Universe: The Sunlands;
the Elemental SetsFlavor(s): garlic #25, "carried over the threshold"; vanilla #26, "anniversary/memorial", rocky road #19, "the breakfast table"
Extras/Toppings: Caramel (approx. 8 years from now)
Characters: Emma, Prometheus
Wordcount: 739
Rating: PG
Notes: Prometheus is
itcomesandgoes', who also prompted this combination with these characters, though I think he was hoping for something more uplifting.
Four in the morning, and the space in the bed next to her was empty.
That was okay, because it usually was. He was working a swing shift; he'd probably only just gotten home. So Emma pulled herself out of bed, wrapped a robe around the shift she'd been sleeping in (the house was cold -- she liked it cold, to sleep, and he hadn't been there to make it warmer anyway) and, pushing bits of hair out of her eyes, dragged herself down the stairs. Or, rather, stumbled down the stairs. She'd shower later --
The foyer was filled with flowers.
Emma turned toward the dining area, walked into it, found -- the table, too, covered with flowers. Prometheus was standing at the stove, making pancakes. Pancakes.
She raised an eyebrow, and unfortunately, he turned around to see it. He caught her not actually remembering.
It was their fifth wedding anniversary.
She'd had no idea. She'd lost track of it. She'd lost track of it and had none of the excuses of, say, her set-mate or her brother-in-law. She had no excuses at all except for being overfocused on work, for being cold and uncaring --
"You forgot." He said it clearly, plainly, stating a fact; the sadness was only in his eyes. Tears welled up in hers.
"I did."
"I sort of figured --"
"I didn't forget our anniversary existed, or what day it fell on, just what day today was --"
He turned away, back to the pancakes, and she knew why. She'd only recently figured it out; it was sometimes so hard for her to see past his strong front, to understand the emotions he hid inside. But she knew why now: he felt, rational or not, that she'd forgotten him.
He was much more needy than she'd ever thought he would be.
"Pete," she whispered, tender, reaching out an arm to touch his shoulder, lightly, fingertips barely applying pressure. He froze. "Pete."
"What." Cold. She nearly cried out.
"I --" m sorry died on her lips with je suis désolé, her first instinct. She was never primarily Francophone, but back at home with her mother and brother, French was how you expressed yourself if it was serious.
Prometheus didn't get it that way.
Emma blinked, for half a second, trying to remember the right words. Thankfully, they came to her easily: "Se latrevo."
His eyes widened, as if he'd been surprised she remembered. As if he'd been surprised she actually felt that way (and he could tell, really, how she felt -- and knew she felt guilty and despairing and scared that he might reject her, might be angrier, she didn't want to hurt him). As if he'd been sure this event was heralding the beginning of the end of their relationship and suddenly it had turned around.
Emma knew that if they split up, it would be her fault. That she wouldn't be enough for him. But she was determined to be.
They were supposed to have ten thousand years.
But all those thoughts were trapped in that single second, and in that single second he turned around and grasped her hand, the one that had been on his shoulder, pulled her to him. Whispered in her hair, "Agapi mou," which he had always called her, once she was grown and in college and their relationship became more seriously framed than it had begun, kissed her ear.
"I'm so sorry," she said, and the tears were flowing, then. "I know. I'm sorry. I love you -- the flowers are beautiful --"
Then he'd pressed her against the table, kissing her, and she was both taken aback and taken without any air at all, but she wouldn't have minded if the table wasn't pressed against her back. Almost instantly he noticed, pulled away just enough to whisper against her lips, "se thelo," and she couldn't remember what that meant but it was apparently extremely passionate --
The next thing he said was, "The food can wait."
She laughed, and before she knew it he'd lifted her up into his arms, finally able to do that as she didn't scream when her fused spine settled into his hands, laughing too. It seemed as if somehow, by remembering two words, she had fixed everything.
He spun her around, carried her upstairs, carried her into the bedroom.
The shower waited a while.
She was late for work.