Midnight did not speak while he worked.
The room stayed quiet except for the soft clink of metal tools and the slow, steady sound of Peaches' breathing as he lay shirtless across the wide leather couch. The cut across his chest had already been cleaned. Now Midnight's large hands moved with surprising care as he stitched the wound closed, dark fingers gentle against pale skin that still twitched now and then from remembered pain rather than present pain.
Peaches watched the ceiling like there was something written there only he could read.
His face was calm.
Too calm, actually, and Midnight didn't like how practiced it looked.
"Where," Midnight asked quietly, not looking up from his work, "did you learn to fight like that?"
"And most importantly who are you?"
Peaches smiled without turning his head.
"I don't remember."
Midnight knew a lie when he heard one. He had lived too long, seen too many kinds of men try to save themselves with half-answers and empty eyes.
