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"It's not cause I don't love you, you know."
Clarissa freezes. Whatever she expected when Amos climbed into her rented bed, this wasn't it.
"I mean, at least I think I love you. Hard to be totally sure, being the way I am. But I care about you."
They'd established a pattern, an intimacy written long hand. At first, she hadn't cared when he left to go to the brothels in port, except that no one else made her feel quite as normal. After a while, she noticed faintly that her heart would ache when he left and lighten when he returned. A series of small changes, ever evolving until she was sure no one else could ever mean as much to her as he did.
"That's why I'm still going to the pros. Because I love you."
Six years ago, he seemed to finally notice when she turned away, one slight tear forming in her eye, when he came back to the Roci without showering. He didn't say anything then, but he never came back smelling of brothel again.
"You don't know everything and you don't need to know everything, but you know I didn't grow up like you did."
He gets in the bed, cold sheets causing him a shiver. Expensive cold, the kind that will stay crisp even when they warm to his skin, not the kind that will stick and peel slowly off in the morning. She may work for a living now, but she'll always have been raised by Jules-Pierre Mao, and if he's going to come to her room only after his visits, then she's going to enjoy her time alone too.
Six years have gone by, and he's never stopped going, but he did stop talking about it. First to her, then to anyone. Then he'd come spend more time with her, the gap between his visits and coming to her ever decreasing until one early ship morning, he took off his clothes and climbed into her bed behind her.
"It ain't gonna be like that," he'd reassured her. And it hadn't been. For years, he come to her, held her, spent nearly every waking moment with her, but not every waking moment.
What they had always felt so delicate, she could only look at it sideways for fear it would disappear if gazed at straight on. And now here Amos was, telling her he loved her, talking about the one part of his life he wouldn't share.
"Why? I mean…why is going to them something you do because you think you love me?"
She rolled in bed to face him. She'd started renting hotel rooms when he'd started coming straight to her after his shower in port. No questioning looks and less time apart.
Amos adjusted his grip, letting her have space to see him, but keeping a hand on her always, always.
"Like I said, you know kind of how I grew up. Kind of what made me what I am." She did, Mao family members were always going to fundraisers, horror stories trotted out to open wallets.
Amos continued, "Sex ain't for me what it is for other people. I know how Cap and Naomi are, there's love there. I know it can be love. But not for me. I do it to people. And I'm not mean, I don't hurt them." Amos said this with conviction, clearly needing her to understand. "I never hurt them, Peaches. But they ain't full people to me. I don't care about them, and I can't." He turns to look her directly in the eyes. "Now, I ain't said nothing for a long time, but I figured it was about time to get clear. I love you, I will love you, but this is all I have for you."
If Clarissa hasn't known him so well, she would have expected embarrassment. Or something more abashed. But this was Amos, her Amos, her monster, and he'd love her here when he was welcome or from a distance if she shoved him away.
She closed the distance between them, laying her head on his chest, which smelled only of soap and Amos.
"It's enough."