Eleven

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Considering Sigmund spent the night sleeping in a bathtub, Saturday morning wasn't as horrible as it could have been.

Someone had brought him blankets.

Blankets and pillows, in fact. They looked stripped straight off the bed outside and were cocooned around him. It was comfortable, despite the porcelain beneath, and Sigmund didn't want to get up.

He had a killer headache.

It felt like a hangover, but at least that would've been kinda manly. Not like crying himself to sleep in his

(husband's)

boyfriend's bathtub. That was just embarrassing. Sigmund wondered, if he concentrated hard enough, if he could manage to sink through the tiles and die.

Five minutes later he had to admit that plan just wasn't working. So he poked his head out from under the covers, blinking at the blur beyond. The bathroom was still a bathroom. All expensive stone and meticulous gleaming fixtures. Frosted-glass windows ran around the tops of the walls, and by the light it looked to be fast approaching lunchtime on a blinding summer's day.

Sigmund's glasses were waiting within arm's reach on the counter. He didn't remember taking them off. He certainly didn't remember leaving them on top of a pile of clean clothes from his drawer at home. It must've been a miracle.

There seemed to be a lot of those going around, lately.

In the mirror, the same mud brown eyes blinked at him from underneath the same tousled, nothing-colored hair. He had stubble, and acne, and the beginnings of what was going to grow into a prodigious double chin, given a decade or so. He didn't look like a boy who'd spent last night watching gods fight in the parking lot of Torr Mall.

He certainly didn't look like a goddess. Not even the one he'd dreamed about. The one with hair like matted straw and the dark, nearly mono brow. The one who'd glared at him like ice. The one he'd failed.

"Fuck you," he said, but the only thing in the bathroom to hear him was his reflection.

His clothes were wrecked. Covered in ash and holes from where that . . . stuff had leaked out of the thing he'd once thought was Lain. His ankle ached from where he'd twisted it coming down onto the roof . . .

(we were flying!)

. . . and the grazes on his palms and knees stung. Plus, his shoulder hurt again. He wondered if this was what his life was going to be like from now on. He wondered if he was okay with that or not.

He was dating a god. A god who was apparently convinced that Sigmund was the reincarnation of his dead wife. Or . . . something. He'd been a bit vague on the details.

A god that Sigmund had yelled at. A god who'd brought him blankets and a fresh change of clothes in the night, because (a-har) gods forbid Sigmund to be uncomfortable sleeping in a bathtub.

Jesus.

Bereft of a coherent plan of action, Sigmund decided to have a shower.

It was a bloody awesome shower. Showerheads everywhere, and Sigmund turned the water up hot and hard and just stood there, trying not to think. There was an alcove of expensive-looking soaps and lotions at eye level, so Sigmund used them, and then he finally dragged himself from the shower's comforting spray, smelling like one of the New Age crystal shops Em used to drag him to before ditching paganism for skeptical atheism.

He wondered what she'd make of last night.

Fancy wifi scales in the corner of the room informed him he was still fat. A search through the medicine cabinet revealed a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a razor, all neatly packaged up and waiting to be used. By the time Sigmund had cleaned his teeth, shaved, dressed, and spent a minute trying to tame down his hair, he had to admit he was running out of reasons to procrastinate.

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