Melpomene grunted, also too fucked to be very erudite, and pushed herself away from him. His bed was so low it wasn't possible to swing her legs out of bed and stand up, she had to grab onto her headboard and haul herself up, legs shaking a bit. Yeah, very regal. "I'm going to have a shower," she said, in case he thought she was going for the front door, and tried to... to hero her back into the warm.
Not that there was anything of the hero about him right now. Melpomene looked down at him for a second, as he passed out in front of her eyes.
Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy F. Scott Fitzgerald had written, once. All these boys were heroes, golden hearted men with clear eyes struggling to see in a world that was growing darker around them.
There was a thought to follow there but... she utterly ached with exhaustion. Later. Muse on the nature of the fucked up world later.
She dug her toes into her discarded leggings and picked them up, bending her leg backward so she could grab them without bending over, and left him, already snoring, so she could go and shower.