as we recover from this season, let us think that there MUST BE some small community whose main ship (otp if you will) has been Gabriel/Beelzebub ALL ALONG and who are all still in shock, no doubt
When Q opened his eyes in the dark, he felt as if he had never closed them in the first place – they felt dry and irritated, lids heavy with tiredness that the night hadn’t managed to chase away. After another couple of blinks in an attempt at moistening them a little before he shoved the glasses on his face, he carefully got out of the bed, trying to avoid disturbing the warm weight resting next to him – not that it was likely to happen: Ethan had gotten used to his unpredictable schedule to the point that he rarely stirred anymore whenever Q got out of bed.
Once upon a time, he knew it was something he would have found romantic and reassuring.
He would have soaked up the feeling that they were so settled in their life as a couple and relished in the fact that they were going steady.
Now, he couldn’t help feeling annoyed with the lack of spark and surprise; with the lack of excitement and adrenaline at every touch and glance; with the lack of thrill at every moment stolen from darkness, shrouded in secret
Q knew exactly why was that – whose fault it was.
Before the cats became too restless and woke up the whole landing, Q padded quietly to the kitchen to feed them breakfast – if one could call a meal “breakfast” at the witching hour, just shy of three in the morning. As he set the bowls on the floor, he glanced down at the small pile of mail on the kitchen table, clearly still unsorted; it made a shiver of relief run down his spine, especially when he spotted the colourful corner of what could only be a postcard.
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