Shorts: An IPKKND Collection

Tangled

Author's Note: One of the things that's always fascinated me about the third morning at Bua-ji's is Khushi and Arnav behaviour. They've both gotten up and changed, but are hanging out in the bedroom together. She's on the bed, huddled in a blanket, and he's working on his laptop. Bua-ji brings them both tea and Arnav makes fun of Khushi for being cold, then he gets up and flicks her rose because it's red (the first time he flicks her nose).

I've always wondered what happened the night before to make them act this way - to make Arnav want to flirt with her. It's also my headcanon is that they slept holding each other every night at Bua-ji's. So I wrote this.

*****

Arnav sighed as he rubbed a towel over his face. The day had been long and fraught with confusion. He hung the towel on the back of the chair, avoiding looking directly at the miniature statue of Devi Maiya that sat on the desk, and stepped to the small dressing table that held his phone. He checked that it was charged before pressing a button on the air conditioner's remote. Blessedly cool air flowed over him within seconds.

Yawning, he turned to the bed. His wife was already asleep - or pretending to be - curled into a small ball under a blanket. The bed squeaked as he slid in beside her.

"Unbelievable," he muttered.

The Arnav Rekha he'd created the night before - the one Khushi had crossed in her sleep to lie alongside him, her leg over his and her fingers curled into his shirt - wasn't in evidence. He scowled, thinking of the hours of sleep he'd lost as he'd battled her chaotic pin-wheeling, but his annoyance faded as other memories surfaced. The way she'd returned to him, sliding closer and closer. The way her fingers had seemed reluctant to release him. The way she'd flung her leg over him, laying claim to him in her sleep.

Damn it. Get a grip, Arnav.

He glanced at her. She was dressed in that night suit, the one that heated his blood (he suspected it had to do with how innocent she looked in white), with the blanket draped haphazardly over her waist. As he watched, she shivered slightly, pulling the blanket higher in an effort to get warm. Arnav reached for the remote without thinking, lowering the fan speed and setting the thermostat higher. She relaxed.

This, he mused, is my favourite Khushi. The silent one.

But deep down, he knew this was a lie, because his wife's silence meant that she was gravely hurt, dangerously angry, or deeply worried.

And anyway, he shouldn't have a favourite version of her, not when she ... and Shyam ...

Arnav's hands clenched into fists as he reeled from the onslaught of memories. He noted, dimly, through the haze of nausea and confusion, that they were distinctly less painful now. Their grip had lessened with every minute that separated him from Shantivan, and here, in her Bua-ji's home, in this ancient teak bed covered in pink gauze and golden stars, it was hard to believe Khushi capable of the vile things Shyam had implicated her in.

Khushi ...

"Arnav-ji ..." she mumbled, as if in answer.

He'd been still before but now he was frozen, waiting for her to open her eyes with his breath stuck in his lungs. They'd left their conversation unfinished earlier - as they did with so many things - and her accusations still rang in his ears.

I don't want to fight with her.

The realisation surprised him. He'd always enjoyed their sparring, that sharp-edged flirtation that had defined them. She'd always fought back with ferocity and determination, a fire that ignited something within him in turn.

But she didn't wake. Khushi shifted restlessly, her hand snaking towards him until she met his arm. Her fingers curled around his bicep.

And still, he was frozen, heart pounding and lungs suddenly, painfully, lacking air. The ache in his chest sharpened when she whispered his name again, her lips curling into a sweet smile. Arnav wished he could read her mind.

I wonder what she's dreaming of, what could bring that smile - and my name - to her lips.

"Jalebi," Khushi's smile widened into a grin.

He smirked. Of course.

"Pagal," Arnav breathed, more affectionately than he'd intended.

He closed his eyes, succumbing to his fatigue almost instantly, but all thoughts of sleep flew away when Khushi's fingers tightened on his arm. She was frowning when he looked over, and her lower lip quivered slightly. She scooted closer, her legs sliding against the sheets until they collided with his. Thinking she was awake, Arnav began to chide her when she trembled violently, clutching at him desperately.

"Amma! Babu-ji! No!"

Something uncoiled inside his chest. He carefully slid his arms around her, holding her close as she shook.

"Khushi, wake up."

She whimpered, turning her face into his night shirt.

"Khushi, it's okay. Open your eyes."

She sobbed softly, curling into him as he rubbed small circles onto her back. She didn't wake, but the tremors in her body subsided. His hand continued to trace patterns onto her back as he recalled their conversation that morning.

I didn't sleep for a minute last night.

I always sleep like this.

Oh really? You haven't slept like this before.

How would you know? We've never slept on the same bed before.

He'd thought it would be a new kind of torture to lie inches from her, but it'd been surprisingly easy.

Domestic.

And Khushi had lied. He'd spent the last few months sleeping on his green sofa, mere feet from her as she slept on his bed. She spoke in her sleep - often and unreservedly - but she didn't shift restlessly as if seeking someone - Payal ... or him.

She'd never had a nightmare.

I was eight years old when my parents died in an accident. I still believe my parents have become stars, so I sleep with stars hanging above the bed. I'm still afraid of fast cars, afraid of sleeping alone, afraid of the dark.

But not in Shantivan, he realised with a jolt, only here.

He wondered if being back here, in this bedroom she'd only ever shared with her sister, brought her childhood fears closer to the surface. He wondered if she felt safer in Shantivan than she did here. He wondered if she felt safe now, tucked securely against him.

Arnav tried to untangle himself, to preserve the distance that had been - and must remain - between them, but Khushi made a soft noise of protest and held tighter.

"Arnav-ji," she mumbled in her sleep, "I made you jalebi."

He stilled.

"Sugar-free," her hand fisted his shirt, "because you're my husband. Pati Parmeshwar."

His pulse skittered, as it always did when she claimed him as hers.

Husband.

His eyes found the sindoor in her hair as she spoke again.

"I don't look like one of Delhi's rickshaws."

"What the-" he whispered, tilting his head to consider the sleeping woman in his arms.

Khushi's arms tightened around him. He tried to ignore the heat that surged through him.

"Don't have to eat his name, Khushi, he's your husband."

She's going to drive me insane.

For several long moments the only sound in the room came from his own erratic breathing. When he was sure she'd settled down, Arnav tried to free himself.

"Arnav-ji," the protest was instant, and so was his surrender.

"Ssshhh, Khushi," he mumbled into her hair as weakness flooded him, "I've got you. You're safe."