"Now, now Becca. No time for tears."
Her mother's admonishment reverberates in her mind. Over and over the words come to her as she wills her emotions into check. Alone in the Senate for the first time, Becca stares at the chair her mother's death has left vacant. The hereditary seat would go to her, the far more stable choice than her only surviving relative, her cousin Ellery Thorn, a V-2 soldier who handled problems with her fists long before her words. Becca, being a scientist like her mother, would continue Portia's work. Vega was young, and would need proper medical care. Like her mother before her, she could see to that.
The ache in her chest would not leave her be. The emotional wound festered as it had for days. Her mother had burned on the pyre, ashes scattered in the gardens of their home. Portia Thorn had been put to rest. Unfortunately, Becca was unable to let go. The breath she took shook, eyes pricking, vision blurring with tears.
"Now, now Becca. No time for tears."
She blinked quickly, the banner behind the chair coming back into focus. It was so unfair that her mother would survive a brutal war, and help create a safe haven, only to succumb to illness months after Vega begun to stabilize.
Illness, the word slid through her mind on a hiss of red-hot anger. Portia got sick. And then got sicker. Of all people, they should have realized the severity. But they didn't. Then, it was too late.
Despite the fact that her teeth were clamped together, a low keening sound escaped her lips. The grief clawed its way to the surface, each breath she took felt like swallowing sand, tiny granules cutting into the soft tissue. She hugged herself, trying to instill some semblance of comfort. In this time of need, she had no one to turn to. The family and friends she'd once held dear were all dead. She had maintained a cool distance from everyone, sick to death of watching flames engulf those she loved. Her breath shuddered, fingernails dug into the flesh of her arms.
"Now, now Becca. No time for tears."
They slid down her cheeks, hot trails of grief, and shame, and longing. She collapsed to her knees, her shoulders shaking with her sobs. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to smother her cries before the ever-present soldiers outside of the Senate heard her. She couldn't appear weak, not at a time like this, not when by the end of the day General Riesen would announce her as Consul.
The movement caught in her peripheral vision a moment before the form lowered beside her. She jumped, the surprise choking the life out of her cries. Silence filled the room as she stared. Michael. In the streets of Vega, she had walked by him on a few occasions. Like everyone else, she was quick to avert her eyes and kept quiet in respect for his desire for privacy and solitude, and kept her hands in plain view, lest he suspect she had a weapon. Never had she taken such a long study of his face; his dark hair kept short, neat and partially pushed to the side, angular cheekbones and handsome plains, eyes she'd once assumed brown but now knew they were a dark blue, and the lips on the angel appeared to have been created for sin.
Embarrassed by her staring, she quickly averted her gaze to the ground. "My apologies, Micha-" Her eyes widened, voice broke, nerve lost. Thinking of him as Michael was one thing, calling the archangel as such, like she had the right, was another. Fearfully, she looked up at him from under her lashes, switching to the more formal honorific. "Archangel."
His dark eyes continued to assess her, and she found herself frozen under his scrutiny. Realizing belatedly how she must look, sobbing on her knees in the Senate, eyes red, cheeks tearstained. She managed to bite down on her lower lip to stop its pathetic quivering. After a full minute, his posture, which mimicked hers, relaxed. The hardness in his eyes eased into what she believed to be sympathy. Slow and deliberate, he raised his hands, cupping her face and brushing away her tears with his thumbs.
"My condolences." The gentle rumble of his voice held both empathy and permission.
Leaning into his comforting touch, she wept. Before long, she found herself in his embrace. Strong arms wrapped around her, and in turn, she held to him, her hands clenched in his jacket. Her sorrow, finally permitted to be released, ran its course.
"Now, now Becca. No time for tears."
With her eyes closed, she could almost imagine her mother sitting in the chair, ready to work with the other members of Senate. No time for tears, she thought, sniffling.
Michael eased back, assessing her face once again. "The Senate meeting begins soon," he said slowly, brushing another tear from her cheek.
Once again, she sniffled, and quickly wiped her own face with both hands. "I apologise," she said quietly, hoping the low volume might mask any breaks in her voice. "I'm embarrassed for you to have found me like this."
He tipped his head, just slightly, like he'd heard something he didn't quite understand. "You are human." The way he said it didn't sound like the disapproval she expected, but rather simply a fact. "You lost your mother. You are grieving." As he listed the facts, she realized that despite being this impossibly powerful creature, he understood.
Her lip quivered, and she bit down until she was certain she had control. "Thank you, Archangel."
"Michael," he said.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Michael." His lips curved just slightly on the one side, and she finally understood the romance novels and their butterflies. He stood, and offered her his hand. When she took it, she noted that his palm was warm, rougher than she expected, strong in its grip as he pulled her back to her feet. "Thank you," she said. She wiped at her face again. "I need to look presentable before the Senate begins." She glanced at the door, and he nodded.
Down the hall, in the bathroom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The redness around her eyes had gone down, and with a little help from her make-up bag she managed to make herself look like her typical, competent self. Recalling Michael's arms around her, Becca felt more confident in her ability to return to Senate, accept both the position as head of her house, and the certain second round of condolences from the other families.
"Now, now Becca. No time for tears."
Chin up, eyes clear, she nodded to her reflection. "No time for tears," she whispered to herself, locking the grief for her mother away, and holding tight to the olive branch Michael had extended.