Alan didn’t very much like the way Apollo said his name - honestly didn’t like Apollo even knowing his name - but that wasn’t going to change anything looking after Melpomene. And he didn’t like the way Apollo threatened to rain down pain and suffering on ‘everyone Aphrodite loved’. Marcella was included in that. These gods would never change, would never learn. They would always destroy innocent people because they could. You piece of fucking shite, he thought, glaring at the floor so he didn’t glare right at Apollo. You snaked-witted ill-bred devil.
“It’s okay,” he reassured the suffering muse beside him, trying once more to focus on her needs. “I’m still here. Apollo will get the bag.” He couldn’t stop himself from looking at the god with cold eyes, with an expression of yeah, fuck off and go get it, golden boy.
“Of course,” Apollo said, stroking his hand over Melpomene’s hair as he took in Alan’s cool look, and gave him a smile in return, not at all bothered by this animosity. He fetched the bag from the second bedroom, stepping (with another raised eyebrow) over the broken glass at the edge of the kitchen, and returned as Melpomene started screaming again.
The screaming made everything feel all the more serious. With the strap of the bag slung across his body he returned to her side, his hand on her rock hard belly and another curled around her shoulder. “Breathe into it, Melpomene,” he said gently. “Little breaths, blow it out. Your body knows what to do, you listen to it. Just breathe.”
Alan didn’t want to be glad that Apollo was there - fuck him - but he did seem to know much better what Melpomene needed to be doing than Alan did. He kind of hated Apollo for that as well, even though it was Alan’s own fault he’d stopped looking up labour things after breaking it off with Melpomene.
Now that Apollo was here, Alan didn’t know what his role was supposed to be though. All he could do was hold Melpomene’s hand.