#poweredsun

"you were talking in your sleep."

                 the early morning sun filters through bedroom curtains, casting the room in a soft orange glow. rosalie stirs slowly, shifting from the abyss of sleep, sunday mornings are often peaceful within the octavius household, the outside world seeming miles away instead of just outside the window. she finds him looking at her with such fondness that she thinks perhaps she has fallen back into a dream. rosie shifts but does not move to sit up, content to curl into the warmth beneath the duvet until restlessness sets in.

                “ did it wake you ? ”   she questions in turn, though she feels she already knows the answer he’ll give, her husband so often the early bird between them, still there is worry beneath the soft hum of sleep coated tone. she will not get into the details of dream before breakfast, ( something her mother had always warned her about, never speaking of dreams on an empty stomach. )    

“you’re allowed to need help sometimes.”

                     NO I’M NOT.   the words press at the tip of his tongue, trapped just behind his teeth as he shifts, tensing his jaw as he moves to pick up the mess he’s made. papers littered over the floor, half of a coffee mug at his feet while the rest lay shattered in a puddle of whatever coffee had been left.    he hasn’t had what he would describe as a fit in quite some time, not since he got back to new york.  he hates that some arrogant professor has goaded it out of him.    small shards of glass are plucked from the apartment carpet, he knows otto is trying to help. but there is something in him that feels wanting that might make him weak, lesser than, something in that need that reminds him of his father.    “ i shouldn’t need it. ”   he huffs finally, venom on his tongue, it isn’t directed at otto, 

                    “ what are you doing ? didn’t you have a date tonight ? ”   he opts to change the subject instead, trying to take focus away from the tightness in his chest or the pounding behind his eyes. 

@poweredsun​ liked the thing, so they get the thing

She woke up alone again in the hospital, they were taking the bandages off her eyes today.

She hoped the surgery worked.

Still no word of Otto, Rosie felt like she’s being kept in the dark, literally and figuratively. The nurses and doctors weren’t telling her something. She wondered if her husband was dead, but surely they would tell her that much.

Still in the dark, when screaming and running feet could be heard outside her room.

Panicked, Rosie hit the call button, and soon after someone entered her room.

“Nurse, what’s going on?” She asked.

     “ - Oh, you’re awake Dr. Octavius.”

She’s done her research - she always does whenever she gets a new patient. Best to actually know who she’s treating and if they have any medical history she can’t get from them in the moment. The meal in her hands is still warm; she’s far from any sort of grand chef, but she always did get told if you weren’t into helping people, you’d sure be a hell of a chef!

"please... say something."

                  she wishes it were easier to be mad sometimes, wishes she could be spiteful, wrathful with venomous tongue like a dagger, or poison in her tone.    ( her voice is not made for anger, it is made for soft spoken sweet nothings, her tongue is meant to twist descriptions of sunsets like watercolor paintings dripped across the new york skyline. )    “ otto, don’t. ”   frustration claws at her throat, cracks his name as it leaves her lips, she hates this feeling the way rage boils in her chest but becomes steam on her lips, harmless as water vapor. it is not that she wants to direct this at him, far from it. it is simply easier for her to express it by herself, without having simmer, a constant hiss she can’t shake until it dies on its own.   it would be easier as an explosion, a snap with red clouded vision, to shout and scream and throw things. ( she only ever did once, in her dorm by herself. a small decorative plate she pieced back together. it’s in a box somewhere. ) 

                  the hand towel she is using is tossed onto the counter. she has never expected extended simplicity within their life together, they are twin flames in the sense they burn just as brightly, their passions fueled by one another, unwavering, but with any flame they have their burns. that understanding however does not make it easier when the time comes for one to burn the other. she hates being angry, she hates when she is angry at him more. eyes cling to the wall behind the kitchen sink and rosalie shifts, jaw tensing as she tries to avoid looking in her husband’s direction.    “ not now. ”   she has a lecture she should be getting ready for, doesn’t have the time for a debate, or a shouting match, but she knows better than to think as much, knows that they rely so heavily on communication, her beloved words coming back to bite her in the ass. she breathes deeply through her nose, parting her lips to let the air pass in a broken sigh, tries to keep fury from becoming some sorrowful thing.    they need to talk. he’s opening the conversation.   her rational mind pips, and right now she hates that part of herself too, but not him. never him.

“you’d be late for your own funeral.”

                  his laugh almost sounds genuine, smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, accentuating the crows feet that rest there.       “ octvaius ! ”   ceo claps a hand on the other’s shoulder,   if he were not worried the Goblin would attempt to stab the other in the back, he may have gone in for a hug, old formalities and all.   it isn’t often norman catches him at events but it is a welcome surprise even if it is soured by the thing that grumbles in the back of his mind. 

                  “ is being late to my own function a faux pas now ? there was a time it was fashionable. ”   he informs, gaze flickering to other’s side in search of his wife, though he doesn’t comment when he finds the woman missing.   “ it’s been awhile. ”

∗ 17﹕ sender  and  receiver  cook  together .

There’s a curious tilt to her head as she watches him work, her offered help only slight as he continues to make what was quite the detailed spaghetti. How he can create such fantastic meals it seems so easily is beyond her; a hidden gift of his she’s learned more of in their time together.

“So, to handmake the pasta, we do…?” Gaze watches him when he begins to explain, the same sort of concentration and knowledge he had for science in the same expression here. It’s one that has her smile slowly growing as he explains, doing her best to listen & understand before she dares attempt to do some herself. Not quite as wondrous & grand as his, but she’s certainly learning.