Summary: Fluff, Myka wakes up, glad to be warm again, and very glad not to be alone.
Notes/Setting: Show 'verse, set post-season 4.5 finale (slight AU), based off a manip by fuckyeahpikacha, assumes Myka recovers from her cancer because I wanted to write something fluffy before we are all killed by the season finale.
She still tired easily, though it was getting better. Slowly. Far too slowly.
Her body had been returned to her, but it was hard to remember that sometimes when she woke shaking in the middle of the night, feeling nausea that was a memory or muscle weakness that wasn't. Hard to remind herself that she wasn't dying anymore (or at least that's what the doctors promised) when there was still bruising under her eyes and her cheekbones stood out too starkly.
But it was getting better. Easier.
Especially now that Helena was home…
Warmth: such a simple state that so many took for granted, but Myka had felt its absence for so long that not being cold still felt like a gift. And she was warm now. Blinking the sleep from her eyes she saw the bedroom bathed in the deepening gold light of late afternoon. The body that cradled her own was slender and familiar and so very alive; the soft, ceaseless stroking of delicate fingers across her temple was soothing. The blankets had been messily re-arranged to cover her, leaving Helena's lean legs bare. Myka felt a soft smile edge her lips. One could hardly complain about the view.
Shifting slightly, languorous and relaxed, she reveled in the warmth; of Helena's body, of the soft thick blankets, of the light. For just a moment she could almost believe the last few months were simply a horrible nightmare and now, at long last, she was awake.
Eyes like polished mahogany met her gaze when she turned to look at the woman holding her. A shadow of weariness lingered on Helena's face too, but Myka knew it came from a different source; from waiting and hoping and the agony of watching someone you care about suffer while you must stand by, helpless. Reaching up Myka tangled her fingers with those against her cheek.
"Did you sleep at all?" the younger woman asked, her voice low and rough from disuse.
Helena merely shook her head, a tender smile lifting the corner of her mouth.
Soon Myka would be able to chastise her. Someday not too long from now she would be able to roll her eyes and get up, tugging Helena to her and kissing the raven-haired woman thoroughly. She would have the strength to push Helena back onto the bed and lean over her, caressing her with tender fingers and whispering teasing promises of wearing the other woman.
But that day remained in the future and Myka understood all too well the fear that drove Helena: the subtle, irrational terror that if she slept, if she closed her eyes for just a moment, something would happen and Myka would leave her. So for now the taller woman said nothing, merely bringing Helena's fingers to her lips and kissing the hand that had refused to let go all through her treatments, that had anchored her through the pain and weakness and the anger of being trapped in a body that no longer felt like her own. The hand that held her still.
"Sleep, love," Helena said. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know," Myka replied, equally softly. And she did know, with complete and unshakable certainty. It might have been the only grace to come from her battle with cancer but Myka was past questioning whatever happiness Fate seemed willing to grant her. She would live, and Helena was with her, and that knowledge warmed a place deep in her heart that no mere pile of blankets could thaw.
Burrowing back down in the covers, Myka drew Helena's other hand around her waist and linked their fingers before closing her eyes and letting herself drift off into the warm darkness of sleep once more.