Defeating Dracula and saving the whole of humanity from endless night was a simple task, compared to navigating the pitfalls of a trifold relationship. Simply getting them all on the same page regarding their mutual attraction and interest had been a frustrating exercise in small words and locked doors. They aren't always able to spend as much time together as they like, duties and emergencies calling one or the other of them across the countryside, so progress in communication and understanding comes slow. But it's so good, electrifying when they get it right. Sypha's never considered herself a patient person, but she would compromise much for that perfect balance they sometimes achieve.
Case in point: she's gotten used to waking up alone, even when they're all together. Her childhood had been small and tight-knit, siblings and cousins and age-mates all piled into caravan bunks together. She doesn't sleep well without someone's knee in the small of her back, her limbs are predisposed to twine around other warm bodies, and she's immune to snores.
Not so, for either of her men.
Take Alucard (yes, please, and thank you): only child of an obscenely powerful and wealthy figure. Sheltered and privileged. He'd had his own room in a massive castle, and no brothers or sisters to squabble with over toys or books or nightmares. Not a cuddler by nuture, though perhaps the nature of one lurked underneath the shell of night court manners. And Trevor! He understood the push and pull of a large family, but he'd lost that closeness to fire and violence. He didn't speak much about the years that came after, but in sleep he bundled himself into a defensive ball, shielding his softer underbelly. Sypha could guess how he may have slept in fits and starts, waiting for a knife in the dark.
It broke her heart to think about. She'd decided early on on a course of exposure therapy, inflicting the casual physical affection of her people on them left, right, and center. It seemed to go well, during waking hours. But she'd woken more than once at night to Trevor reflexively knocking her arm away and crab-scrabbling out of the bed, or curled into Alucard only to be met with an initial, hesitant stiffness.
She told herself it wasn't that they didn't trust her, didn't love her. It was only that she'd been a part of their lives for such a short time; she had so much history to work against. She could compromise, demand less, set aside the empty feeling when she woke up alone (the latest riser of the three by far).
So when she turned her face from her pillow that morning and found Alucard still in bed beside her, absently tracing his fingertips up and down her arm, she blinked. Scrubbed the heel of her other hand against her eye, and blinked again. But there he was, all serene and calm in the late morning light. Someone - Trevor - must have pulled the curtains back, not that it had impacted her sleep in the slightest.
Sleep and Scars and FEELINGS
Case in point: she's gotten used to waking up alone, even when they're all together. Her childhood had been small and tight-knit, siblings and cousins and age-mates all piled into caravan bunks together. She doesn't sleep well without someone's knee in the small of her back, her limbs are predisposed to twine around other warm bodies, and she's immune to snores.
Not so, for either of her men.
Take Alucard (yes, please, and thank you): only child of an obscenely powerful and wealthy figure. Sheltered and privileged. He'd had his own room in a massive castle, and no brothers or sisters to squabble with over toys or books or nightmares. Not a cuddler by nuture, though perhaps the nature of one lurked underneath the shell of night court manners. And Trevor! He understood the push and pull of a large family, but he'd lost that closeness to fire and violence. He didn't speak much about the years that came after, but in sleep he bundled himself into a defensive ball, shielding his softer underbelly. Sypha could guess how he may have slept in fits and starts, waiting for a knife in the dark.
It broke her heart to think about. She'd decided early on on a course of exposure therapy, inflicting the casual physical affection of her people on them left, right, and center. It seemed to go well, during waking hours. But she'd woken more than once at night to Trevor reflexively knocking her arm away and crab-scrabbling out of the bed, or curled into Alucard only to be met with an initial, hesitant stiffness.
She told herself it wasn't that they didn't trust her, didn't love her. It was only that she'd been a part of their lives for such a short time; she had so much history to work against. She could compromise, demand less, set aside the empty feeling when she woke up alone (the latest riser of the three by far).
So when she turned her face from her pillow that morning and found Alucard still in bed beside her, absently tracing his fingertips up and down her arm, she blinked. Scrubbed the heel of her other hand against her eye, and blinked again. But there he was, all serene and calm in the late morning light. Someone - Trevor - must have pulled the curtains back, not that it had impacted her sleep in the slightest.
"'morning," she rasped. "'time is it?"