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Ethan senses her before he sees her. He knows she’s in the room he’s come to call the map-and-gun room, which is most probably the parlor? It’s not the study, where her casting table lies in the middle of a star-in-circle. The table’s placement is entirely coincidental, or so she says, when he questions the odd design set into the wooden floor. It’s certainly not the kitchen or his room or her room. It’s a room that changes each time he’s in it, never quite the same twice. It’s like coming into a different world each time he leaves Grandage Place and reenters it.
Now, table cleared of all the clutter, packed deep back into the dusty alcoves and recesses of the British Museum - he helped move it home, he helped Mr. Lyle move it back - the room is bare again, empty without the stands of rifles and Sembene’s crosses, hanging in the window. It feels a little too big for both him and Vanessa, both when they’re each alone and together; he knows she feels out-of-place there, not having something to fight.
Even without the maps on the walls and exploration equipment scattered about, the palette of the room still makes it feel vaguely masculine, tans and browns and a rich, deep hunter green. Vanessa is a dark figure burnished red by firelight, slumped over the table, head resting on her arms. She fits into this world perfectly, this room, these colors, these schemes. He doesn’t blame her for being tired - she deserves a good rest. He thinks that she deserves to be happy, even if she doesn’t seem to feel the same.
He’s been standing in the doorway for a good five minutes, just watching her, and she hasn’t stirred. Hasn’t twitched, even. Vanessa Ives, normally so alert and observant in the presence of the supernatural, is obviously tired out. Ethan finds himself thinking that it’s somewhat sweet before he realizes where his thoughts are going, and stops himself incredibly short.
He knows what he feels for her, he accepted it a long time ago, but she’s still so layered, infinitely complex like the Cretan maze housing the Minotaur - sharp turns, dead-end hallways, seemingly endless corridors. He finds himself thinking that he’d like to explore her. He’d like to fight the monster hiding at her center, learn her twists and turns and curves and disarmingly charming habits, like falling asleep anywhere. This is a habit of hers, apparently, but it’s new to him. One time Sembene came downstairs only to find her sleeping, resting against the back of the sofa; he was going down for breakfast as Semebene was carrying her back upstairs. Vanessa Ives, when not pushed to the breaking point, sleeps the sleep of the dead.
This time, however, Sembene is not here; it’s just him. Ten minutes spent watching, perhaps fifteen, and the most she’s moved is turning her head to the other side. If she stays in that position, her neck and her back won’t thank her for it come morning; the fire is dying down as well. This is London, this is autumn: a room without a fire quickly becomes cold, and heat rises. Moving Vanessa out of a chair is probably more difficult than picking her up off the couch, but he doesn’t mind. One arm under her knees, the other somewhere around her waist or her shoulders, and she’s in his grasp. Apparently, although he thought he lifted her smoothly, he jostles her into semi-consciousness; her response is to burrow into the meeting of his neck and shoulder, and mumble something that sounds suspiciously like “Mr. Chandler”.
He chuckles at her, at the fact that she’s so unguarded during sleep. The trek up the stairs and to her room feels regrettably short.
He’s setting her down and pulling up the sheet when she wakes fully, blearily, grabs his hand and asks him to stay. He kisses her forehead, smiles, kicks off his boots, and then slides into bed behind her. She has the covers pulled up to her chin, and her back is surprisingly warm against his chest. She falls back asleep again quickly, the sound of her deep breathing lulling him like water. He takes a page out of her book of secrets - the ability to sleep so deeply can’t be anything else but a secret - and sees nothing until morning.