Later that night, when they had scattered to the winds, he’d gone home. His cabin was familiar, of course, but empty in a way he’d started to grow unaccustomed to. It seemed that every shadow held the flicker of her golden hair reflecting off the candlelight, every stab of moonlight illuminating her pale skin on dark sheets. She’s here in every single breath he takes, every damned chocked sob that rattles his chest.
First, he drinks. She would probably not approve of it, but he empties what’s left of his flash, and finds a proper bottle buried in a cabinet and drinks that too, until his vision is blurry at the edges. It’s not the first time, and it will not be the last. In the early days, he spent more time than not like this, the searing pain of it all dulled quite nicely by the amber liquid.
Slowly, he strips off all of his clothes and tries to not think of how she would have urged him to hurry up. They’re far less his clothes than hers, anyways; he’d gotten them for her, to show her he was trying, to show her he could be a part of her life, one of the heroes.
He wonders if the real heroes are drinking tonight too.