(June)
Late spring in Illinois means storms, frequently and with most ranging in severity from "moderate" to "Mother Nature on a warpath". And, by the looks of it, tonight was leaning more toward the latter end of the spectrum and it was probably going to get quite noisy before dawn. She checks and double checks to make sure the tornado alarm on their weather radio is primed, then she silently wishes Metatron and his ten-pin team good luck before calling it a night.
Unsurprisingly, Bethany, burdened with being a single mom for the better part of a decade, and Brad, burdened with a shitload of history and the memories of being both immortal and a solider for a fair portion of it, both wake up when the storm rolls in a few hours before dawn. She can't find it within her to be too upset, though, because it also leads to cuddling. Married life has its perks.
The storm increases in severity, winds kicking up and lightning getting more frequent. So far there are no sirens, though, so they fall into a light doze, listening to the rain as it pounds against the roof.
They pass maybe a quarter of an hour that way before she opens her eyes again, alerted by a new sound, so quiet it's almost imperceptible through the cacophony that thunders over their heads. She listens, and a moment later she hears it again and, even through the storm, she recognizes it for what it is – the quiet pad of bare feet on the hallway outside the bedroom door.
"I know it's just a storm and not the end of the world or anything," Illana says, clutching a care-worn and tattered doggy blanket to her chest, "but it's loud and there are some things God doesn't have any control over, like scary strong winds and tornadoes and getting hit by lightning."
As if to highlight her words, there is a bright flash followed almost instantaneously by a crash loud enough to rattle the whole house. Illana lets out a small "eep!" of distress and makes a flying leap onto the covers between them, trying very hard to hide beneath the pillows.
"So," a small, muffled voice asks from beneath several layers of fabric, "can I sleep with you tonight?"
Bethany lets out a small burst of air, not quite a laugh, and rubs a comforting hand across the lump of blankets and pillows where her daughter used to be. "Yeah, pumpkin, that'll be fine."
She shares a soft smile with Brad over the quivering pile of fabric that now separates them. Then they lie back down, curling close, Illana a spot of warmth between them.
...
When Bethany wakes up again a few hours later, the storm has passed. Watery light shines in through the window, the day young enough that it still has a rosy hue of sunrise. Next to her, both her bedmates still sleep, Brad's arms wrapped around Illana where the girl curls trustingly against his chest.
She didn't think it was possible to love either of them more, but once again fate and meddling deities seem determined to prove her wrong. In this instance, however she doesn't mind in the least.