the centuries in my years (fic)
nc17, 2781 words
pairings: Vincent (mixedvenom)/Cassandra (dryocean)/Mandrake (yourstrulyblue)
warnings: incest, established polyamorous relationship, sex while pregnant, general smuttiness
In which jobs are discussed and sex is had.
He says my time in show business in the exact same tone he says my time in prison, although he rarely ever says the latter.
--
There truly is no business like show business, apparently. On account of the fact that right now, there is no business at all.
Cassandra stretches herself out on the couch and stretches her toes and stretches an arm out towards Mandrake, who is wandering around the living room, flutteringly, like a worried moth. (She looks back on that and thinks it's a very accurate description of him-- unlike butterflies, the metamorphose of moths is rarely recognized. Instead, the time before the wings exists like a dream, like something that only happened in a story you heard once, and it's what is done with the wings, those dark grey brown cream wings, that matters. Moths are attracted to light, and Mandrake has--
she thinks he's found his light, anyway. She likes to think he will stay here forever, attached to her and Vincent's light, the radiance of Vincent's true smile and the way Mandrake fumblingly (but lovingly) painted her toenails shades of blue and green last Friday, laughing when she complained that he was tickling her, when she threatened to spill nailpolish all over his jeans, or possibly just paint his nails pink while he slept. This is his light, she hopes, she believes.)
“What are you doing, love?” she asks lazily, letting her hand drop to the floor. It's new, as far as their record of terms of endearment goes, but she likes the way it rolls off her tongue. He's wandered over to the window, and at her question, he scratches at the back of his head, shrugging his shoulders in.
“We need money.” It's not a question, but at the same time it's not a very serious statement-- just an observation.
Vincent wanders in, then, a cup of tea in his hands, and leans himself over the back of the couch to give it to her. When she takes it, he reaches down to smooth a hand over the swell of her stomach, exhaling a soft breath of laughter like the awe hasn't worn off yet. Then he looks up at Mandrake. “You're wearing a hole in the carpet.”
Mandrake turns to them and blinks a little confusedly. “I need a job.”
That causes Vincent to laugh, amused, resting his elbows on the back of the couch and resting his chin in his hand. “No you don't,” he says calmly, reassuringly.
She reaches up and taps Vincent's chin with her finger. “I think what he's trying to say is that he wants a job, or he'll go crazy.”
“No, it's not--” Mandrake turns around, twisting his mouth a little, as if he can't really find the right words. He tugs at his sleeves. “It's just that the baby's coming, and I know we're living comfortably right now, but we'll need money soon.”
Cassandra rolls her eyes towards Vincent at the same time as Vincent grins, closes his eyes, shakes his head a little. When he opens them again, he fixes Mandrake with a Look. His words are delicate-- he's being careful with this, not accusatory, just honest.
“We don't need money. I know-- right now it might seem like it to you, but you grew up a little differently than most people. Look.” He straightens up, walks over to Mandrake, touches one hand to his neck and the other to his cheek-- and on anyone else, it would seem patronizing, but Vincent looks him in the eye and holds him there, strokes a thumb over his skin. “And you're worrying about the baby, and I get it, but we're fine, and the bills are getting paid, and nothing has blown up. Right now we need you at home.”
She watches as Mandrake relaxes a little-- he's still worried, it shows on his face, but he knows Vincent's right. He nods, and Vincent drops his hands, grinning softly, that what will I ever do about you grin that seems to speak volumes. Mandrake comes back over to the couch and sits down at Cassandra's feet on the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest and stroking a hand down her bare legs. She reaches out to mess with his hair, and he lets her, giving the barest hint of a tired smile.
“I do want a job,” he says, looking to Vincent. “Performing is... something else. But I can wait to look for work until after the baby is born.”
“I'm rather curious to see what your shows are like, anyway,” Vincent comments, following, and Cassandra moves her legs to make room for him. “Scoot over.” And Mandrake does, just enough that Vincent can sit down, then tilts his cheek comfortably against Vincent's thigh.
The couch isn't small, but it feels smaller with the weight of her stomach almost pressing up against her thighs when she folds her knees-- barely the start of her third trimester and she can't believe the baby could possibly get any bigger. She crosses her arms over it, feels tiny limbs moving restlessly inside of her. “September can't come soon enough,” she mumbles, poking Vincent's hip with her toes, smiling when he pokes them back.
“Agreed.” Mandrake's hand slides up her leg to rest against her stomach, the look on his face full of slow, quiet contentment. Another smile flickers across his face, and there's nothing else that needs to be said.
--
When Cassandra starts feeling tired later that evening, Mandrake takes her by the hand and all but carries her to the bedroom, calling to Vincent that they're going to bed. There's no indication in his voice as to whether 'bed' actually means 'sleep' or not, but she's comfortably sleepy and it doesn't seem to matter.
Once there, he grabs the bottle of coconut butter from the bedside table and crawls up onto the bed with her, taking the hem of her dress (because she can't stand to wear anything other than dresses nowadays, not with this heat and the baby being only a couple of months away) and gently easing it over her head. He kisses her softly and unclasps her bra, then guides her to lay back against the comforter.
Vincent isn't very far behind them, and the way Mandrake looks at him as he walks through the door, a flickering moment of rare, utter adoration makes all the tension and stress seep out of her limbs in one big wave. He sits down on the bed next to her and unhurriedly tugs off his shirt, then stands to kick off his pants and boxers and socks before sitting down again. He kisses her nose, and she chuckles, reaching over to tug the elastic out of his hair.
Meanwhile, she can feel Mandrake crouched next to her, squeezing the lotion into one hand. It's not so much the temperature as it is the surprise, but she jumps and giggles anyway and has to restrain herself from squirming for the first few seconds as his hands rub over her stomach, soft and gentle, listening to him laugh at her reaction. “Sorry, is it really cold?” he asks, but she can tell he's enjoying himself far too much to be really apologetic.
“Ass.” She huffs out a laugh, and Vincent folds their legs together, hooking his heel into the curve of hers and pressing his lips slowly against her collarbone. She hasn't felt this comfortable in a long time-- the cream against her skin is soothing, and her brother seems entirely content to remain nuzzled into the crook of her neck, one hand resting splayed out against her hip. It's a bit of a surprise when she feels Mandrake's hands migrate up, slick fingers brushing gently against her nipples, and she sucks in a sudden breath of air.
At that, Vincent looks up, and she feels him shifting to pillow his chin in his arms, watching. Mandrake cups her breasts in his hands, rubbing the lotion into her skin, and she must be making little appreciative noises because he's making them too. He takes his time-- god does he take his time-- entirely, exquisitely slow, and when he pinches one of her nipples, she arches up slightly.
He pauses, licks his lips and looks up to meet her eyes. Then he looks to Vincent, raising an eyebrow. They seem to communicate something without words, because Vincent sits up again and crawls to her feet, settling down again just as Mandrake leans down and begins to press open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of her breast, dragging his tongue and sucking gently, dark hair falling around his face. He flicks his tongue, and she moans.
She looks up momentarily to watch Vincent duck his head down and-- as much as she's not expecting it-- kiss the sole of her foot. It tickles, and she curls her toes, unable to stop another breathless laugh, even as it dissolves into a heady moan as Mandrake starts paying attention to her other breast. “What--” she starts, breathing in shakily as he licks tentatively at the arch, before moving to press a wet kiss to the inside of her ankle. He continues up her legs, as unhurried as he's always been, hooking his thumbs under her panties when he comes to them and gently tugging them down.
For the past few weeks, she's been infinitely more sensitive than she ever remembers having been. Even when she was a teenager-- even the first time Vincent touched her doesn't compare to this. As he slides a finger into her wetness, she has to stop herself from pushing down on it too suddenly-- her hips rock shallowly of their own accord, and she keens softly, hands curling in the bedsheets. She can hear him inhaling slowly, the hesitant breath of a pounding heartbeat, and it seems to take forever before he's in to the knuckle, rubbing his thumb against her clit. Adding the second finger seems to take even longer.
It's only when she's all but bucking against him does he begin to move his wrist. Her gasps turn startled, and he exhales a soft moan. “God,” he whispers, pressing a shaky kiss to the smooth inside of her thigh. “I missed this.”
Mandrake raises his head for a moment, kissing her jaw before sitting up all the way to watch Vincent slide wet fingers in and out of her. She reaches up and tugs at his shirt, trying to string together a coherent sentence and failing. “Off, please.”
The hollow of his thoat is beautifully sharp as he tugs his shirt over his head, then slips out of his jeans and boxers in one smooth, fluid motion. She reaches out and tugs gently at his cock once, twice before he tips his head back, lips parted, breathing raggedly slow, and she takes the hint to stop. Glancing over at Vincent, she sees he's watching them with dark eyes, watching her face, watching the way Mandrake arches beneath her hand. She feels a third finger slip inside of her, and she lets her head fall back against the pillows-- she's not sure she's even in control of the noises leaving her lips anymore.
It's not as much of a surprise when she feels Vincent's tongue flicking hesitantly against her clit, tasting, pressing in, but it's still unbearably good. Mandrake leans down to swallow her cries with a kiss, and-- god, she won't last like this, but she's starting to think that's the point.
It doesn't take long for her to come after that, shuddering, twitching around Vincent's fingers, and he licks her through it with Mandrake stroking her hair and kissing her neck, her forehead, drinking up the sounds she makes as the feeling fades. She can hear him whimpering against her lips, and she bonelessly reaches out to him again, runs her thumb along the slit of his cock, circles it slowly. He makes a little surprised noise and bucks against her hand, panting.
It's then that Vincent makes his way back up the bed, reaching to cup Mandrake's neck in one hand, pulling him closer. He goes without protest, all but falls into the kiss with a sharp groan, hands pressed against Vincent's chest and fingernails digging in. Vincent is the perfect balance between demanding and gentle-- she watches as he threads his hand through Mandrake's long hair, tugs his head back and kisses him even deeper, licking into his mouth. Mandrake puts his hands back for support, and Vincent uses the opportunity to guide him down the rest of the way. He leans over Mandrake's body, plays with his hair, and when he pulls back, he presses their foreheads together for a moment before turning his gaze towards Cassandra.
“What do you want me to do to him?”
And if that's not a powerful question, she doesn't know what is. Still, she wraps her arms around one of the pillows and watches them for a moment, watches the way her husband's chest quivers with each breath, watches how perfectly at home Vincent seems, stretched over him like that. She licks her lips, grins softly.
“I want you to fuck him.”
Vincent smiles a little at that-- a smile that's mostly affection, but with a dangerous glint behind his eye. Beneath him, Mandrake whimpers, bites out a wordless curse, and Vincent's attention returns to him.
“Shh,” he whispers, curling his head down to bite gently at the exposed flesh of Mandrake's neck. The bottle of lotion lays discarded on the sheets, and he grabs for it, quickly squeezing some onto his fingers and using the other hand to bring Mandrake's legs up. She thinks it might have something to do with impatience on both their parts, but Vincent seems to take considerably less time to work Mandrake open than he did with her-- impatience makes them play a little rougher, and she likes it.
It's always a treat getting to watch the expressions fall over Mandrake's face as Vincent enters him for the first time. Vincent is not, never would be careless with him, but right now he's taking things a little faster than usual, sliding into Mandrake with less adjustment time. She watches the way his back arches in appreciation, the way Vincent leans down and breathes little words of encouragement against his skin, the way Mandrake sighs between hitched moans.
She knows acutely from the way Vincent's breathing goes sharp when he's getting close, and she shifts herself closer-- this time, when her fingers wrap around Mandrake's cock, she doesn't hold back. She's surprised at how quickly he falls over the edge after that, all but sobbing through his orgasm, and it doesn't take much more than a few thrusts for Vincent to follow.
It takes a few moments for them both to regain the energy to move again, and she's too content watching them regain their coherence to do anything but lay there, brushing hair out of her husband's eyes, smiling as Vincent eventually finds it in himself to move up Mandrake's body and press their lips together. They're almost startlingly in-tune with each other like this, quiet and gentle and utterly content, like nothing else in the world matters but this, here and now. She hears a murmured “I love you,” and Mandrake closes his eyes, smiling faintly as he mumbles “Love you too.”
Eventually Vincent rolls off him (slowly, complaining a little, and Cassandra giggles at him) and grabs the tissues from the bedside table, halfheartedly cleaning them both off. She kisses Mandrake too as Vincent kicks the sheets down and slides under them with an audible oomph, laying down and looking very much like he'd be okay with never moving again. Mandrake tiredly pokes him in the ribs, laughing as Vincent equally tiredly slaps his hand away.
“Are you two going to fall asleep now?” Cassandra asks, her voice already sleep-soft. There's a muffled confirmation as Mandrake rolls over onto his side, pressing his face into the pillows and snuggling in closer to her, seemingly already half-asleep anyway. She feels the bed shift as Vincent sits up to turn off the lamp, and then curl himself up against Mandrake's back, yawning. His hand finds his way to her stomach again, a solid, reassuring presence.
She listens to their breathing slow in time with her own, and falls asleep thinking of the new heart inside of her.
fin.
pairings: Vincent (mixedvenom)/Cassandra (dryocean)/Mandrake (yourstrulyblue)
warnings: incest, established polyamorous relationship, sex while pregnant, general smuttiness
In which jobs are discussed and sex is had.
He says my time in show business in the exact same tone he says my time in prison, although he rarely ever says the latter.
--
There truly is no business like show business, apparently. On account of the fact that right now, there is no business at all.
Cassandra stretches herself out on the couch and stretches her toes and stretches an arm out towards Mandrake, who is wandering around the living room, flutteringly, like a worried moth. (She looks back on that and thinks it's a very accurate description of him-- unlike butterflies, the metamorphose of moths is rarely recognized. Instead, the time before the wings exists like a dream, like something that only happened in a story you heard once, and it's what is done with the wings, those dark grey brown cream wings, that matters. Moths are attracted to light, and Mandrake has--
she thinks he's found his light, anyway. She likes to think he will stay here forever, attached to her and Vincent's light, the radiance of Vincent's true smile and the way Mandrake fumblingly (but lovingly) painted her toenails shades of blue and green last Friday, laughing when she complained that he was tickling her, when she threatened to spill nailpolish all over his jeans, or possibly just paint his nails pink while he slept. This is his light, she hopes, she believes.)
“What are you doing, love?” she asks lazily, letting her hand drop to the floor. It's new, as far as their record of terms of endearment goes, but she likes the way it rolls off her tongue. He's wandered over to the window, and at her question, he scratches at the back of his head, shrugging his shoulders in.
“We need money.” It's not a question, but at the same time it's not a very serious statement-- just an observation.
Vincent wanders in, then, a cup of tea in his hands, and leans himself over the back of the couch to give it to her. When she takes it, he reaches down to smooth a hand over the swell of her stomach, exhaling a soft breath of laughter like the awe hasn't worn off yet. Then he looks up at Mandrake. “You're wearing a hole in the carpet.”
Mandrake turns to them and blinks a little confusedly. “I need a job.”
That causes Vincent to laugh, amused, resting his elbows on the back of the couch and resting his chin in his hand. “No you don't,” he says calmly, reassuringly.
She reaches up and taps Vincent's chin with her finger. “I think what he's trying to say is that he wants a job, or he'll go crazy.”
“No, it's not--” Mandrake turns around, twisting his mouth a little, as if he can't really find the right words. He tugs at his sleeves. “It's just that the baby's coming, and I know we're living comfortably right now, but we'll need money soon.”
Cassandra rolls her eyes towards Vincent at the same time as Vincent grins, closes his eyes, shakes his head a little. When he opens them again, he fixes Mandrake with a Look. His words are delicate-- he's being careful with this, not accusatory, just honest.
“We don't need money. I know-- right now it might seem like it to you, but you grew up a little differently than most people. Look.” He straightens up, walks over to Mandrake, touches one hand to his neck and the other to his cheek-- and on anyone else, it would seem patronizing, but Vincent looks him in the eye and holds him there, strokes a thumb over his skin. “And you're worrying about the baby, and I get it, but we're fine, and the bills are getting paid, and nothing has blown up. Right now we need you at home.”
She watches as Mandrake relaxes a little-- he's still worried, it shows on his face, but he knows Vincent's right. He nods, and Vincent drops his hands, grinning softly, that what will I ever do about you grin that seems to speak volumes. Mandrake comes back over to the couch and sits down at Cassandra's feet on the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest and stroking a hand down her bare legs. She reaches out to mess with his hair, and he lets her, giving the barest hint of a tired smile.
“I do want a job,” he says, looking to Vincent. “Performing is... something else. But I can wait to look for work until after the baby is born.”
“I'm rather curious to see what your shows are like, anyway,” Vincent comments, following, and Cassandra moves her legs to make room for him. “Scoot over.” And Mandrake does, just enough that Vincent can sit down, then tilts his cheek comfortably against Vincent's thigh.
The couch isn't small, but it feels smaller with the weight of her stomach almost pressing up against her thighs when she folds her knees-- barely the start of her third trimester and she can't believe the baby could possibly get any bigger. She crosses her arms over it, feels tiny limbs moving restlessly inside of her. “September can't come soon enough,” she mumbles, poking Vincent's hip with her toes, smiling when he pokes them back.
“Agreed.” Mandrake's hand slides up her leg to rest against her stomach, the look on his face full of slow, quiet contentment. Another smile flickers across his face, and there's nothing else that needs to be said.
--
When Cassandra starts feeling tired later that evening, Mandrake takes her by the hand and all but carries her to the bedroom, calling to Vincent that they're going to bed. There's no indication in his voice as to whether 'bed' actually means 'sleep' or not, but she's comfortably sleepy and it doesn't seem to matter.
Once there, he grabs the bottle of coconut butter from the bedside table and crawls up onto the bed with her, taking the hem of her dress (because she can't stand to wear anything other than dresses nowadays, not with this heat and the baby being only a couple of months away) and gently easing it over her head. He kisses her softly and unclasps her bra, then guides her to lay back against the comforter.
Vincent isn't very far behind them, and the way Mandrake looks at him as he walks through the door, a flickering moment of rare, utter adoration makes all the tension and stress seep out of her limbs in one big wave. He sits down on the bed next to her and unhurriedly tugs off his shirt, then stands to kick off his pants and boxers and socks before sitting down again. He kisses her nose, and she chuckles, reaching over to tug the elastic out of his hair.
Meanwhile, she can feel Mandrake crouched next to her, squeezing the lotion into one hand. It's not so much the temperature as it is the surprise, but she jumps and giggles anyway and has to restrain herself from squirming for the first few seconds as his hands rub over her stomach, soft and gentle, listening to him laugh at her reaction. “Sorry, is it really cold?” he asks, but she can tell he's enjoying himself far too much to be really apologetic.
“Ass.” She huffs out a laugh, and Vincent folds their legs together, hooking his heel into the curve of hers and pressing his lips slowly against her collarbone. She hasn't felt this comfortable in a long time-- the cream against her skin is soothing, and her brother seems entirely content to remain nuzzled into the crook of her neck, one hand resting splayed out against her hip. It's a bit of a surprise when she feels Mandrake's hands migrate up, slick fingers brushing gently against her nipples, and she sucks in a sudden breath of air.
At that, Vincent looks up, and she feels him shifting to pillow his chin in his arms, watching. Mandrake cups her breasts in his hands, rubbing the lotion into her skin, and she must be making little appreciative noises because he's making them too. He takes his time-- god does he take his time-- entirely, exquisitely slow, and when he pinches one of her nipples, she arches up slightly.
He pauses, licks his lips and looks up to meet her eyes. Then he looks to Vincent, raising an eyebrow. They seem to communicate something without words, because Vincent sits up again and crawls to her feet, settling down again just as Mandrake leans down and begins to press open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of her breast, dragging his tongue and sucking gently, dark hair falling around his face. He flicks his tongue, and she moans.
She looks up momentarily to watch Vincent duck his head down and-- as much as she's not expecting it-- kiss the sole of her foot. It tickles, and she curls her toes, unable to stop another breathless laugh, even as it dissolves into a heady moan as Mandrake starts paying attention to her other breast. “What--” she starts, breathing in shakily as he licks tentatively at the arch, before moving to press a wet kiss to the inside of her ankle. He continues up her legs, as unhurried as he's always been, hooking his thumbs under her panties when he comes to them and gently tugging them down.
For the past few weeks, she's been infinitely more sensitive than she ever remembers having been. Even when she was a teenager-- even the first time Vincent touched her doesn't compare to this. As he slides a finger into her wetness, she has to stop herself from pushing down on it too suddenly-- her hips rock shallowly of their own accord, and she keens softly, hands curling in the bedsheets. She can hear him inhaling slowly, the hesitant breath of a pounding heartbeat, and it seems to take forever before he's in to the knuckle, rubbing his thumb against her clit. Adding the second finger seems to take even longer.
It's only when she's all but bucking against him does he begin to move his wrist. Her gasps turn startled, and he exhales a soft moan. “God,” he whispers, pressing a shaky kiss to the smooth inside of her thigh. “I missed this.”
Mandrake raises his head for a moment, kissing her jaw before sitting up all the way to watch Vincent slide wet fingers in and out of her. She reaches up and tugs at his shirt, trying to string together a coherent sentence and failing. “Off, please.”
The hollow of his thoat is beautifully sharp as he tugs his shirt over his head, then slips out of his jeans and boxers in one smooth, fluid motion. She reaches out and tugs gently at his cock once, twice before he tips his head back, lips parted, breathing raggedly slow, and she takes the hint to stop. Glancing over at Vincent, she sees he's watching them with dark eyes, watching her face, watching the way Mandrake arches beneath her hand. She feels a third finger slip inside of her, and she lets her head fall back against the pillows-- she's not sure she's even in control of the noises leaving her lips anymore.
It's not as much of a surprise when she feels Vincent's tongue flicking hesitantly against her clit, tasting, pressing in, but it's still unbearably good. Mandrake leans down to swallow her cries with a kiss, and-- god, she won't last like this, but she's starting to think that's the point.
It doesn't take long for her to come after that, shuddering, twitching around Vincent's fingers, and he licks her through it with Mandrake stroking her hair and kissing her neck, her forehead, drinking up the sounds she makes as the feeling fades. She can hear him whimpering against her lips, and she bonelessly reaches out to him again, runs her thumb along the slit of his cock, circles it slowly. He makes a little surprised noise and bucks against her hand, panting.
It's then that Vincent makes his way back up the bed, reaching to cup Mandrake's neck in one hand, pulling him closer. He goes without protest, all but falls into the kiss with a sharp groan, hands pressed against Vincent's chest and fingernails digging in. Vincent is the perfect balance between demanding and gentle-- she watches as he threads his hand through Mandrake's long hair, tugs his head back and kisses him even deeper, licking into his mouth. Mandrake puts his hands back for support, and Vincent uses the opportunity to guide him down the rest of the way. He leans over Mandrake's body, plays with his hair, and when he pulls back, he presses their foreheads together for a moment before turning his gaze towards Cassandra.
“What do you want me to do to him?”
And if that's not a powerful question, she doesn't know what is. Still, she wraps her arms around one of the pillows and watches them for a moment, watches the way her husband's chest quivers with each breath, watches how perfectly at home Vincent seems, stretched over him like that. She licks her lips, grins softly.
“I want you to fuck him.”
Vincent smiles a little at that-- a smile that's mostly affection, but with a dangerous glint behind his eye. Beneath him, Mandrake whimpers, bites out a wordless curse, and Vincent's attention returns to him.
“Shh,” he whispers, curling his head down to bite gently at the exposed flesh of Mandrake's neck. The bottle of lotion lays discarded on the sheets, and he grabs for it, quickly squeezing some onto his fingers and using the other hand to bring Mandrake's legs up. She thinks it might have something to do with impatience on both their parts, but Vincent seems to take considerably less time to work Mandrake open than he did with her-- impatience makes them play a little rougher, and she likes it.
It's always a treat getting to watch the expressions fall over Mandrake's face as Vincent enters him for the first time. Vincent is not, never would be careless with him, but right now he's taking things a little faster than usual, sliding into Mandrake with less adjustment time. She watches the way his back arches in appreciation, the way Vincent leans down and breathes little words of encouragement against his skin, the way Mandrake sighs between hitched moans.
She knows acutely from the way Vincent's breathing goes sharp when he's getting close, and she shifts herself closer-- this time, when her fingers wrap around Mandrake's cock, she doesn't hold back. She's surprised at how quickly he falls over the edge after that, all but sobbing through his orgasm, and it doesn't take much more than a few thrusts for Vincent to follow.
It takes a few moments for them both to regain the energy to move again, and she's too content watching them regain their coherence to do anything but lay there, brushing hair out of her husband's eyes, smiling as Vincent eventually finds it in himself to move up Mandrake's body and press their lips together. They're almost startlingly in-tune with each other like this, quiet and gentle and utterly content, like nothing else in the world matters but this, here and now. She hears a murmured “I love you,” and Mandrake closes his eyes, smiling faintly as he mumbles “Love you too.”
Eventually Vincent rolls off him (slowly, complaining a little, and Cassandra giggles at him) and grabs the tissues from the bedside table, halfheartedly cleaning them both off. She kisses Mandrake too as Vincent kicks the sheets down and slides under them with an audible oomph, laying down and looking very much like he'd be okay with never moving again. Mandrake tiredly pokes him in the ribs, laughing as Vincent equally tiredly slaps his hand away.
“Are you two going to fall asleep now?” Cassandra asks, her voice already sleep-soft. There's a muffled confirmation as Mandrake rolls over onto his side, pressing his face into the pillows and snuggling in closer to her, seemingly already half-asleep anyway. She feels the bed shift as Vincent sits up to turn off the lamp, and then curl himself up against Mandrake's back, yawning. His hand finds his way to her stomach again, a solid, reassuring presence.
She listens to their breathing slow in time with her own, and falls asleep thinking of the new heart inside of her.
fin.