A/N: Emotive, silent drabble. Naomi's POV. Set 3 months before "Twas the night before Christmas".
Also, you should all go review "Epiphany" because it's lonely without any reviews :(
It's raining again.
Par for the course for Portland during autumn.
You've always loved the rain.
The way it tappity-taps and pitter-patters on the windowpane and plays the shingles as if they were a giant xylophone is nature's greatest sedative.
Which is useful considering the sandman seems to be ever-eluding you tonight.
You roll over and squint your eyes against the red glare of your alarm clock on the nightstand.
11:47. Son of a bitch.
About three hours ago, you read Alyssa her story (the princess one, of course), pulled the covers up to her chin, and gave her a peck on the temple before crashing into your own bed. You were tired.
Could there be such thing as "too tired to fall asleep?"
Well there has to be if you're still awake at this godforsaken hour.
Your mind flips through the events of the day.
You fought with Little Guy.
You want him to commit, he doesn't know if he can.
You had him run a blood test on a woman.
She's pregnant.
You told him that blood belonged to one of your Jane Does lying in the morgue.
You couldn't tell him that it really belonged to you.
For the past week, the first ray of dawn would cue your stomach to churn as if it contained a wild hurricane, and you would clumsily leap from the tangle of sheets, eyes still bleary with sleep, and somehow writhe your way to the toilet, where you would slump over it as a combination of fire, ice, and pain wracked your body. You would then clean yourself up paint your face with lipstick, mascara, and a healthy dose of stoicism before heading out to tackle life.
But could you handle it now?
You run your finger over the still-fresh scar.
You don't know if your body can take supporting the new life.
You don't know if he will accept his baby.
You don't know if you can be a good mother.
So many what-ifs.
Well, the good mother part is somewhat answered.
God bless Alyssa, she prepared you well for this.
You feel bad though, Alyssa's your baby, the apple of your eye. Surely she wouldn't take being replaced too kindly?
No, she'd love the new arrival. She always loved you and that isn't changing.
If anyone loved you, it's her.
And now you have someone else to love.
Love.
A couple tears well up.
Damn hormones.
Being alone in this bed isn't helping.
But, as if on cue, your door squeaks open.
A little brown head peeps through, and big emerald eyes peer at you in the darkness.
She must have had another nightmare, as many children her age often do. Poor kid.
You sit up a bit and a concerned expression crosses your face, as if to say "What's wrong?"
Alyssa's gaze betrays no pain or fear. Rather, it mirrors your own feelings. Are you okay, Naomi?
You relax your posture, maintaining eye contact with your daughter. You wish you could pour your heart out to her, release the weights hanging on your mind, but it would all be lost on an eight-year-old.
It looks like you don't have to. With tacit understanding, she quietly pads across the room and crawls into your bed next to you. She clings to you, resting her cheek on the plain tank top you're wearing. Alyssa's eyes close as she begins to venture into dreamland.
Her silent gesture speaks more than words ever could.
She trusts you.
She knows that you need her.
She loves you.
You encircle her, holding her close to your heart, in more ways than one.
You kiss your little blessing goodnight on her forehead.
Because you are loved.
As your bedside clock displays midnight, her sweet warmth and the steady rain ferry you into slumber at last.