Thalia just had the best sleep of her life. She thinks that every time she doesn't sleep alone, but every time its a miracle: no nightmares, no insomnia, no waking gasping for air and covered in cold sweat; just dreamless darkness. There's nothing like it in the world. She craves it like air, more than air, but even if she's not exactly celibate, she rarely stays the night. And she hasn't had a real relationship since--

For a while, is the point. 

In fact, it's been so long since she slept tangled up with someone who wasn't her, that Thalia's mind is five years ago and three thousand miles away for a few sleepy moments as the sound infiltrates her brain and slowly wakes her up. She yawns into a nice patch of warm flesh and snuggles against it, butting her head like a cat. 

"Few more moments," she slurs, barely intelligible. 

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Now that she's swimming up through the haze of sleep into alertness, Thalia can feel the sour taste of alcohol in the back of her mouth, fuzzy and unpleasant. She groans in displeasure and tries to remember if they have Gatorade in the fridge. Usually when they go out they leave some on the nightable and chug when they get home, before sleeping, but from the pounding migraine that's asserting itself currently, she's guessing they either forgot or were too drunk to drink. Ugh. It's going to be one of those days.

But it's the weekend, and that means even if she's hungover, they can spend the day on the couch, their legs entwined as they lay on separate ends and munch on greasy burgers, flipping through the TV (on mute, of course, to spare their aching heads), making fun of the soaps and laughing at people when they lose on game shows. And then later, when they feel better, when the day is done, Thalia will reach for her and pull her down into her lap and--

Thalia opens her eyes. The world is fuzzy. Her face is smushed against someone else, way too close to make out details besides whoa, skin. But she knows this isn't who she thinks it is, because that's impossible; it was just a sleepy dream, a half-awake wish. 

There's a brand of heat around her waist. An arm, she realizes. Someone has their arm around her.

Marisa.

The memories of last night crash into Thalia's head like an avalanche. She swears it makes her headache worse, somehow. She blinks. She wonders if she can get away with pretending to be asleep until Marisa crawls out of bed and then she can escape through a window, or possibly burrow a hole in the mattress and die. 

But no, she's the guest. Its her job to be responsible, to not take advantage. Even if lying here is nice, and she wouldn't mind a little more of it. Even if last night was nice, and she wouldn't mind a little more of it.

Thalia sits up, face as pink as the hair that's fallen over her face, and smiles down at Marisa.

"Good morning," she says. She hopes its still the morning. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, just like at the bar last night. Only she was wearing more than her underwear last night at the bar, thankfully. It's a nervous tic, one she's not even aware of doing.

"Do you want me to--Uh--I'll, uh--" 

I'll see myself out, she wants to say, but chokes on the words.

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If Thalia hadn't made sure fourteen years ago, on pain of her own death, that no one could read her mind, she would have thought Marisa just read her mind when she pushes her back down into the warmth.

Her vision refocuses. Oh, there's skin again. Hello skin. Nice skin. It smells a little like alcohol and a little like the warm, musty scent people get after sleeping, all sweat and salt. She kind of wants to lick it, and then realizes what she just thought and goes even pinker, somehow, and squeaks a little instead.

"I love poptarts," she answers.

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Thalia reluctantly disentangles herself as Marisa starts to get dressed, and begins the hunt for her own clothes. She finds most of them in a crumpled heap at the foot of the futon, and she shakes her shirt out with a frown. The wrinkles aren't coming out of that without work. 

She gets dressed quietly, looking around the apartment as she does so. She didn't really get a good idea of what it was like last night, she'd been occupied, but now she takes in everything with wide eyes, filing it away. It's a loud contrast to her own spartan apartment, the blank white walls and bare furniture she goes home to almost every night. It's messy, she won't deny that, but there's life here, vibrant and blazing.

The same can't be said of where she calls home.

Thalia stifles a yawn behind her hand and gets to her feet.

"I hope you have the brown sugar cinnamon kind."

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She pads over through the carnage, smiling to herself, relaxing a little bit, as Marisa holds up her treasure. Thalia reaches for the poptart and snags it out of her hand, unwrapping it. She prefers them cold, and while she hasn't looked around, she has a hard time picturing the other woman with a working toaster. 

Thalia nibbles. She might be wrong. What does she know, after all?

"If you have work, I can leave," Thalia says quietly, speaking half into her poptart. "I don't want to be an inconvenience." 

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Oh, she thinks. That's the end of that. She knows that look, even before the words are out of Marisa's mouth. It's the face she sees before someone crowds her in the store for an autograph. It's the face she sees when she touches down at a crime scene and the police look up at her with moon faces, pale and waiting for a miracle. 

It's a face she knows better than her own. It's a sinking stone. It's the anchor in her chest. 

Her PR smile flashes on, a brilliant wattage. "That's what they call me," she says steadily, unflinching in the face of disappointment. "But you can stick to Thalia, if you'd like." 

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Thalia buries her face in her poptart as Marisa speaks, almost as embarrassed as the other woman. 

"No," she agrees. "Valkyrie isn't here. I only wanted to be Thalia. It was nice, just being Thalia. N-not that I'm not grateful for Valkyrie, but you were looking at me and you didn't see anyone else."

Oh god, she's doing it. She's rambling again and making no sense. There's no stopping her when she gets like this.

"I'm glad that's you wanted," she finishes lamely.

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