WHO: Melpomene, Tragos and Apollo WHEN: Wednesday morning, straight after they leave Will WHERE: Apollo's penthouse WHAT: After the storm WARNINGS: None
Outside a little snow stills falls, and Melpomene grips onto Tragos’ arm a little tighter than the soles of her boots grip onto the abused and dirty snow. He’s parked illegally close, but despite all the hurt and emotion she, Will and Tragos had packed into the last few minutes, in truth it only had been minutes, and the car is unticketed, though no longer warm.
Tragos slides the key into the ignition and the heat comes back on, but before he can start the engine itself, Melpomene is reaching for his hand. She turns it back and forth in the morning light, not because she is expecting any damage, but because she wants to inspect the fist that he raised and wielded in her honour.
It is a good feeling. In the utter turmoil of the loss of Alan’s love, it’s a feeling that calls out to her like a lighthouse. She presses her lips against the back of Tragos’ hand and her canny eyes don’t miss the reaction she has on him, though he tries to keep it beneath the surface.
“Thank you for that,” she murmurs, raising her eyes to his though her mouth barely leaves his skin.
Tragos swallows hard. “I’d punch anyone for you.”
"I know," she assures him. Tragos is forever on her side, and she loves him for it.
Clings to him for it, in Alan's wake.
More than any other lover she’d had in an age, Alan had been on her side. He knew (he knows) who she is and he knew (he knows) what she is afraid of, he whispered and sang worship to her and made her feel her name would never be forgotten so long as it kept falling from his lips. It was only Alan she set down her pride for, something she'd done for no one else.
And it still hadn't been enough.
"What else can I do?" Tragos asks, his eyes moving over her. Her hair is bound back in a braid, still damp in the middle from her shower, dark tendrils framing her face. Decorating her neck and shoulders are marks from Will Scarlet’s mouth, and Tragos clenches his free hand tighter, wishing he'd hit Will even harder. "Do you want me to go back and-"
Melpomene’s spine is stiff (and it aches; her back aches and her hips ache and her legs age – but her back is straight.) "No, no going back," she has decided. "We're moving forward. Come," she releases his hand, and into his phone she programs an address in Manhattan, sets the phone on its stand on the dash. "Quickly. Let's not give Ares any more reason to be angry at me for borrowing you. Oh don't worry," she says at the tense look that crosses Tragos' face. "I'll have you back soon. And I can handle an angry Ares."
One thing to be said for Ares; his emotions, when he gives into them, match hers in depth, in destruction.
Tragos takes in the ferocity and the focus in her eyes, then starts the car and pulls out onto the road. He’s seen, more than once, the way she handles Ares. He doesn't want it to come to that. As much as he’s loathe to leave her, the sooner he can get back to the gym the better, for everyone involved. If he is late for training this afternoon... It’s not worth thinking about. He won’t be late.
Melpomene’s eyes stay sharp as she watches the frozen city, for a short time. Through the window the city is coming back to life the morning after the storm, the gutters overflowing with melt and floating grey icebergs of slush… Her focus fades… Is Alan already in Arizona, or still on the road? Is it warm there, or is he feeling the winter as hard as she is? If he coming face to face with the Sheriff after building up to it for so long? Was he thinking about her?
Will he try to lose himself in someone else? The thought pulverises her, and she turns back to Tragos, to soak up that look again.
Focus! She has to focus. Forward, not back. She smiles ferociously at him and he grins in return, not sure what it's about, but her transmittable energy is sparking his own.
"So where we going then?" he asks.
"Someplace where you'd be better waiting in the car," she reaches out to touch the spot on his neck at the corner of his jawbone. "I don't want to see anyone holding a gun to your throat ever again."
Aah shit. The grin wavers. He doesn’t want to question her... but the question crawls from his throat anyway. "Why are you going there? To - him?"
Melpomene flattens her palm on the side of his throat, her fingers curling around the back of his neck. "For you, Tragos."
For Tragos, and for her unborn son.
According to the pictures he posted on his Insta story last night, Apollo is here. Melpomene hammers on the door of his penthouse, until the door opens and then she’s in, her fingers poking his chest as she marches him backwards. "We have a lot to talk about, Musagetes," she informs him. "I have lost so much because of you, and I refuse to lose more."
She’s not who Apollo expects to see this hour of the day; Melpomene is not a morning creature. But after their last meeting - their reunion that was barely a reunion at all - he must admit to knowin something like this was coming.
Maybe not quite like this. Apollo closes his hands around her shoulders to stop her marching him straight into a wall. "Slow down, 'mene - what have you lost?"
"Alan. Because of the stunt you pulled with Marcie. And it's Melpomene," she adds nastily. "I stood by you, and because of that, he left. DON'T-" she lifts her finger as Apollo opens his mouth. "Don't you say ONE WORD against Alan, don't you cause him one BIT of harm. No curses, no pain, no sideways glances, no NOTHING. Understand?"
Apollo understands Melpomene needs to sit down and have a calming tea of something, that's what Apollo understands.
He’s also getting a little sick of goddesses ordering him around, but if he was about to start a defiant rebellion, it wouldn’t be against a pregnant and furious Melpomene (not after she's chosen him over Alan - an act of loyalty he is not ignoring.)
"Alright," he says, careful of her jagged edges. "I'll leave him alone."
Melpomene's eyes narrow as she scans his face, but she accepts him at his word and moves on. Pushing his grip off her shoulders, she holds out one of her hands, palms up. "Good. Next, give me my knife back."
Now it’s Apollo's turn to grow a little darker. “Oh really?” he asks. There’s a sharpness to his smile. A knowing look in his eyes. “Going to give it back to Tragos, are you?”
"It is my knife," she snarls. "And you will return it to me. Now, Apollo."
For a long moment he looks at her, weighing up what he knows, what he guesses, and most importantly: what he wants. He wants Melpomene on side, he’s not super feeling like the favourite son at the moment, and he misses it. Alienating another Muse would be devastating. "If you insist," he agrees, and the look in Melpomene's eyes confirms that she very much does insist.
Apollo starts to move toward the drawer he'd put the knife. The gun that he’d taken from Tragos he'd chucked, but the knife was made by one of his Muses and not something he could ever throw away. Besides, there was something oddly powerful about owning the knife that killed you, and from time to time Apollo had taken it out and played with it, caught somewhere between daydream and prophecy.
“Why me?” he asks, pausing from fishing through the drawer to fish for a little ego boots. “You were so in love with Alan. Clio would never choose me over her new carpenter."
"I'm not Clio," Melpomene growls, and keeps her correction I'm still so in love with Alan to herself. "I'm having a baby, Apollo," she says, and the fire in her voice makes him turn to face her again. "On my own. I will not cut you out of my life, out of his life, for the sake of a mortal. My decision isn't for me, it's for him."
Oh. Well. Apollo could be a little offended by that, if it wasn’t for the sake of a baby. He loves kids, he's been so hurt by Clio's reluctance to let him get to know Ella, and a devilish little part of him can’t wait to help raise Ares' son into someone that'll really get under Ares' skin.
He steps toward her and kissed her forehead, his hand on her damp braid at the back of her neck. "Of course I'll be part of his life," he promises, and the gesture nearly undoes her. For a moment, she steps into him, and her forehead rests against his chest. For a moment all she wants are Apollo's arms around her while she bursts into tears, while she screams.
But she is done with crying. She has not lost her screams, but she is done with crying. "The knife, Apollo."
Apollo hesitates, just a moment more… "Whatever happens with this knife-"
"Spare me," Melpomene cuts him off, and snatches it out of his hand. "Tragos is not going to kill you with it. And you are not going to kill him. He is mine, Apollo. You will not think about him as if he is one of Ares' men and you will not think about him as if he is Marcie's lover, he is mine. If you love me, do not touch him."
Apollo says nothing for a moment, and then Apollo, against all expectations, laughs. “Aaah Melpomene,” he says, cupping her face in his warm hands. “I can absolutely and utterly promise you that.”
Maybe Melpomene should question this, should question why a promise to leave the boy who buried him alone comes easier than a promise to afford the same safety to Alan... but all she sees is someone else, someone powerful who loves her, who’s always loved her, swearing to be on her side.