Prompt: 012 Orange
A/N: Given my current state, I thought angstfic was in order. Post Excal #121
She's sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the glass of scotch in front of her. Every once in a while, she'll pick it up and take a sip. When it gets low, the entire bottle sits next to the glass, and she picks it up, perfunctory, and refills it.
She's been sitting there all night. Ever since he walked out earlier. She watched him get on the boat, watched it leave, and then proceeded directly to the kitchen and to the scotch that she knew he hadn't taken with him.
He didn't take much with him.
He took everything with him.
She's lost track of the number of times that Kurt, or Brian, Lockheed, or even Piotr have come into the kitchen and tried to talk to her. It took a while to shake them, but after ten or fifteen minutes of her not responding, they eventually left her alone.
It took Kurt twenty, though.
She can't stop herself from thinking back over their entire relationship. She doesn't want to, but she literally can't stop herself.
She can hear his voice in the back of her mind. At first, it's just the way it sounded when he left. The flat, emotionless way that he dismissed everything they'd been and everything they had with two or three sentences and walked out of her life. Forever.
But then, she moves on to thinking about this voice at other times. The way he'd talk to her when he was explaining something. The Wisdomrant. The gruff and distressed tone he'd get when she tried to wake him up too early. The way he'd talk to her when they were in bed together, and they'd already made love, and they were just sharing and discussing.
Thinking about his voice leads her to thinking about his eyes. That calls for another glass of scotch. She wants to think about anything but his eyes. The eyes that captured her, even back when she hated him and couldn't imagine how anyone could work with him on anything.
Thinking about his eyes leads to everything else. The thoughts and feelings and sense memory assault her like some sort of blitzkrieg.
By the time she refills the glass for what could be the fifth time as easily as the fifteenth, she has moved on to trying to push the way that his hands feel out of her mind.
She stares at the liquid, swirling it aimlessly in the glass. If there was any light in the kitchen, it'd be reflecting off of the glass of the tumbler, but it wasn't dark yet when she sat down, and she hadn't really felt motivated to get up and turn it on.
The tumbler is one of the ones that she bought him for their first anniversary. He left them. He left them and the decanter, both. She isn't sure if he meant to, but he did.
She sips twice more from the glass and turns her head, slowly, to look at the clock. It's 4:15.
She drains the rest of that glass, and then two more.
Had she thought about it beforehand, she would have expected to be hysterical at this point, but she isn't. In fact, by the time the orange light of dawn filters in through the window shades, she feels completely absolutely nothing.
She's totally and completely numb.
She wanders upstairs, aware of the slight sway to her steps. Mercifully, the rest of Excalibur is still asleep.
She stands in the doorway of Pete's room. It's still a mess. Naturally, he didn't take the time to clean most of his stuff out. He just packed a bag and left.
She curls up on the bed before she can stop herself.
She sleeps for what feels like no time, but the bedside clock informs her that it has actually been closer to forty-eight hours.
She's still tired.