Owen opened his eyes and stared at the familiar ceiling above him. Cast upon it were unusual golden shadows, and it took him a while to realise it must be at least midday. His eyes felt gritty and a small ache tugged at his temples. He slid his hands under the sheets and realised he hadn’t managed to put his nightclothes on.

A quick glance around the room and it seemed he’d pulled the snug fitting evening suit off rather haphazardly. The shirt lay partially inside out across the floor, and his bow tie was draped across the doorknob.

But he was alone. This was a good thing. Watching Braith dance, twirling and swaying as though he was in love with the music, had made his heart race. A small part of him had wanted to go over and grab him – not to drag him away, but to entwine himself in the joyful rhythm and experience whatever it was that made Braith look like he was flying.

Then a bunch of stuffed suits had cornered him with a bottle of whiskey and he knew it was all over – human liquor didn’t suit him at all. It made everything slip and slide around him, and soon the voices of his companions began to pulse in and out, like his head was underwater.

But with Chloe lurking around, he couldn’t say no. He sent Gregory a meaningful glare. Look after the Consort. But not too well. The memory of Braith’s excited squeak when he'd spotted Gregory earlier made his mouth tighten.

In any case, he’d made it home in one piece, and so had Braith. They’d both been in the car, and a faint memory of something surfaced. Warm, close, heavy. He rubbed his chin but couldn’t quite grasp it. A bubble of worry emerged – he hadn’t done anything untoward, had he?

The phone buzzed. He squinted at it and finally focussed on the message notification.

Good afternoon, my Lord. Apologies for the disturbance, but would you like some lunch delivered?

Bradley. Perfect, he could winkle some information out when he arrived.

Laden with grocery bags, Bradley carefully removed his shoes at the door before heading into the apartment’s kitchen and dissolving into a diligent mist. Owen wandered to the couch and pondered how he might best fill in the gaps about last night without admitting the fact he’d been black out drunk. Sounds of chopping, sizzling and dishes being washed rang simultaneously from the kitchen, and ten minutes later Bradley rematerialized with a tray.

Perfectly pan-fried gnocchi with butter sauce eased the slight upset in Owen’s stomach. When Bradley slid a cold-brew coffee in front of him, he invited him to sit.

“Is everything alright, my lord?” Bradley hovered, uncomfortable.

“Fine, fine. I just want to ask you about some things.”

 A spectre of panic flashed across Bradley’s face, and Owen’s heart sank like a stone. What had the driver seen? He took a sip of tea to calm his nerves.

“Last night, I… had a bit to drink.”

Bradley closed his eyes briefly, then opened them wide and clear. “That might be said to be true, my lord.”

“Yes, well. I wondered if my Consort got in safely.”

Bradley gave a rare smile. “He did, my lord. I believe he went out for breakfast with some of his colleagues this morning.”

“That’s good. Excellent. He didn’t seem… bothered about anything?”

 “No, my lord. I believe he enjoyed himself at the party.”

“Very good.” A weight lifted from his mind, Owen felt suddenly tired. Perhaps he should rest today. After all, next week they’d all be going to Thunderbolt Spr-- 

“And in the car ride home, my lord.”