Son of the Storm

Beneath the surface

Carol's eyes slowly blinked open, and she frowned in slight puzzlement as she felt her cheek rub against a thin layer of soft fabric, under which was a hard surface.

Weird. She'd thought the mattresses in this place were softer.

Then, as her brain began creaking into life, she sat up with a gasp, as she was bombarded by a hailstorm of memories.

The bitter cold of the storm.

The frightened little ice sculpture of a boy.

The singing of her blood at the height of battle.

The rank smell of a werewolf's fur.

The sharp, gasping pain of broken ribs.

And twice, the cold, clear certainty that she was about to die.

She was brought back to the present by her strained muscles registering their severe displeasure at this sudden movement, letting out a cry of pain that she tried to swallow.

Sitting back, she looked back down at the bed, noticing the medium sized warm bundle pressing up against her torso and stomach and an arm resting loosely on her waist. Or rather, she corrected herself, beds. Two had been place side by side. One was occupied by her and Diana, in a long white nightdress, who had snuggled up between her and Harry, who seemed to straddle the two beds. It was his arm around her waist, which, under other circumstances, Carol would have objected to violently.

Right now, she was too tired and pained to care and, in any case, she could see that his other arm was wrapped around the occupants of the second bed, Uhtred and Jean-Paul, unselfconsciously spooning. Since Harry had been similarly exhausted, expressed absolutely zero sexual interest in either of the boys, and previously seemed perfectly happy to treat her as a friend and nothing more, she concluded that it was all entirely innocent, something she wasn't exactly used to.

She actually rather liked it, a touch of intimacy, warmth and affection without any sexuality involved. It wasn't something she often experienced.

Of course, this wasn't to say that Harry wasn't attracted to her. On a purely physical level, he was, as were most other straight men. It was something that she'd had to deal with, to one extent or another, since she was twelve years old. But, one way or another, he had managed to put that aside. Maybe it was simply friendship. Maybe he was excellent at compartmentalising. Or maybe it was the fact that they had faced death together, fighting side by side and forging a bond that ran far deeper and far stronger than any fleeting lust.

The reason, ultimately, did not matter. It simply was.

And if nothing else, you could hardly fight a pack of werewolves, a killer robot and a swarm of evil fairy-tale monsters without becoming friends.

Interestingly, despite the amount sweating, dirt and blood, they didn't smell absolutely awful, and Diana's hair wasn't clumped with blood, the way it had been last night. They must have been cleaned up last night.

Carol's thoughts were disrupted by the door opening and Pepper making her way in and, on seeing that Carol was at least half awake, smiled. "Morning," she said.

"Morning," Carol managed, blinking slightly in surprise.

Pepper interpreted the look correctly and said, "We've been checking in on you every fifteen minutes in shifts. Thor's been doing the lion's share of it, and believe me, it took quite a lot of persuasion to shift him."

Carol nodded, and frowned slightly. "Last night... did it actually happen?"

"Yes," Pepper said, then added dryly, "And I think you've got the bruises to prove it."