Work Text:
Megara stared past the dark at the ceiling, Hercules’ head on her shoulder and his arm thrown across her middle, and she missed him. Honest to Gods she missed him.
Already her stomach was twisting with the familiar feeling and her lungs pulsing painfully as the weight of his absence pressed on her.
Sometimes she wished it were him. Hades, not Hercules, holding her. Constricting. Ensnaring. Sometimes, she wished he had been willing enough.
Willing, that's right, because it wasn't that he didn't want to. That he didn't want her or her comfort. No. He just held everything close to his chest with lock and key, most of all his own vulnerability. He never had been one to share very much, least of all things he seldom really shared with himself.
So there Megara was, clutching at her chest as the once contained feeling burst under the pressure, spilling outward until her eyes forced themselves shut against the physical manifestation of it. Of missing him.
Yes. There she was. Missing him. Safe, and sound, and free—but missing him.