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Every plan is a tiny prayer
The trouble with thinking you're ready for things is that when they happen it almost always becomes quickly apparent that you're not. And then, in addition to the shock, you have to deal with the further shock of having been about as wrong about yourself as possible.
The first thing was that Eostre had been gone for longer than she should have been. He had stayed at the hut for a while, held the girls, tried not to pace, and then finally the pacing had won over and he had figured that as long as his legs were going to be moving they might as well take him in a specific direction. So, towards the Compound, asking one or two people in passing if they'd seen her.
The third, someone whose face was familiar but whose name he couldn't place, said yes. In the clinic.
It was at that point that he'd broken into a run.
Running is still painful. He wonders if it always will be, if this is just reality catching up with him. If maybe it's going to spread to other things. That's not even a maybe; he's sure now that it will, but he hadn't wanted it to be like this.
He grits his teeth, sprints through the door and down a hallway, ignoring the puzzled looks he's getting. The rest of the way to the clinic is a little bit of a haze, but suddenly he's standing in the doorway, panting, and she's there.
Not in a bed.
Looking down at a man who is.
And the look on her face is like a knife in his gut.
The first thing was that Eostre had been gone for longer than she should have been. He had stayed at the hut for a while, held the girls, tried not to pace, and then finally the pacing had won over and he had figured that as long as his legs were going to be moving they might as well take him in a specific direction. So, towards the Compound, asking one or two people in passing if they'd seen her.
The third, someone whose face was familiar but whose name he couldn't place, said yes. In the clinic.
It was at that point that he'd broken into a run.
Running is still painful. He wonders if it always will be, if this is just reality catching up with him. If maybe it's going to spread to other things. That's not even a maybe; he's sure now that it will, but he hadn't wanted it to be like this.
He grits his teeth, sprints through the door and down a hallway, ignoring the puzzled looks he's getting. The rest of the way to the clinic is a little bit of a haze, but suddenly he's standing in the doorway, panting, and she's there.
Not in a bed.
Looking down at a man who is.
And the look on her face is like a knife in his gut.
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"Does Ruth still have the girls?"
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"Yeah, they're... they're fine." He steps forward, but not close. Not yet. He feels like maybe he shouldn't even be here.
"I thought you were hurt."
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She ducked her head.
"I'm sorry."
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Except maybe he's got it all backwards anyway.
"It's okay," he says, and glances towards the bed again. What he can see... large. Powerfully built. But there's a feeling of fragility about him, like he's only half here.
"Who is he?" Part of him already knows.
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"That's Shadow," she said, quietly, looking into her face. "He was hanging on the tree. No spearwound, though. I hadn't gotten there yet."
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The war. Gods. Everything.
Shadow.
He steps forward, holding onto her hand because it's all he can do, looking down at the man's face. He looks a little like the entire world has had a go at him, but under that...
Under that he's beautiful. Quietly and deeply.
"He gonna be okay?" he asks softly.
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"He was last time," she said, leaning into Mike, her head against his chest. "But he died last time. We brought him back. Horus and me."
She closed her eyes for a moment.
"I think he'll be okay."
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He also wishes, so selfishly, that she hadn't answered it that way, that he'll be okay, because Mike doesn't want him to be okay. Mike wants him to go on and be dead or whatever, because when he wakes up... she'll be with him, and they're from the same world, and he's beautiful, and there's no way Mike can compete with that.
He doesn't think he'll be pushed away. Maybe just slip a rung or two down the ladder of her attention. Second. Or third, maybe. He can deal with that, can't he?
"Okay," he says, one arm curling around her waist, his eyes squeezed shut.
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She rubbed her nose against his chest, over his heartbeat. She wanted her babies. She wanted the man she loved, and the woman she loved too. She wanted to go to bed.
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She looked in his face, trying to find something and, either she gave up or she found it.
"Would you bring me them?" she said. "Later?"
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And maybe it goes on for a little longer than it should have.
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When he kisses her, she makes a soft sound and leans into him. Sometimes...sometimes, she just needs him, and it's hard to explain.
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"The last time he died, I bought him back," she said, quietly. "She didn't know what she was trying to say."
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"You'll take care of him."
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"I never thought he was coming here."
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"We don't need to talk about this now."
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Then, feeling like the biggest idiot to ever walk any version of Earth, "I love you."
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