of important historical, cultural touchstones around the same time he had.

She glanced down at her mug. “I don’t know if you know much about any of the old, pureblood families. Or any other Death Eaters, or supporters…” She ran through a list of surnames in her head, trying to think of a different way to say famous murders. “There are some families that were well known back then for having those ties. Multiple Death Eaters from one family. People who did terrible things.” She forced another nod, feeling that same sequence of hurt, unfairness, guilt. This time tinged with a little extra sickness in her stomach. “Mine was one of those. They were almost all dead or in Azkaban before I was born.”

The first wizarding war. Right. Killian squeezed his eyes shut again, feeling a little bit like he was back in the hallway with Hackney, miles out of his historical depth. "Right, that's..." He looked at the ceiling, counting softly to himself. "That's the ninety-seventies, yeah? Thirty-ish years ago?" It felt ancient, it was near twice their lifetime ago.

One of these days Ki meant to ask his parents if they had -- noticed, anything, out of the corner of their eyes, about this time. But the 70s had been busy in the real world, too. Killian didn't want to be disappointed if they had missed the attempted genocide happening under their noses.

"I don't know much, no." There had been -- trials, before his first year at Hogwarts, and names that made the second years and older shudder. "The Carrows, the Blacks..." he shrugged. "S'all I got off the top of my head." He had purposefully failed the quiz on the Sacred Twenty-Eight in History of Magic -- he couldn't wait to finish his OWL in it, and perhaps be done with the centuries of self-congratulatory wizarding lore.

Dead, or -- Killian drew in a sharp breath. Azkaban. He had paid attention to Azkaban. The haunted prison, sucking the life and sanity out of its prisoners. No parole, no redemption -- just cold, unending darkness, alone in a cell till you died. "Christ, Azkaban" he said, words passing straight from his gut to his mouth without stopping at his brain. "That's awful."

What do you mean awful, they were WIZARD NAZIS, boomed Killian's own voice in his head, high and shrill. Right, yes, that was true. But. But.

But didn't Billie deserve to have a family, fucked up as it was? Maybe she wouldn't have seen him as a human being, if they had been around. But growing up alone? Killian shuddered. Both scenarios frightened him.

She felt dishonest again, talking about her parents like that. It wasn’t untrue to say that she thought they’d done terrible things, that her mother especially had caused all kinds of unimaginable suffering, that her whole family had participated in something awful. But It didn’t matter how much she thought it in those words, or believed it, or felt guilt and shame and horror to think of the people they’d hurt, or wanted to; there was still a part of her that couldn’t let go of the other things. Of her father teaching her how to bake, or play chess. Of quiet moments in front of the fire while he read to her. Of her delight when he pointed out pale Atlantic seal pups curled up like little slugs on wave swept rocky shores.

So it didn’t feel honest to express shame, anger or even disapproval at her family, even if she really did – honestly – feel all of those things; it wasn’t the whole truth. And she didn't want him to think she was better than she was. These feelings were murky, and she pushed them aside for now, until she could work out how they fit into everything else.

She nodded. “Ended in nineteen-eighty,” she added. Carrows, Blacks, Malfoys. Billie continued the list of surnames in her mind, adding hers to it too.

She looked at him sharply when he repeated the name of the wizarding prison, ready for – ready for something. At first she mistook his words for something like renewed disgust, or horror – not with the prison itself, but with her family. With her. But then she felt confused, because that wasn’t what she saw. A part of her felt like this was all futile, and that it would all fall apart at any moment like it had with Phillip. She felt tightly wound, like a spring. She was ready to let it break and wash over her. But it didn’t.

“My mother’s there,” she said suddenly, realising she hadn’t said it. Any omission felt like a lie, but she was so tired, and her thoughts so messy, that she really had to work to distill his view from hers, remember exactly what she’d already said. And there was so much more to say. When she’d come here today, she hadn’t been expecting to have to think about these parts in particular. She didn’t want to think of the uncle who’d stopped eating a month after he’d been there, or the way her mother’s mind had seemed to disintegrate. Dementors haunted her nightmares, still.

“And I went there, when I was little. Just a couple of times – it’s the only other place I remember going.” She shook her head. “I mean, I’ve been there since, a couple of times, too.” Billie gave a slight involuntary shudder, looking away and hoping he hadn’t noticed it. She recalled a night up on the Astronomy tower with Phillip, thinking about funerals and death and punishment. Wondering how much harm one must inflict to “deserve” that kind of torture. Wondering if everyone in the prison had met that requirement, or if it was even possible to meet it at all.

1980, 1981. Nearly a decade before they were born, the war had ended. Killian raised the tea to his lips again, feeling his mouth going dry. And -- Billie had been, what, left alone in some big house on an island somewhere, in 1997? While he was running around the school-yard with his friends, wondering vaguely why his pencils always seemed to be disappearing into thin air but more interested in Colin's new Gameboy game? And her family, rotting away in Azkaban all the while?

It didn't make sense, how all of this could exist, side by side in the same country, the death and suffering and loneliness next to his own fairly blissful childhood. It just -- he knew, he knew the worlds had always co-existed, but it felt so strange to put wizarding history into Killian's own personal historical context.

One day, maybe, this would all make sense.

"Your mum?" Killian shouldn't have been as shocked as he was, maybe. It made sense, with the rest of the conversation, with Billie's fear when she revealed this to him, that it was someone close to her put away for a life sentence. But. But. "Your mum?!?" Killian exclaimed again, eyes wide. And Billie had gone there. His stomach flipped over. Was Billie's mum a murderer? How long had she been locked away? He had so many questions but they all seemed so cruel. Bilie had shivered, saying that. Azkaban was a horror to imagine.

"Jesus. I'm sorry," he said eventually, quietly, his gaze drifting down to Billie's hands. He paused, then, a little quieter -- "Do you miss her?"

She looked at him again, at first guessing his feelings were different to what they seemed to actually be, just like last time. He didn’t seem angry that she’d left this out, though. Or disgusted that her mother was what she was. At least not as those feelings pertained to her. She nodded woodenly.

She paused for a beat after his question, caught suddenly, awfully, between responding with of course – the answer that was right by her mother, and maybe evil or wrong to him – and I don’t really know her, which was true but felt like blasphemy to say. She shook her head, a little lost. She wasn’t prepared for a question like that. “I don’t know,” she said. “She left, she was… She went to Azkaban when I was young. Four, I think.”

After a moment, Billie forced herself to have a sip of her tea. She placed it down on the floor beside her feet when she was done. At first she clasped her hands together in her lap, but then she slid her palms up her forearms so her arms were loosely folded, feeling slightly comforted by the feeling. She met his gaze, feeling vulnerable again. “You know about dementors, don’t you? Have you ever…? No.” She shook her head, answering her own question. What possible reason would Killian have to encounter one of those foul things? “I don’t have that many memories of her, before.”

Four. Four years old. That was a long time to grow up without a mother. Kilian swallowed air again, nodding. "That makes sense. That's got to be really..." he trailed off. Confusing? Terrible? Complicated? Tragic? "...shite," he settled on, not convinced it was the right word.

Bille set her tea down on the floor. Ki resisted the urge to scoop it up, deposit the mug on the desk, but instead, he took one last sip of his own tea and set his down on the desk. It felt bad to not be holding something in his hands, they felt empty and tense. He folded his arms, trapping his hands against his chest.

"I know about them, yeah but-- no," Killian said, the same time that Billie came to the same conclusion. He wondered idly where all the Dementors had gone. They were out of Azkaban, so... where did they go? Where had they put them?

I don’t have that many memories of her, before, said Billie, and Killian's heart broke.

Before he was really aware of it Killian had closed the distance between them on the bed, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. It wasn't a great hug, the angle was weird, he had to lean over his own lap, but hugging her seemed so important right now, that she was laying all of this painful history out for him. "I'm sorry," he said again, voice tender. "That's -- I'm sorry."

Despite the ache in her chest and the way that she felt jittery inside her own skin – inside, some how, not outside – she was contained enough to not actually start crying again until he hugged her.

It didn’t feel right at all to accept it. Or – maybe it was okay, because if he really did just want to hug her then that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Or – no, that was just her being selfish and wanting to accept the comfort despite the wrongness of it all. In a lot of ways, it was very fucking traumatic to talk about. At the same time, she really thought that he should hate her for all of this, and felt guilty (chagrined, relieved, confused) that he didn’t actually seem to hate her at all.

“It’s okay,” she answered automatically, but her words were belied by the tremble in her voice and the fact that she was very clearly crying again. Why did he sound so soft? Despite herself, she closed her eyes and let her head rest against him. He was tall, like Phillip, and that thought was just a catalyst for more tears.

Billie wasn’t even sure exactly what she was crying about; was she mourning her mother? Not really, she thought, though she felt guilty to think it. There were so many things bubbling up from the depths: confessions, unanswered questions, stories. There were a lot of unprocessed things in her head. An anxious, paranoid part of her wished that he’d saved this response for some of the other things she could have talked about – things that cut more deeply. As if she could use up his sympathy and care too fast, accidentally.

After a little while, Billie pulled away gently, reaching for a tissue. She didn’t want to get any more tears or snot on his sweater. Gross. “I’m sorry,” she said, because she was herself. And then, because she couldn’t help it, “It’s awful in there.” Her heart was racing again, and she felt very on the verge of spilling all of her thoughts into the space between them. “It was more awful, before. I still have dreams about them.” She shook her head, wiping under her eyes with the tissue.

She didn't hug him back, which in any other context would have been disappointing, if not outright upsetting, to Killian. But right now it didn't really matter. He tried to slow his breathing, taking big slow breaths so the rise and fall of his chest would be slow and gentle. Billie's head against his chest, rising and falling as she cried into his jumper. Mum would be upset about the washing of it, Killian thought absently, awkwardly pulling himself onto his knees so the embrace would be more comfortable. Whatever, though.

One hand rubbed absently at her shoulders before he got into his head enough to think maybe that was weird or inappropriate. He settled for just, yknow, a normal hug, trying not to pull her too close but also give comfort until Billie pulled away.

The absence of her warmth and the damp spot on the front of his jumper made him feel cold, all of a sudden. He wrapped his arms around himself again, looking at Billie with wide, wet eyes himself. Killian didn't cry, easily, usually. But this was -- this was hard and painful and it sucked! This sucked so bad.

"I can't imagine it," he said. "And not being able to talk to anyone about it. Jesus, Billie. That's the worst thing. I'm so sorry this --" happened to your family, was on the edge of his tongue, feeling wrong and awkward. Because, well, if Billie's mum was a racist murderer, wasn't it good she was far away, where she couldn't hurt Killian or his family? What was he actually sorry for, here? "I'm sorry you've had to deal with this by yourself, for so long."

There was a nagging question here, scratching at the back of his mind. Softly, he added -- "Does, uh, does Donnelly know?"

“I’m sorry,” she breathed again. She missed the comfort of proximity immediately, though if she tried not to. She felt guilty and uncomfortable about his hand on her shoulders, but not more than she missed it when it was gone. She nodded, still thinking about Azkaban, and cloaked creatures, and a lingering cold. Still on the verge of spilling too many thoughts. “They’re really scary. It really affects you.” She raised one hand to her chest to try and emphasise the feeling.

He was sorry. She didn’t like it, but she met his eyes again, and realised that he really did mean it. For some reason, those words in particular – had to deal with this by yourself, for so long – touched something deep and emotional inside her. She swallowed, not looking away. He was sad. For her. “Kendrick –“ she started softly, feeling some kind of unexpected need to… defend him? Or something? Her aunt had never spoken with her about any of it, and Billie had dealt with the juxtaposition of having an extremely loving father hated by her new guardian with deep compartmentalisation, but Kendrick had always cared for her, always comforted her, no matter what awful Death Eater she was crying about.

But then he said –

Billie’s eyebrows raised a fraction and then she looked away, finally. She wasn’t sure that she could talk about Phillip with him, now. Not feeling as fragile and exposed as she was. “Yes he does,” she answered. She reached for another tissue, feeling shaky even though she could see her hand was not actually shaking. How could that be? Her heart was beating fast again.

“He knows.” No, those words were cowardly. Not enough shame, either. “He found out.” Better. Truthful. “He hates me, I think.” Then quickly, after a pause: “I don’t want to… Can we go for a walk?” It was suddenly too hot in here. Too small, too intimate, even. Billie felt sick. “It’s fine if not,” she added quickly, trying to sound like she meant it.

"I can't imagine," Killian said again, for lack of anything else to say. How could you imagine the absence of joy, the sucking away of every memory? It was visceral to just read about it, for Defense against the Dark Arts class. Seeing one? Seeing more than one? He shivered again.

Kendrick, yes, of course, he hadn't meant it like that, he should say something to that effect, but before he could the other question was tumbling out of his mouth, heavy and stupid. Billie quickly turned away from him. Ah, shit, he'd mucked it all up, bringing up Donnelly, of course.

He found out, Billie said, in a way that made Killian pause. Phillip Donnelly, doting, overprotective boyfriend, hated Billie? Killian opened his mouth to ask a question, he had so many, but Billie changed the subject. "Oh, yeah, 'course. There's, uh, there's a park, down two blocks." He pushed off the bed, glancing at the damp spot on his sweater. He could change, but a glance at Billie and that suddenly seemed like an unforgivable waste of time. He pulled a black peacoat from his closet, one of the few items hung up, and a blue scarf from the top of his dresser. His house keys were on his desk, dealt swiftly into his pocket. There was some other stuff in that pocket, odd and bulky against his side. "Let's go."

He flicked off the light in his room and quickly went down the stairs, pulling the coat on as he went. It would take them both a moment to get their boots on at the front door, and he didn't want to explain this to Dad. Trevor, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen when Killian hit the first floor.

When they finally got outside, the sun was low in the sky. Killian frowned - days were too short in the winter. "This way, then," he mumbled, leading Billie north up the street.