Mel remembers, through the haze of yuppified memories, thinking Michelangelo was a short, slightly deformed (how could she think that? That? About him) man with a pasty skin tone.
But she also remembers what she saw: that he was a turtle.
He turned back, and Mel has no idea whether or not he still loves her.
And yet... that was so much more important this morning. Now, it's merely a footnote.
"If you want," Mel says, but now she's crouching down, starting on her sneakers. Wet and raw fingers struggle with swollen damp laces, trying to loosen what're now quite tight knots. It doesn't occur to her just to snap them.
The trouble is? Mel's not in any fit state to be keeping up the psychic barriers right now. And her shirt is ripped to almost shreds.
The second his hand touches her shoulder - and there's the scar she brought back from hell, still weirdly silver - she flinches, from the cold of it, but even that's too late.
There it is, the expression on Katya's face as Mel kills her, sudden, violent flashes of the fight, the ascent through the building, pummeling Harth...
It's her fault, all of it. Her leaving, not being here for him, the day after that, not even thinking about him, she's nothing she did it all. She caused all this.
This is her fault for getting involved.
Ignoring her clothes again, her other hand reaches for his.
Her fingers don't fit with his. They don't interlock, she can't find a comfortable way of holding them.
So she settles for encircling her thumb and forefinger around his second finger and letting her other three rest on the outside of his hand.
" I know," she says, and her mouth's open to say more, but then there's too much to say, and it's all flooding out and over her. There's not even time to make them coherent now, just flashes. Harth. Katya. James. Steph. Mikey.
She pulls him to her even as she falls towards him, bawling out in great racking sobs of misery and guilt and just plain having to get it all out of her system.
Mel's tears mix indiscriminately with the water plummeting down on them from the shower, sending up billows of steam as it drenches her hair and her clothes, washing out the blood (mostly not hers) swirling down the drain. Resting her head against the now reassuring coolness of Mike's plastron, she begins to rock gently, to and fro, gasping for breath.
This she can handle, at least for now. The numbness has given way to pain, which she's cried out, and now, now she's just clutching herself to the man she loves, deliberately not wondering if he loves her back.
It's the first time she's ever had to wonder that, and she's not used to it.
When the tears just won't come anymore, she sits up straighter, dragging the back of her wrist against her nose and knuckling into her eyes.
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Mel remembers, through the haze of yuppified memories, thinking Michelangelo was a short, slightly deformed (how could she think that?
That? About
him) man with a pasty skin tone.
But she also remembers what she saw: that he was a turtle.
He turned back, and Mel has no idea whether or not he still loves her.
And yet... that was so much more important this morning. Now, it's merely a footnote.
She doesn't look round for him.
"Hey, Mikey."
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Mel's head drops down sharply, to look, and to discover that she is indeed wearing pants.
The blood is beginning to wash out now, brown trails spiraling down against the white.
"Yeah, guess I forgot."
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The second his hand touches her shoulder - and there's the scar she brought back from hell, still weirdly silver - she flinches, from the cold of it, but even that's too late.
There it is, the expression on Katya's face as Mel kills her, sudden, violent flashes of the fight, the ascent through the building, pummeling Harth...
...ashes flying off on the wind into the city.
And cold, cold, numbness about it all.
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Oh, Mike."
Mel covers a hand over his.
It's her fault, all of it. Her leaving, not being here for him, the day after that, not even thinking about him, she's nothing she did it all. She caused all this.
This is her fault for getting involved.
Ignoring her clothes again, her other hand reaches for his.
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So she settles for encircling her thumb and forefinger around his second finger and letting her other three rest on the outside of his hand.
"
I know," she says, and her mouth's open to say more, but then there's too much to say, and it's all flooding out and over her. There's not even time to make them coherent now, just flashes.
Harth. Katya. James. Steph. Mikey.
She pulls him to her even as she falls towards him, bawling out in great racking sobs of misery and guilt and just plain having to get it all out of her system.
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Hesgonehesgoneikilledhimhesgoneneverseehimagainhesgone.
But not even she can keep this up forever, subsiding slowly into choked sobs, then she just curls up in his arms, quietly weeping.
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It's the first time she's ever had to wonder that, and she's not used to it.
When the tears just won't come anymore, she sits up straighter, dragging the back of her wrist against her nose and knuckling into her eyes.
"Hey."
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