#m3gahet

Truthfully, Devon hadn't known better. He still probably should have thrown out the raw meat in the fridge once it had started to spoil, but he had he known how Abigail would react upon its discovery, he wouldn't have been so careless. It wasn't even that old, just enough for the smell to kick in. But that was all that was needed.

As the acrid, almost ammonia-like scent of rotting flesh hit Abigail's nose, she threw a hand over her mouth and nose, desperate to block it out. Her mind filled in the gaps in her sight, watching non existent maggots curl in and out of the meat. She doubled back from the fridge, eyes twisted shut in fear and disgust, curling in on herself.

She burned. She felt her tattoos burn. No, not her tattoos. She didn't have tattoos, she had a gaping, poorly-stitched together wound in her back and exiting out her front. The bright overhead lights stung her retinas, so used to squinting in the dark. She couldn't breathe.

The weight of the iron collar around her neck, chaining her to the ground, wasn't actually there. But the mental weight kept her locked in place regardless.

"Is everything okay in there?" came a voice. It was familiar, it was warm, but Abigail didn't trust any illusions of trust right now. She looked up, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from, trying to parse through the dank, dark room her brain told her she was at and the brightness that actually looked into her eyes.

She caught sight of a knife handle. Desperate for a means to defend herself, she grabbed hold of it, pointing it outward at the approaching person. "Don't come any closer!" she demanded. Her voice came off weak and hoarse, but she screamed out as best she could regardless.

"Abi?" The voice was far too gentle. It was confused, even. This wasn't the voice of the mindless revengencers coming to torment her, this wasn't the voice of Magnus coming to mock her or deride her for her involvement in the band.

She knew this voice. Devon?

"Abi, it's me, put the knife down."

No, how was Devon here? Had Magnus gotten to him too? She shook her head. "No no, I need it. I didn't have it at the funeral, I need it."

"It's okay. Abigail, you're home. No one's here to hurt ya. Gimme the knife."

Could it be true? It would explain the brightness everywhere. She became cognizant of her own breathing, shallowly wheezing to try to remain upright. She dropped the knife on the ground, close enough that she could still grab it in case this all turned out to be a cruel trick.

"Okay. Okay." She felt strong hands press against her shoulder and her waist. She was lifted just a bit into the air, and though she prepared for the sudden jerk of the chain to catch around her throat and bring her crashing back to earth, it never came.

And it was the never coming that made her shift, just so slightly, back to the now. Her brain clouded over, and she looked at Devon. She blinked, rubbing her head. "Devon...?"

"Yea. Yea, baby, it's me."

She had lost control. She couldn't parse how it had happened, not now with the post-episode fog, but she could see the red fire at the end of the black and green tunnel. And she broke. Wailing. Screaming. Sobbing. Hysterics, even. But did they come from the weight sinking in of what was a very rare, but still very real, PTSD episode? Or were they coming from the shame that Devon saw her like this?

"Abigail, Abigail," came Devon's voice again. She knew her name, why did he keep saying it? His hands came to her hair and she shoved him back.

"Don't, please," she cried. She hugged herself, keeping her head down. She couldn't stop the crying. How could she lose control like this? It wasn't like her. She felt so heavy.

"Don't push me away," he insisted.

"I don't want you to see me like this!" she screamed. "Go! Go, no one's supposed to see me weak like this."

Devon didn't listen to her. And another day she'd kill him for that. Hell, the bets weren't off on whether or not she'd kill him for this an hour or two from now. But he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against his body.

"Let go of me, please."

"Not if you're gonna run away."

"You don't know what's best for me!"

His shoulders were growing wet with her tears, her spit. He didn't let up. "Maybe not. But I'm not lettin' ya go no matter how weak you get, Abigail. I'm never lettin' ya go."

She relented. And once she stopped fighting the shame, she remembered just how good it felt to surrender into the arms of someone who loved you. She continued to cry softly into his shoulder, his hands slowly, carefully, caressing against her hair. "This might happen again," she whispered.

"And I'll be here again."

"But what if you're not? You weren't at the funeral." It stung to remind him of that, and she could hear his sharp intake of breath at that.

"I'll be there." He released her just enough to brush his fingers against her necklace. The ring on her left hand. "And you'll be with me." He did the same with his own necklace, his own ring. His hand came to her stomach, pressing against her scar.

Not her scar. The lavender adorning the place where a twisted madman tried to carve his mark into her. She remembered what Devon said the lavender meant. She took a breath, and the hand came to her back, to the snapdragons that now defended her there, too.

As she turned the vinyl over in her fingers, amazed that such a vintage record still seemed mostly intact despite her handling, she noticed it was a 7-inch, easily explaining the placement better, even if the idea of Devon willingly buying anything with that man's face on it was laughable.

She turned her head as Devon came in from the kitchen, uncapping a well-loved bottle of whiskey. "Find somethin'?" they asked.

"Yeah," she said, quickly putting the record onto the turntable before Devon could see. Music and liquor, resting against Devon's legs while she read or they worked on a new leatherwork project, talking softly to recap the week that the both of them had missed due to their contrasting schedules. It was a common Sunday evening event, and Abigail had typically been tasked with setting the mood by choosing from Devon's record collection.

And now, she was ready to set the mood for something else. Even if, on any other day, the two might quip about the debated deservedness of Elvis's success, she felt the warmth of her necklace against her clavicle, her body feeling as though it was glowing tonight. With that, she dropped the needle.

Wise men say, only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you

"Ah, Abi...," Devon said softly, but Abigail pressed her finger to their lips.

"The movie was terrible. I know." She rested her hands on their biceps, and, with no hesitation, their gloved hands found her waist. Devon knew better than anyone what a fool they'd turned her into, and she wouldn't have it any other way. They were her fool, too.

Shall I stay? Would it be a sin If I can't help falling in love with you?

You couldn't tell who was leading either. Maybe you'd guess correctly, but there wasn't really a "correct" guess here. They were leading each other, pulling each other to and fro in the tidal wave of emotion.

"What came over ya?" Devon asked softly, too quiet to be heard over the saccharine crooning of the man on the vinyl.

She smiled back. "Maybe we should go to Hawai'i. We deserve it."

"You're nuts if ya think I'm gettin' on a plane for ya."

"You've done it before," she reminded them.

"Yeah. Yeah, because I'm nuts about ya."

"Me too." She remembered her own equally insane choice, not just getting in a plane for them, almost dying in said plane for the chance of finding them again. She deserved to go somewhere nice for it anyway.

Take my hand, take my whole life, too For I can't help falling in love with you

"How about we just start with the drink, huh? I'll make a Blue Hawai'i for ya right now."

She kissed them softly in response, and it was enough for them, kissing her back with equal gentle passion, the dancing turning to swaying. Smoke was already on their lips, and she inhaled it deeply, the fire in them meeting with her own, the ocean around both their necks keeping them to the ground.

For I can't help falling in love with you

The record skipped as it reached the end of the song, and when Devon went to flip it, Abigail kept her hand firmly in theirs. "Start the song over," she said. "I'm not done with you."

"A'right." They did as she said. "But I'm puttin' on 'Rock-A-Hula Baby' when I make your drink."

As she pulled her soaked T-shirt off, she caught sight of the note Abigail left on the nightstand:

Devon, There's leftover Sega Wat in the fridge. Uncorked red wine in there too, don't let it spoil. Love, Abigail

The idea of even smelling more booze at this point was enough to make Devon's stomach turn. But who wouldn't need it after a night like this?

The dryness of the wine hardly did much to quell the spiciness of the food, but the combination together was a perfect reminder of Abigail. It stung to know Abigail had prepared all this by herself, and even though Devon hadn't stood her up, these rare moments where Abigail surprised her with some of the Remeltindtdrinc family recipes were enough to make Devon cringe at their situation. It was amazing how you could spend so much time with one person but still barely get to see them.

She spooned cold beef stew directly from the Dutch oven while leaning over the kitchen sink, drinking the red wine directly from the bottle.

—

At six am, Abigail cracked her neck and stretched with the rising sun. Always living by the adage of the early bird getting the worm, she glanced over at her sleeping wife, still living on the opposite schedule. Devon reeked of cheap vodka, and Abigail could only assume that was the work of either rowdy patrons or Dethklok. She didn't know which was preferable.

She removed her silk bonnet and put on her reading glasses to look over the note Devon had left in response to her own:

Abigail, We're out of red wine now. I saved some sega wat, though. Didn't know you could cook like that. Remind me why we're always eating take out again. I'll make you something next time, promise. Love, Devon

Somehow it didn't surprise her that Devon had emptied that entire wine bottle by herself, but she was hardly one to talk. That had only been the second wine bottle she'd opened the night before, after dealing with her own stressful day.

The stress was easier to deal with when your wife was around.

When she was dressed and set to go on her run, she felt a warm hand press against the small of her back, fingers lightly tracing her more sensitive skin. She gasped a little, looking down at Devon, whose eyes were still very much furrowed in sleep. "Be back soon, I'll make coffee," she muttered.

Abigail pressed a kiss to Devon's forehead. "If you can be up by the time I'm back, I'll make you coffee, okay? Something tells me you're not leaving this bed till noon."

Devon groaned softly. "No... Let me take care of you."

Abigail pressed her hand to Devon's face. "You do everyday. But I'm a big girl, I don't need it."

"But you don't make the coffee right. And you want to be taken care of..."

She didn't dignify that with a response. They both knew it was true. and nodded. She kissed Devon's knuckles. "I'll be back in forty-five minutes. Love you."

"Love you..." Devon's hand dropped from Abigail's stomach.