The damage is extensive. Where his lower face should be—lips and cheeks—there's mostly nothing. Scar tissue spreading up from his mouth in pinks and whites lighter than his bronze skin, baring all his teeth in a permanent exposed grin that mirrors the skeletal mask.
He looks like me.
Not exactly, obviously. The specifics are different—his damage covers the lower half, mine the right side. Different causes, different patterns. Only the right side of my mouth is fucked up like his is, but his nose is untouched. So are his eyes, which are locked on the fireplace instead of meeting mine.
But the result is the same. A face that registers aswrongandinhumanin that primal reptile-brain way that no amount of logic can immediately override.
Orion looses his auburn hair from the ribbon tie. He drags a hand through it and it falls forward in a practiced way that obscures some of the scars. Then he just stands there, exposed, and waits in silence.
Jamie swallows.
I catch it. That single bob of his throat, quick and involuntary, before his expression settles back into something warm and steady and completely devoid of performance.
He doesn't plaster on a smile.
Doesn't avert his eyes.
Doesn't do the thing people do where they starethroughyou at the wall behind your head so they can claim they were looking at you while never actually seeing.
He isn't pretending like there's nothing to react to.
But the love in his eyes doesn't dim. It doesn't have to fight past anything to get there. It's there, burning bright, just like it was thirty seconds ago when the mask was still on. The same way it's been there every time I've watched them together.
Orion doesn’t see it. He isn’t looking at Jamie, or anywhere near him. His eyes are still fixed on the fireplace and the giant tiger dozing there.
I turn my head slightly.
Bells is still behind me, her back pressed against mine, her warmth radiating through my shirt. She's angled sideways now, her head turned toward Orion.
She's looking.
Not staring or gawking or pretending to not notice. She's just looking passively, her eyes roaming over Orion's face without locking onto anything specific. I can feel her heartbeat through our backs where they're pressed together, and it picks up slightly, just a tick. It’s the kind of increase that says she registered something disturbing.
But she isn't afraid of him.
She takes another bite of dick-shaped biscuit.
Crunch.
"Okay." Orion sets his own mask on the workbench and picks up the half-skull prosthetic. "Let 'e show you how this works."
He reaches for a second piece. It's a replica of my performance mask. Jamie must have cast it from the mold they already hadon file. The silver and black lacquer gleams under the workshop lights.
Orion holds both pieces up, one in each hand. The performance mask in his right, the half-skull in his left.
"The outer 'ask—" He raises the performance replica. "—is 'itted with a 'agnetic release. Here." His thumb traces the jawline. "And here." Temple. "There are 'agnets recessed into the structure. Watch."
He demonstrates, hooking two fingers under the jaw edge and pulling sharply toward him at a downward diagonal.
Snap.
The mask separates from the support cleanly. No fumbling, no sticking, no awkward moment where it catches and you have to wrestle it off. Just one crisp motion and it's in his hand, free.
"Whoe’er’s doing the un'asking needs to gra' it here." He taps the jaw edge. "The angle 'atters. Too high and the 'agnets resist. Too low and you'll 'reak the hinge. Fro' here—" He mimes the motion again. "Clean."
He sets the performance replica down and holds up the half-skull prosthetic. It's thin and floppy.
"This is the underlayer." He turns it over, showing me the interior. "'edical-grade 'rosthetic adhesi'e along the contact 'oints. 'orehead, cheek'one, jaw. It 'onds directly to the skin. Co’ers e’ery inch."