Melpomene sat on the floor of Alan and Will’s shower, the hot water sluicing down over her, washing the last traces of the storm from her, but not the last traces of Will. The bites on her skin stung beneath the shower, and she ached between her legs, and her breasts hurt, so tender; they carried bruises so easily.
Under her hand, her belly cramped, muscles going hard, and she massaged the swelling beneath her ribs with the heel of one hand. More false labour, foreshocks for what the baby had in store for her in a few short weeks. Or real labour – wouldn’t that be perfect?
Outside the storm raged on, snow piling up in drifts across the city. The worst in years, they said. A fatal storm. She felt the same way. The worst in years and fatal. And her muscles tightened and tightened like he was warning her he was on his way. “I hear you,” she whispered down at him, and groaned in pain. She closed her eyes to see herself through, and leaned against the wall as a pillow, and sleep grabbed her hard and pulled her down.
It wasn’t till the shower started to lose its heat that she gasped herself awake, and shuddered, reaching up to slap the water off before it could get any worse. Almost immediately the cold air started creeping back in, praying on her wet flesh, and Melpomene struggled up from the bottom of the shower and wrapped herself in two of Alan’s towels. She was too tired to try and brave the storm again – though brave would not be the right word. Will was right, she couldn’t go back out there. The snow was turning heavily to sleet, it was some small hour past midnight and she wasn’t totally sure she wasn’t about to have a baby.
Here was her alternative: Alan’s bed. The bed she’d spent a lot of the last four months sleeping in, and almost every night of the last eleven weeks since Marian had been captured. Will’s bed might have even been the easier choice (and was certainly the warmer) but her heart wanted Alan’s... wanted the ache of it. Wanted a hollow final night curled up in his bed, wearing a long sleeved borrowed shirt and clean underwear she had stashed here, and another pair of leggings, and thick boot socks.
She let herself pretend, just for the night, that he was beside her. His bed smelled of him, equal parts comforting and painful, and she wasn't so tired that she didn't cry a bit, lying on her side with a pillow between her knees, a pillow he’d bought specifically so she could have something between her knees when she slept here. She wrapped her arms around his pillow, too, and pressed her face into it, let it soak up the stream of hot tears. Her stomach cramped again and she squeezed the pillow tight, but it was a little less intense this time. Maybe the world wasn’t quite ready for him after all.
Too tired to think anymore, too tired for sobs or rage or anything but a constant terrible ache, she closed her eyes, and spent a restless, heartbroken final night in her Alan’s bed.