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I t was nearly dawn before he made it back to the manor to find thirteen sticky notes from Gibbs plastered throughout the house.

I fed Atta , on the kitchen door.

I’m not a maid , on a stack of discarded jumpers he’d folded.

I’ll pick up more milk , on the fridge.

Among other things.

A very detailed schedule sat on his desk next to a glass of whiskey and a fresh cigar had not placed there, along with a note that read: I’m not your fucking secretary.

chuckled, wadding up the note, and tossing it in the rubbish. He really needed to give Gibbs a pay rise. Reclining in his desk chair, he held up the whiskey in a silent thanks to Gibbs before taking a sip. It burned down his throat and into his empty stomach, liquid gold to push out all the stress of the day before he would face the music in the morning of the beautiful woman who was furious with him. He picked up the cigar and found another note, folded over and over until it had been concealed by the cigar. Taken aback, tossed the cigar onto a stack of research papers and unfolded the note.

Atta was acting strange tonight.

I was worried to leave her.

shot out of his chair and tore down the hall toward her room.

The lights were out, but her door was slightly ajar. Quietly, he opened it and ventured in. In the light bleeding in from the hall, he could make out her form on the bed, fast asleep. He didn’t want to wake her but needed to know she was all right.

With his eyes still adjusting to the dark, knelt down by the side of the bed. Atta’s features were fuzzy in the dim light, but they still made him smile. Before he could think better of it and the possibility it could wake her, he leaned in to kiss her temple and run his fingers down her hair. She smiled in her sleep and sighed, the sight warming his cold, dark heart.

He stood, satisfied she was all right, and squeezed her hand before leaving her to sweet dreams.

Out in the hall, he felt something on his hand and looked down to see traces of soil on his fingertips from where he’d held onto her briefly.

chuckled to himself. Atta never truly slumbered, not when there was work to be done.

But a chill slithered up his spine at the thought, and he went to chase it away with the fire of hearth and whiskey.