A/N: many thanks once again to ziparumpazoo, who makes me think.
AO3 tags: Mild Hurt/Comfort, Menstrual Sex, Laughter During Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Mild Blood, Pancakes, Cuddling & Snuggling
The cramps set in without warning. It's only Vic's second period since the shooting and her body is still unpredictable. Unpredictable and really pissed off about it. Right now her insides are being crushed and ripped apart at the same time like some nightmare creature with serrated teeth has its jaw clamped around them.
Once it starts, the pain ratchets up fast with dizzying, nauseating intensity. She's doubled over, breathing shallowly while she scrounges for the aspirin Walt keeps as his single concession to proper medical care. She forces a couple down and begins pacing a path between the front door and the sink. Some animal instinct for motion drives her, as if her body believes she can somehow outrun it. The cabin's wooden floor is cool and smooth under her feet as she shuffles by the couch, around the kitchen table, and back again in a mindless way, unable to think past the pain.
It's enormous and relentless. The world shrinks until this is all there is: her body in a hunched shuffle back and forth, back and forth. Maybe this is what lions in captivity felt back before zoos were forced to give them decent lives. Maybe they paced in their cages, wearing off their fur on the metal bars, because some kind of agony had robbed them of everything else.
Clammy sweat breaks out over her skin, beading at her hairline. A few frustrated tears spill down her cheeks. Vic thought she'd left this kind of pain behind in her teens, but the pregnancy and then the sudden lack of it have fucked her over and left all of her a mess. Nothing works the way it should anymore. She hates it.
By the time Walt walks in the door, her pity party is horizontal and she's become one with the floor. The aspirin has taken the slightest edge off the pain and she's too damn tired to move anymore. Since his smile vanishes a second after he sees her lying there, she guesses she must look as hideous as she feels.
"Hey," she croaks.
"What's wrong?" he says, crouching down to her level. A little furrow of worry wrinkles his brow.
He lays his hand on her sweaty forehead and it's the best thing Vic's felt in hours. She closes her eyes with a sigh. "Got my period."
"Is it usually like this?"
"Just the last couple months."
The weight of meaning behind her words settles in the silence between them.
Walt trails his hand down her arm and laces their fingers together. "Why didn't you tell me?"
His voice is so gentle and so full of concern. It cradles her, wrapping her up in an anesthetic little bubble. Her grinding weariness from fighting the pain begins to ease into something softer; a dense cloud of sleepiness smothers the sharpest peaks.
"It's not a big deal," she mumbles through lips that feel thick and unwilling.
He doesn't say anything but Vic knows he's studying her, thinking through something the way that he does. When he gets up, her heavy eyelids refuse to lift and she finds herself fading in and out to the sounds of him moving around the cabin. It's like hearing music from a distant radio carried on the faintest thread of wind.
Then he's beside her again, with his warm hands and his warm voice. "Try this."
She blinks her eyes open to find him holding out a floppy plaid rectangle. It smells faintly of lavender. Bemused, she takes it and it's heavy, with a lumpy texture. A heat pack, her groggy mind supplies. The kind filled with buckwheat or something.
"Can you make it to the couch?" he says.
"It's too hot. And sticky." Christ, she's whining like a five-year-old, but there's a reason the floor is her new best friend. Leather's fine in winter when you're covered from head to toe; in summer you might as well be lying on plastic.
"Sit up a bit."
The complicated maneuver involves rolling her upper body forward and then pushing up with her arms to avoid using her abdominal muscles. Even so, the pain crescendoes. She folds herself over its center with the heat pack cradled against her belly, gasping.
Walt gets one arm around her back, the other under her drawn-up knees, and then she's airborne. It takes a second for her heavy head to catch up with the rest of her and protest. "I can walk."
"Uh huh."
That's definitely skepticism in his voice. But her cheek fits perfectly against his shoulder and she doesn't have the energy to argue. She's just so glad he's here. They're in the bedroom before it occurs to her that she's missing the opportunity to fully appreciate how hot it is that he can scoop her up and carry her around like this. Stupid uterus.
The sheets are a soft, cool heaven when he lays her down on them. Everything in her head grows fuzzier.
"How's that?"
"Mmm."
It's too much effort to open her eyes again, but she feels him move around to the other side of the bed and sit behind her. His fingers slide under the hem of her t-shirt and begin to press into the tense muscles in her lower back. A tiny squeak of surprise and relief sounds in her throat.
"Too hard?"
"'s good," she slurs.
He lets out a soft hum of acknowledgement. His strong hands knead steadily up her back and over her shoulders, lingering at the base of her neck and stretching up to her hairline. He works gently around her ears and under her jaw. Muscles she didn't even know were clenched suddenly relax.
Suspended between the blissful warmth of the heat pack and Walt's magical hands, her thoughts grow wispy as cirrus clouds in a pale winter sky. Pain still radiates through her body but she's rising high above it, weightless and floating. She watches from a distance as it shrinks to a blur and then a smudge, and then she's so far away from what hurts that even its shadow disappears from sight.
...
One of the bedside lamps is on when Vic opens her eyes. She blinks up at the yellow light it paints on the ceiling, disoriented by the unexpected passage of time. Now wedged under her butt, the lumpy heat pack feels like a rock. She shoves it to the floor as she rolls onto her side.
Walt's propped next to her with a book open on his lap. "Hey," he says, setting it aside without marking his place. He's changed from his work shirt into one of the soft t-shirts he wears at home. It's a very good look for him.
"How long was I out?"
"About an hour."
She squirms herself over until she can press her forehead against his side. It squashes her nose uncomfortably and she has to breathe through her mouth but the closeness makes her feel better.
Gentle fingers comb her messy hair off her face. "How're you doing?"
Whatever sorcery he'd worked on her earlier is wearing off. The cramps twisting up her insides now aren't quite as bad as before, but they're enough to make her wish she was still unconscious.
"Gross," she mutters.
He breathes a sound between a laugh and a sigh and rubs his hand between her shoulder blades. "Think you can eat something? It might help."
Vic groans. She wants to rip things out of her swollen belly not put more in there. But he's right. At the very least she needs to eat something so she can take more painkillers. "Okay."
It's a few minutes before she manages to force herself to get up and make the trek to the bathroom. A familiar scent greets her when she emerges, feeling slightly more human, and shuffles into the kitchen.
Walt stands at the stove, a spatula dangling casually from one hand.
"You're making me pancakes?"
He turns and the corner of his mouth tilts up. "Yep."
Blaming her sudden urge to cry on her screwed up hormones, she wraps her arms around his waist and leans against his back. "Thanks," she says, meaning it for more than just the pancakes. Her voice comes out a little wobbly, but it's muffled enough by the cotton of his shirt that he might not notice. "Sorry for being a pain in the ass."
"You're not a pain in the ass." He sets his free hand on top of hers and runs his thumb over her knuckles as he flips a pancake. "Go sit down so I can cook your bacon."
This time she does cry. Over bacon. Just a little but it's still completely ridiculous.
...
"This is the best I've felt all day," she says just before a yawn takes over her mouth.
Curled behind her on the bed, Walt presses a kiss to her shoulder. "Good."
They're watching random videos on YouTube with Vic providing running commentary for his entertainment. The pain has tapered off to a level manageable enough that she can think and breathe around it. Walt's hand is splayed over her belly like a living heat pack while the rest of him is a big person-shaped pillow at her back. Every now and then his thumb sweeps a few arcs across her skin in an absent-minded caress, making little bubbles of happiness burst inside her.
He laughs into her hair at something she's missed on-screen and it's impossible not to smile at the sound. She tips her head up to see his face just as he glances down. His eyes are the brightest blue, crinkled at the edges with amusement. For a long moment they lie there, looking at each other, smiling; then he leans in and brushes his lips sweetly against hers. Something within her releases a girly little sigh.
When he starts to pull away, she can't help following to make a bit more contact, to linger there a while. His arm around her tightens just slightly as she turns into him the tiniest amount. They begin trading slow, languid kisses and Vic tells herself it's all very innocent: just lips pressing and rubbing, a little buzz of friction that curls like smoke under her skin.
She runs one bare leg along the worn denim of his jeans, pushing her fingers up into the sleeves of his t-shirt to touch more of him. Walt trails his hand slowly along her thigh from her knee to where her shorts have ridden up at her hip, pulling her in closer against his body. She's warm all over but he's hotter; he's melting her like wax.
Their kisses grow deeper and more consuming. Her body feels liquid and needy, swollen and aching in a way that has nothing to do with pain. Somehow her laptop's made its way to the floor, she's on her back with her hands in his hair, and there is absolutely nothing chaste about what their mouths are doing to each other now. One of his thighs settles between hers and the pressure feels so good she tries to pull him the rest of the way on top of her.
He resists, holding himself up, all breathless and disheveled and sexy. "I don't want to hurt you."
She says "okay" and shakes her head at the same time because her brain is scrambled. Walt looks understandably confused. To clarify her position, Vic grabs the back of his neck and leans up enough to suck on his bottom lip until he gets it.
They've always been good at non-verbal communication.
He still keeps most of his weight off her, but presses down enough to make her eyes roll back in her head. Her hips begin a slinky, sinuous dance against all of his angles, while her hands skim as much of his hot skin as she can reach. Edgy and impatient, she licks at the sharp points of his teeth, bites not-so-gently on his tongue. He rocks the stiff ridge of his erection into her just right and sparks flare behind her closed eyelids. She arches into him with a moan that breaks off abruptly when he pulls his mouth from hers.
"Does it help if you have an orgasm?"
His lips are all wet and red and, fuck, why is he talking? She just wants to devour him. "Huh?"
A slightly strangled breath of laughter brushes over her chin. "Does it help with the pain?"
She lifts her eyes to his in surprise. "I don't know."
It's not as though she feels particularly sexy when she's on her period, and she's usually too sore and uncomfortable to even want to masturbate when the pain's at its worst.
"We could try."
Heat flashes through her. She wants to; she definitely wants to. But even a normal period tends to be awkward in a new relationship and she's several states away from normal right now.
Before she can figure out how to put it into words, Walt's touching her cheek gently with the backs of his fingers. "It's okay if you don't—"
"No, I do but, um..." She breathes out a sigh of defeat. Being honest is really going to ruin the mood but there's no way she can lie to him about this. Maybe if she says it fast it won't be so bad. "The miscarriage messed things up and my periods aren't back to normal yet. I have to use these giant postpartum pads that make me feel like I'm wearing a diaper, so there's, you know..."
He's looking down at her, puzzled.
"Blood everywhere?" she prompts, eyebrows raised.
One of his big smiles breaks across his face. "That's all?"
"Well... yeah."
"You know it washes off, don't you?"
She whacks his shoulder, feeling her cheeks redden. "Shut up."
He bends his head, chuckling as he kisses her neck.
"I'm so glad this is amusing for you."
Uncomfortably vulnerable, her tone has more than a hint of sting. It's enough to make him lift his head and meet her eyes. Whatever he sees there sobers his expression.
"I'm sorry." He drops a soft kiss on her lips. "I don't care about that." His second kiss lasts a bit longer. "I just want you to feel better." A third kiss, and this one goes on for a while.
It's difficult to remember she's embarrassed when his tongue's sliding against hers, filling her head with helium. She forgets sometimes that he was married. Not the fact of it, but what it means that he lived with his wife for nearly thirty years, that he raised a daughter who's grown. In a way all of this is more familiar to him than it is to Vic herself.
"Um, okay," she tells him, feeling inexplicably nervous and giddy.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Walt rubs her nose with his, making her laugh and releasing the ball of tension in the pit of her stomach. He stretches out alongside her, propped on one elbow, but he doesn't go straight for her pants. Instead he slips his other hand under her t-shirt and smoothes it from her waist up to her sternum. His eyes never leave hers as he spreads his fingers wide and begins to stroke the underside of her breast lightly with his thumb. Vic watches him watching her; she feels her pulse beating hard in her temples, her throat, even the tips of her fingers. Her nipples are drawn so tight that the slightest brush of his wrist makes her gasp.
"Are you sore?" he asks, still stroking, stroking.
"Um..." He leans down to give her bottom lip a delicate bite before nuzzling at her ear. She's taking quick, shallow breaths, her neck arched for his mouth, her back arched for his hand. What was the question? "Sort of."
And god he's so gentle it makes her ache, makes her feel a little frantic as his whole hand finally covers her breast. She grabs at his shoulder and shoves her other hand under his t-shirt to grip his back because it really feels like she needs to hold on to something right now. Her legs move restlessly against the sheet until he hooks one of his thighs over hers to keep her still. Then the warm weight of his hand gives way to the hot cavern of his mouth and she can't think straight; she can't think at all.
When he lifts his head she attacks him, gripping his jaw to hold him close enough to kiss. It's filthy and wet, all tongue with no finesse, and he bucks against her thigh before yanking at the waistband of her shorts. She shoves at them one-handed, trying to get them off without having to take her mouth from his. With some wriggling they manage it together and then his fingers are slipping into her underwear.
Even though he's being so, so careful, she flinches a little when he touches her.
His whole body stills. "No?"
But the discomfort has already passed and she rolls her hips up against his hand. "Don't stop."
Watching her intently, he runs a single finger slowly along the edges of her labia. Somehow his touch is both soothing and arousing at the same time. The sensation is different from what she's used to: duller, at first, like she's a little bit numb. But with every stroke the numbness wanes until a deep hunger is gnawing at her.
She's flushed and throbbing all over. Walt is hard against her thigh. His dark eyes never waver and his pulse beats fast in the hollow of his throat.
He really doesn't care, she realizes. He is absolutely and completely into this. She lets her legs fall farther open so his finger can slip lower. His knuckle grazes her clitoris and both of them moan at the contact. A second later they're laughing, giggling like kids at themselves and each other. It's so wonderful and silly that Vic has to capture his laughing mouth with her own. The heat of his body pours into hers.
Gradually, the tiny movements of his finger gain pressure and speed, driving a low sound up into her throat. She pushes her head back hard into the pillow and digs her nails into his skin. He's barely touching her, really, just two fingers spreading her open and a third pulling and releasing the hood of her clit, but she feels as if all the liquid inside her is vibrating at the same frequency. Her whole body strains toward the perfect pitch.
She comes on a high, clear note resounding into silence.
Her lips are dry. That's Vic's first thought when she regains cognitive function. She licks them and swallows, clears her throat, then opens her eyes. Walt's hand is resting lightly on her belly and his thumb is tracing more of those slow arcs on her skin. He's wearing the soft smile he always gets after she comes, like her orgasms make him happy. They make her happy, too. And so does he. He just makes her so damn happy.
"Holy shit," she says.
As reviews go, It's not exactly eloquent, but it's certainly heartfelt.
His smile deepens into a grin as he lays his head down next to hers.
With her post-orgasmic euphoria slowly fading into something quieter, Vic studies his face. It's a face she knows so well: all its contours and textures, all its expressions. He's so beautiful to her, this man. "You're always taking care of everyone," she murmurs, threading her fingers through his hair and drawing him close.
Her body is loose and mellow from orgasm but Walt's is wound tight as a steel cable. Some of his urgency begins to seep through her satisfied haze as they kiss. Soon he's back on top of her, heavy and solid, letting her take more of his weight than before. It revs her back up with scorching speed, like somebody's jammed a foot on the gas. It feels delicious. He feels delicious.
She works her hand between them to cup his dick through his jeans and he groans. "Do you want to?"
"God, yes," he pants, pushing into her grip. "Are you sure?"
In answer she gives him a squeeze. His mouth hangs open for a moment before he brings it down hard again on hers.
It's only when he rolls off her that Vic notices his red-smeared fingers. Looking down, she finds bright streaks left on her belly where his hand had been. She sits up quickly and swings her legs to the floor, unsettled without knowing why. It's not as if she has a problem with blood in general, or her period in particular. Not that she's ever been a big fan, but it's just part of life. Now, all of a sudden, it's freaking her out.
She says something about the bathroom and is in there with the door shut before she's fully processed her own intentions. The mirror over the sink is small and positioned at a height for ridiculously tall people so she's only visible from the chin up. Her hair's a mess, her lips are swollen and puffy, and her skin is flushed a blotchy pink. She wonders what Walt sees when he looks at her, what makes him want her like this.
Confusion and fear and a myriad of other emotions are spinning a whirlwind in her chest. She cleans herself up as much as she can, although she's seen horror movies that weren't as gory as what's going on in her underwear. It would be funny if she wasn't feeling so off-kilter, if her heart wasn't pounding so hard. She's been on this hormone roller coaster for too long and she wants to get the fuck off already.
It's just all of it: the shooting, and the baby, and Walt knowing everything, being there for everything; it's still hard to sort out in her head how it fits together with what they are now. And it scares her sometimes how many of the ugly places inside her he's seen. She's afraid that one day those places will be the only things he can see when he looks at her. Vic the Holy Terror. Because in the end that's all she is.
And it makes her so angry at herself, feeling this way. It isn't fair to lump Walt in with all the other men she's known. He's different.
He's different, even if she's still the same.
Vic jerks the cold tap hard and shoves her hands under the flow of water, something she's learned helps calm her down. This, she tells herself silently in the mirror, is why you need to stop getting stuck in your head.
After counting to thirty slowly, she dries her hands and takes a deep breath. Maybe sex isn't the best idea right now. Walt will understand that she's changed her mind. Given how long she's been in here, he's probably already figured it out. It's amazing to her how well he gets it — the way this shit fucks you up — and his incredible patience with her flip-flopping emotions. The way he's always there for the hard landings.
Walking back into the bedroom, she finds him in just his jeans. He's washed his hands, too, and there's a dark blue towel lying across the bed. Why does he have to be so damn considerate all the time?
Feeling awkward and very small, Vic clears her throat and scratches at a bite on the back of one leg with her other foot. "I, um," is all she gets out before he's pulling her to him and wrapping her in his arms.
It's perfect.
Despite the hard-on she can feel pressing against her, the embrace isn't sexual at all. There's nothing here but comfort and reassurance and care. Her throat locks up as her hands clutch at him. She's not crying but she does seem to be shaking a little, which is weird. Walt rocks them gently from side to side and she forces herself to relax into it, turning her face against his neck to get even closer. She holds on to him and lets herself stop thinking, lets herself just be. She can do it now because he's here; he's here and she's safe.
The night chorus of the world beyond the bedroom sings through the open windows. Funny that she hasn't heard it all this time. She curls her toes against the wood under her feet and listens to the steady thump of Walt's heart beneath her cheek. Her hands explore the familiar planes of his shoulders and back; they dip into the furrow of his spine. Concentrating on the warmth of his body and the places where they touch, Vic anchors herself and slowly begins to settle all her jumbled pieces.
"How about we just go to sleep?" he asks after a span of drowsy calm.
Ten minutes ago she would have said yes. Now, though, she's had enough of feeling irrational and bruised by the high-speed spin cycle of her emotions. Walt is alive and so is she; they're alive together. It's not too much to ask that she get to enjoy it. So, no. They're not going to sleep yet.
Rather than giving him an answer in words, she opens her mouth against his throat and sucks very lightly. He makes a sound that's mostly air. She licks at the damp spot she's made on his skin, smiling as his fingers tighten their grip, then scrapes her teeth gently over his Adam's apple.
"Vic," he begins, but she cuts him off by stepping back and stripping her t-shirt over her head.
His eyes immediately dart down to her breasts like he can't help himself. There's always this moment when he looks a little stupefied: as if he's never seen a pair of tits before, as if he hasn't had his hands and mouth all over hers. A funny thrill that's part excitement and part affection winds down her spine. Being able to reduce this thoughtful, intelligent man to a gawky teenage boy just by taking off her shirt makes her feel powerful and tender all at once.
She steps into him again and now there's no hesitation. The hair on his chest rasps at her nipples in a shivery way. Desire like a head rush swamps her, so dizzying that if Walt wasn't holding her up she might just fall down. He's got one hand cradling the back of her head and the other on her ass to pull her onto her toes. They're so big, his hands, and having them on her body seems to flip some primal switch inside her every time.
She's trying to fumble his jeans open without having to stop kissing him, but he's not making it easy. And apparently these are trick jeans because they're impossible to undo. Finally she breaks away so she can see what the hell she's doing and for the second time that day she finds herself airborne. This time he drops her on the bed, right on the top of the towel. Vic has to give him credit for his aim.
"Nice move," she laughs, leaning back on her elbows.
He winks. Then his hands are working at his fly and she stops laughing because this is serious. Walt never makes a show of getting undressed, not even as a joke; he never even draws it out. Maybe that's why it gets her going the way it does: dries her mouth and makes her skin feel too tight. The efficient, natural movements are sexy because they're not intended to be. And the view when he's finished is spectacular.
It gets even better when he crawls on his hands and knees over the bed until he's hovering above her. She pushes up enough to reach his lips and then lures him in with her tongue. He follows willingly but breaks away to kiss a path over her chin and down her neck. His hot breath paints the center of her chest as he licks a stripe up her breastbone. Her hands dive into his hair when he begins nibbling his way up the slope of one breast and he distracts her so well with his soft wet mouth that she can't even feel self-conscious as he skims her underwear down her legs.
Vic sets her feet on the backs of his thighs to angle her hips, opening herself even more. They're not quite lined up when his cock slides against her but it still feels fantastic. She rolls her hips and kisses him, swallowing his moan. They spend a minute or two grinding together in a slippery, imprecise rhythm before she reaches down to grab his ass and squeeze.
He takes the hint.
Her eyes flutter closed as he slowly eases inside her. Like before, it feels different in a way she can't explain.
For a few heartbeats they lie still, breathing together in quick, shallow bursts. Walt brushes the tips of his fingers across her temple with the lightest touch and she opens her eyes. "Okay?" he asks in a rough voice.
"Yeah."
She wraps her legs high around his torso to get him even deeper. He drops his head down next to hers, pressing his lips a little sloppily to the corner of her mouth and then her cheek. His exhale is hot against her neck as he begins to move.
"Oh," she breathes, overtaken by sensation.
They do this well together. In motion, their bodies speak with an eloquence their voices can't always achieve. It's overwhelming — a wild kaleidoscope of feelings she's never experienced with anyone else — but when Walt's inside her there's nothing hidden and nothing held back.
He starts to reach down between them and Vic knows he's going for her clit. Instead she takes his hand and twines their fingers together, bringing them to rest on the pillow next to her head. He pushes up on both elbows to look down at her and the intense concentration on his face reveals how much he's holding himself back. She almost rolls her eyes. His stubborn commitment to making her come is sweet but misplaced sometimes.
This is everything she wants tonight.
So when he says her name with a little frown, she doesn't bother arguing. She just uses his shoulder to pull herself up enough to shove her tongue in his mouth and stop him from talking more. Then she clenches down around him tight.
The hottest sound erupts from his throat.
Walt rears back, eyes wild, as she does it again. God, it feels so good, like firm pressure on an aching muscle, a deep unwinding. Vic keeps going, finding her own rhythm to match him until his movements grow choppier, erratic. Then she lets her feet drop down to the mattress and pushes up to meet his thrusts, tightening around him one more time.
His mouth goes slack and his eyes lose focus. The taut lines of his face seem to sharpen as his breath catches, then his lungs empty all in a rush as he comes.
"Oh my god," he moans, sounding wrecked, as his chest heaves against hers.
She holds him, kissing whatever skin she can find. Pleasant little shocks and tingles still spark inside her as his dick softens. She can't stop smiling.
Walt finally rouses himself to plant a slightly off-target kiss on her lips before slumping bonelessly on his side. She brushes the hair back from his forehead, letting her fingers play in the thick strands. He lets out what is, in her opinion, an adorable little sound of contentment.
Now that they've separated, their mingled scents rise in the air between them. They smell like sweat and sex and the metallic tang of blood. Vic cranes her neck to take in the state of both their bodies. From groin to thighs Walt is a mess. She's even worse.
"Jesus. We're really disgusting."
He snorts into his pillow and mumbles something. All she can make out is "shower" but she gets the gist. Still, she's not sure it's going to happen for him any time soon. He looks thoroughly wiped out. His breath is already slow and even; he's already halfway asleep.
"Poor exhausted sheriff," she murmurs affectionately and doesn't even get a twitch in response.
Her thighs are starting to stick together, so she shifts position and lets her hand fall away from his hair. A slight frown flickers across his face, like he misses her touch.
Some huge, impossible thing happens inside her chest.
Vic's never been a hearts-and-flowers kind of girl. She's never wanted a guy who checks in twelve times a day, or hangs all over her, or says "I love you" every five minutes until the meaning disappears. It's these small moments that undo her, that make her feel crowded with too much emotion she can't contain.
"Walt?" she whispers, studying his face. "Are you still awake?" Her hand settles gently on his hip to travel slowly down his thigh as far as she can reach.
Nothing.
She bites her lip for a second then leans her head closer to his. "I love you. I am so crazy in love with you. This is it for me, you know? You're it. And it freaks me out sometimes because I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. I just know that whatever it is, I'm glad it's with you."
A cool breeze stirs the curtains, bringing with it the smell of sage. Vic pulls the sheet over them both and lies down again. In a few minutes she'll wake him so they can clean themselves up before going to bed for real. But for now she just watches him sleeping, with her heart so full that at any moment it might spill.
...
What's wrong with taking him in
the way you would a galaxy
on a moonless night, this
pattern you have traveled by
dipping its cup
and spilling light.
Sage Cohen, What's Wrong With
[END]
notes: this began as three paragraphs and a note that said "okay sure period sex whatever." then it grew into this monstrosity, which i have been calling 'the hell beast fic.' in my own personal writering canon (which is apparently a thing i now have?) it takes place between 'hot knife' and 'a profane little song'.