Chapter Text
Bare feet whispered against the marble floors of the Domo. The steady, silent rumble of the ship’s atmosphere gently washed away the painful ringing in Thena's ears. Other than her quiet stalking, stillness permeated the darkness as the others slept in their cabins. Thena allowed the cold sting of the smooth stone under her toes to distract her from her thoughts. Each step brought her further and further away from the moment in which she had woken up in her bed, sweat dripping down her back and hands trembling.
Trembling with what, Thena thought to herself with a palm pressed against her temple. What was she even feeling? Rage? Anguish? Both? She faintly remembered dampness against her cheeks, trails of tears that were swiftly wiped away against her sleeve. There was still a knot in her throat that had failed to loosen.
Death, and destruction, and unimaginable heat and the stark empty void of space, and it was all her fault. Violence, then nothingness. The more she circled the low rumbling halls of the Domo, the more her mind drifted and settled. Her nightmare became an echo of a feeling of an image. Thena only hoped it would stay that way. She didn’t recall ever getting dreams so unsettling, certainly not in recent times and definitely not while she had been on Olympia.
She didn’t know why, but the kitchen beckoned to her. Normally when she wanted to purge any excess energy, the sparring room was her first choice, her sanctuary. But tonight there was a weariness in her bones that she suspected wouldn’t be solved by hitting, stabbing, or slicing the air with her weapons.
There wasn’t much to work with in the kitchen, not that Thena was eager to whip up anything all that intricate. That sort of thing was left to Gilgamesh, occasionally Phastos, who had more patience and creativity when it came to discovering which Earth ingredients paired best with which.
Tea. Tea was sufficient and simple and would serve her nerves well. The lump that was in her throat preemptively relaxed at the notion of the warm beverage, and so it was settled.
Her hands found the pantry where the herbs were kept. Jars upon jars of them lined the shelves, containing the dried tea leaves which ranged in color and shape and scent. All collected by them in the few short decades they had been on Earth. Thena became so engrossed with rooting through the herbs and leaves, recalling the different uses and applications for each one, that she almost missed the sound of another person stepping into the kitchen behind her.
Almost.
Her hand paused over the chamomile, at which point Gilgamesh’s sleep-addled voice broke the silence.
“Is there enough for two?”
Thena smiled to herself, the tension that had built up in her shoulders leaving as quickly as it came. It was no intruder, no phantom of her nightmares, but instead it was the one who often visited her in dreams much warmer and pleasant. She plucked the chamomile from its perch next to the dried roses, yes, there was indeed enough for two. She pivoted around to scan Gilgamesh, absently shaking the white and yellow flowery contents of the jar as she took him in. His clothes and hair were equally unkempt from sleep, his rumpled appearance giving her the impression that he must’ve woken up recently. It was too early for anyone to be up.
A flash of guilt passed through her. Could she have woken him, unawares and amidst the throes of her nightmare?
“Depends on how much we’ll be drinking tonight,” she answered, only hoping her suspicions weren’t correct and that him finding her in the kitchen was mere coincidence. Did Gilgamesh have nightmares, too? Did they resemble her own?
He nodded, grunting softly in the affirmative, “A pot for each of us should do the trick.”
There were no windows in the Domo’s kitchen, yet Gilgamesh narrowed his eyes at some imaginary opening in the wall behind her, as if morning light was pouring through without his consent.
“Hm. Too early to be awake,” he affixed his eyes onto her, and she was rooted in place by the depth of his gaze.
The comment was intended for her. It was not accusatory, because Gilgamesh only saved accusations for those who genuinely needed to hear them. No, he was concerned. For her. And if Thena had indeed woken him, his demeanor was telling her that he wouldn’t admit it.
“We better get started then,” she said plainly, holding the jar out to him.
Gilgamesh took three slow steps forward and freed the jar from her grasp, using both hands. He must have sensed some worry within her, because he moved with patient intention. It was similar, in a way, to how she had observed the Earth children sometimes coaxing small, injured animals into their laps so that they could care for and nurse them back to health.
His fingers brushed against hers. Thena’s palm twitched and she quelled the urge to reach for him, for the warmth of his hand.
“I’ll get the water,” he nodded, and there was that smile of his again. It looked like comfort, like forgiveness. It washed away the pang of her guilt.
She returned the smile, her nerves already a distant and forgotten feeling, “Excellent. I’ll get the mugs.”