Micah lay on the couch in his office, watching his beloved Ophilia. She sat at his desk... her desk now, cluttered with work the way all her workspaces eventually wound up. There was something she wasn't telling him, but at this moment, here in his office, he couldn't bring himself to care. He was here, she was here, and nothing else mattered.

She fidgeted, and gleaming blades, each at least eighteen inches long, slid from the tips of her fingers. The look on her face was precious; her mouth hung open and worked like she was trying to say something, but nothing came out.

"That might be a good look for you."

Her look of confusion vanished in an instant, replaced with wry amusement. "Yeah, no. It'll be handy opening cans of paint, but I'm not really sure I'm comfortable being all weaponized and stuff."

"If you don't like it, we can always ask Tee... Misty... that's really going to take some getting used to."

Phil edged closer to him. He kept himself still. No matter how he wanted to run to her, she'd seemed skittish since she woke up from Misty's healing. She would come to him when she was ready; he just had to be waiting when she was.

"Really? A name change is the big thing for you? I'm dealing with... well... Every square inch of my body getting re-inked. It's really weirding me out. In case you couldn't tell."

"I can tell. All that matters to me is what's inside." He paused, doubt trying to assail his satisfaction at being home with his wife. "You're still you inside, right?"

She paused with her mouth open, her gaze wandering across the ceiling. Micah kept his worry that her voice would descend into the Muse's singsong to himself. When she finally did speak, though, her voice remained even and sweet, the voice he'd come to need like he needed nothing else in life. "Yeah. Yeah, it's just me in here. Or..."

"Or?"

"She's me. I can feel her... me... that part of me... it wants out, but it's different now."

"How?"

"Before I had to push, constantly, to keep her in. Now she can't get out unless I let her out. I think I'd have to help her get out, actually."

"I can guess you're not doing that any time soon."

Phil's grin set a new standard for wickedness. "Oh, I don't know about that. If I'm not worried about stuffing her back in, I feel a lot safer letting her out." Phil's eyes glowed, and a lilting singsong entered her voice. "I've wanted to play with you for ever so long, precious Micah."

Micah shuddered just a little, but he couldn't tell if it was from fear or excitement. After a few moment's consideration, he realized with a start that it was both in equal measure. When he glanced at Phil again, the viridian glow had gone from her eyes.

"Sorry, sweetie. I really have wanted to... um... well." She stuttered to a stop. A quiet mutter leaked out of her. "We don't have to. It's okay."

"Love, you remember what I said about every part of you, right?"

"Yeah, but..."

"It applies just as much right at this moment as it ever did."

Phil showed Micah yet again how well her lean features suited her face to predatory grins. A faint light tickled at the edges of her eyes as her lips met his, her thighs sliding around his own. His heart swelled, not to mention other regions, but before he could do anything Phil was pulling away again.

"What's wrong?"

"I... didn't do a very good job running the museum."

He laughed. If that was her biggest worry... "I'll look things over in the morning, love. We might need to liquidate some equity to cover the cost of the repairs, but I'm not worried about that. Mostly I'm worried about all the art we lost. From what Matt and Micky tell me, it was more than just ours; every piece Teresa ever collected wound up on Drake's hide, and now they're..." he ran a hand along her side. When his hand found the end of her shirt and touched her skin, the strangest sensations met his questing fingertips. All at the same time, he felt the soft, warm skin of the woman he loved, the distinctive texture of oil on old canvas, and the slick feel of enamel on steel.

"That's going to take some getting used to."

"Are you... Are you sure you want to?"

He smiled at her, affection gentling the heat in his voice, "Oh, yeah. Whenever you're ready."

Her eager look fell apart again, and her eyes darted to the stack of papers on the desk.

"You might have a lot of time for that. We got a foreclosure notice, Micah."

He sighed. "When?"

"Not too long ago. I'm supposed to show up in court next month. I put it off once, but I don't think they're going to give us another month. If we can't come up with the money, we're going to be out on the street. We won't even have a place to live!"

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Micah ran a hand through her hair, reveling in the tangled, contrary feel of it. She arched into his caress, forgetting her cares for just that moment. "It's okay, love. The insurance will pay a bit of it, and we'll find a way. At worst, we'll start over. I mean, we've each done that before, right? At least this time we'll have each other."

"Yeah." She looked at her fingers, and the blades slid from her fingertips again, receding slowly. "I can't figure it out."

"What's that, love?"

"Where the hell do these blades go? I mean, they ought to be in my fingers, but I don't have eighteen-inch fingers. They're steel, too. My fingers ought to burst into flame when I pull them back in. I mean, seriously, what the hell?"

Micah laughed. His Words were silent, his wife was whole, and they were together. Anything else he could endure or deal with. "Look at it this way, love. You won't have to worry about personal security again."

The phone interrupted Phil's reply. She tried to jump up and get it, but before she left his lap he had an arm around her. Micah swept her off her feet, pressing her to him as he hit the button on the speakerphone.

"Micah Slate speaking."

"Micah? Is Mrs. Slate available? I was informed she handles the museum's business affairs."

Micah had never made an issue of Phil keeping her maiden name, because it wasn't one. Despite that, when he heard her next words, it started a fire in his chest that wouldn’t go out any time soon.

"This is Mrs. Slate. Micah is my husband and co-curator. He's just returned from an extended business trip. May I ask why you're calling?"

"Why I'm... You mean the promoter hasn't contacted you yet?"

Micah didn't need the sound of Phil's nails sliding across one another to tell him the whine in the man’s voice annoyed her. He laid one palm on the back of her hand before he spoke. "I'm afraid we've had some recent unpleasantness with a break in. The situation became violent. Fortunately, we were able to prevent the perpetrator's escape, but not before some damage was done to our galleries."

The caller's tone shifted immediately, petulance replaced by a mix of awe and resignation. "You caught the Imperial Gallery Bandit? Oh my god! I hope no one was hurt too badly. Still," the caller sighed histrionically. "I suppose this will raise your asking price for use of the venue, isn't it."

Micah wasn't about to let the caller know how ignorant he was. "Well, it depends. How soon do you need to use our space?"

The sigh this time held no awe, just the frustrated resignation of someone who saw money flitting away from him. "We've already printed the flyers, I thought you'd have gotten yours already. In case you hadn't, the show is in three weeks."

"Three weeks?"

"I was afraid of that. Well, nothing for it. Mr. Choo was adamant about your venue for the American show. Give me a number, I'll have the money wired to you."

Micah looked from the phone to Phil. Her eyes sparkled with relief and mischief. Maybe things weren't going to be so bad after all.

***

Matt scanned the restored Great Hall, his gaze never resting on one place long. With each sweep, the only constant was a glance down at Michaela, who stood beside him doing exactly the same thing. He normally didn't moonlight as a security guard, but when his godfather Micah asked, he couldn't very well say no. He even suspected he knew why they’d asked him; Micah and Phil were thinking of taking a long, well-deserved vacation, and Micah needed to know the museum was in good hands while they were gone.

"Here she comes." Michaela's lips didn't move, but her voice came through his ear bud clearly.

Matt stopped his constant scanning; the other guards could handle things for a sixty second catwalk strut, and he really wanted to see his godmother's moment in the spotlight. The moment she stepped out from behind the flimsy, translucent curtain, he was glad he'd insisted on the infrared cameras. Every light in the room shut down, leaving the audience and the stage in near total darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the only illumination in the room swaying down the runway. Ophilia's artwork glowed softly from within, bathing the area around her in beauty. She wore an old, old leather skirt and halter set she had scavenged from when she worked on paintings nearly nude, and she carried a small bundle of brushes in one hand. Her svelte frame near perfect for a runway model, she had only one thing she couldn't pull off. She couldn’t maintain the customary severe frown; she grinned from ear to ear.

Her shoes matched the beauty of her art; they glowed from within with a soft phosphorescent light. When she reached the end of the runway, the spots came back on, bathing her in pure white light, showing her in all her tattooed glory. They focused on her shoes, of course; low heels, covered in a fanciful blend of art and thin strips of leather. Michaela told him the designer had created them just for Phil after meeting her.

"You know, you really ought to be up there."

Michaela grimaced. "Not gonna happen. Phil looks nice though. The new art is really becoming on her."

At that thought, a nagging doubt surfaced in Matt's mind. While they were on the subject, he brought it up with his wife; once in a while her age meant she already knew the answer to something he couldn't figure out. "One thing I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"How is her wearing them any different than Drake wearing them?"

Michaela looked up at him, just a touch of surprise making her perfect features childlike. "You really don't know?"

"Would I be asking if I did?"

At that, Michaela's brows drew down, and she looked back at the runway. Matt waited, patiently. By now he knew that while his wife often knew the answers he needed, she wasn't always good at expressing them. Instead of prodding her, he watched Ophilia sashay away down the runway. The Bosch triptych that had adorned her thighs and lower back for so long had been replaced by another, a trio of goddess images Matt remembered seeing on a trio of huge wooden slabs.

"What's the difference between rape and really wild, spontaneous, even violent sex?"

Matt thought about that in silence for a moment. When the answer came to him, he felt a little stupid for not seeing it. "Consent."

"Yeah." A subvocalized sigh threw static through his ear bud.

"What's wrong? You can't be that upset that I didn't realize that."

"No, it's not that."

"Tell me, Michaela. You know I'm not going to let it go."

The quick look she shot him held anger and part frustration, both heavily laced with affection. "Yeah, I know."

He waited again while she found her words. They leaked from her slowly. "I failed. I tried my best, and I still failed."

Now it was Matt's turn to be annoyed. "What do you mean? You saved everyone, even Teresa. I wouldn't even have thought to do that."

Her smile turned melancholy. "I didn't save Drake."

Matt looked down at her, his professional demeanor shattered, his mouth open in shock. When he spoke, he didn't bother keeping his voice low.

"Really? You're upset about that?"

She looked up at him, and he saw the absolute sincerity in her eyes. He could tell she would need comfort later, but for now her professional façade kept her together. "Higher standards, Frank. Higher standards."