A morning that starts empty and cold.
A cold sweat covers your body making the thin bed cover cling to every patch of clammy skin that isn’t covered by your nightclothes, the floral printed sheets tangle around your body like a boa constrictor’s grasp, the leg you stuck out from under the covers the night before (because it was way too warm) being the only part of your body not drenched in sweat.
The bed shirt you’re wearing, an old oversized t-shirt with a random motorcycle on the front (that once belonged to your best friend Ben Grimm before he turned to stone) clings to every roll and curve of your body making you feel sticky and gross.
Half-awake but with your eyes still closed tightly you try kicking the covers off so you feel less overwhelmed with the feeling of being stuck to the floral fitted cover of the double bed.
Your feet hit at the sheets, thin air being assaulted by your attempts at escaping free. The left side of your shared bed void of the warm body that usually resides there.
Normally you’re the one to wake up before your husband, it’s rare for him to be up unless it’s something important and it’s always something important. Reed would never admit to being more of a night owl, that he’ll stay at work late into the night only to snuggle up to you in the early hours of the morning whilst it’s still dark. Sure, he still gets up early by normal person standards but you like turning off his alarm clock and letting him lie in for an hour or two whilst you wake up your little gremlins for their breakfast because he never gets enough sleep.
Truthfully though you’ve accidentally donkey kicked his shins in an effort to get the duvet cover off too many times, the kicks being an instant alarm clock for the man to wake up despite taking the batteries out his clock. The man never seems to get enough sleep… You’ve accidentally kicked him so many times that anytime you do it you know a pair of stretchy arms will wrap around your middle holding you down whilst a his face, still clouded in foggy slumber, buries into the bare skin poking out from whatever t-shirt you're wearing that night, his voice all a mumbled and sleepy as he awakes to your warmth.
No matter how much sleep he tends to get he always wakes up happy as long as your there to cuddle him back.
However, this morning there’s no stretchy arms or morning kisses covering your bare shoulder to welcome you to the land of the living, no little whispers of ‘careful’ as his legs intertwine with yours like an anchor trying to get you to stay in bed, no feeling of his nose nuzzling into the nape of your neck as sleep tries to take over him once more.
There’s only a cold in your shared bed.
Your right eye slowly peers open, your left eyelid squinting closed as streams of yellow sunlight pools into the room. The curtains barely shield the wide wall to ceiling windows that are open just a bit like someone had been too nosey and decided to have peek out the widow, the long draping fabric not quite pulled together letting beams of bright light hit you directly in the face, cool morning wind wrapping around your body so unlike you husband’s warm arms.
You turn around, your body squishing into Reed’s side of the bed whilst your legs stay on your side, the bed covers now pooled on the polished wooden floor with the decorative throw pillows and a stray crumpled up tissue that was once hidden in a jumper sleeve.
The door out to the hallway is ajar much like the windows, the sounds of everyday life flooding in to the eerily quiet room along with more blaring light from the ceiling lights lining the picture filled hallway.
Reed always did say he liked sleeping on the left side of the bed because it was nearest to the door so if anyone tried to barge in he could protect you first then run to the kids but you really know he likes the left side of the bed more because it’s the shortest distance from the bed to the bathroom.
Speaking of, the door to the connected bathroom is wide open, the part of the mirror you can see from low down on the bed still fogged up with condensation, the red wicker washing basket near the sink filled up with damp towels and a set of fantastic four themed blue pyjamas stolen from your side of the wardrobe.
You don’t need to see a clock to know the whole house is awake (not like the time would be correct anyway). It all makes you feel slightly lonelier lying down in bed too cold. You’re alone and worrying about a nightmare you can’t even remember having but the feeling of having it still lingers in your head. Everything seems so tranquil, like you should be happy to wake up to the sun shining but your confused thoughts are intruded by a loud distant scream.
For a moment your freeze, legs going ridged and body shooting up too fast. You’re no hero like Reed, you have no idea what to do if an intruder came in. Maybe you’d throw the bedside alarm clock at them along with the lamp.
You have no time to think though for another scream echoes in the room, not one of terror but one of pure joy. The yells ripple through the house to your ears bringing a sleepy smile to your once panicked face.
Three sets of footsteps can be heard coming down the hallway closer to the bedroom, each set of steps sounding different from one another making you know exactly who is getting closer to you and the cold bed. Two of the pairs are hurried and small, little socked feet tapping on the wooden floors like little hooves. Excitement can be heard as socked feet slip on the hardwood floor. You think you hear Reed saying ‘slow down’ but you can’t be sure for your daughter’s whisper is too loud for she has no inside voice to speak of.
“Shh! She’s still sleeping.” her booming voice is aflutter with trepidation, you can imagine a wide grin on her face as she waits to be let into the room, her curly hair bopping up and down as she bounces on her feet, “We don’t want to wake mommy up yet!”
You don’t have super hearing but you swear you hear the air move as your son overeagerly nods his head, his small giggles warped by how much he shakes his head up and down.
Slower footsteps, heavy and quieter, stop at the ajar door. You can already see your husband’s feet clad in your fuzzy green bed socks as he begins to talk to your children.
“Ok, listen up-“ you can just feel the smile in his voice as he speaks, “-no jumping on the bed but lots of hugs for mommy.”
Still sweaty and slight sad, with hardly any sleep from the dream that plagued you the night before, you hide your growing grin into Reed’s pillow as the door creeks open the sound of the people you love the most sneaking in.
Like a kid playing their Nintendo DS way past their bedtime you pretend to be asleep. You slow your breathing whilst keeping tabs on your children’s little voices.
The display wouldn’t fool Reed in the slightest but it will certainly fool your children into thinking you’re fast asleep.
Staying absolutely still you feel the bed dip down as two bodies climb onto the mattress trying not to wake you. You feel a pair of tiny hands poke your bare leg, along with the feeling of fuzzy fur from a certain teddy bear that goes everywhere with your son, the bear joining in with the morning pokes. Your daughter on the other hand, more boisterous and extroverted than her little brother, flops right onto your back her arms failing to wrap around your neck.
A rather loud puff of air exists your lips when her small body lands on your back, her body knocking any words you might try to speak right out your lips. Reed scolds her with a stern voice but by the playful tone in his words and the feeling of your daughter still bear hugging your back you can tell he’s thoroughly amused by her way of trying to hug you.
The bed sinks down next to your face, the thigh of your husband blocking your vision as you open your eyes fully, your children still climbing on you like you’re a jungle gym. You want to go and snuggle into Reed’s legs, the feeling of not wanting to get up still there despite everything. Nevertheless your eyes begin to focus on the sight of a small wooden tray steadily balanced on his lap so you decide not to, well at least not for now.
“Mornin’” you mumble as you feel your daughter lean down and smooch your cheek, her kiss wet and misplaced like most six year old’s kisses are.
“Mornin’ to you too.” Reed smiles as he steadily takes the glass of fruit juice off the tray and places it on top of the coaster on his nightstand.
The water bottle normally on the nightstand is somewhere on the floor, empty from the night before when Reed woke up and drank it all, followed by him getting up and going to the toilet. Reed has to rearrange some of the organised clutter on the nightstand to place the mug of tea down next to the glass of orange juice. The tissue box that’s always on the verge of falling off is moved back fully onto the stand, the nightlight he uses to read books placed on top of the pile of science journals with other odd bits and bobs such as loose batteries and his mobile phone are pushed to the side near the clock. The only thing not moved is a small framed photo of you and Reed smiling like two idiots as you pose in front of the registry office you both dressed in your best outfits for the last minute wedding you had all those years ago for that always stays where it is.
Another body, smaller and more shy, decides to flop himself in-between you and your husband’s leg. Your son, only two and a half despite being all legs and curly brown hair tries to wiggle into your arms, his faithful companion Mr Ted joining him too but the teddy bear is a less ferocious cuddlier than he is so he just stays out of the cuddle.
“Good morning mommy.” your daughter sings as the stretchy arm of her father pushes her softly off your back and onto your side of the bed, his other arm cradling the tray full of food so it doesn’t fall onto the clean bedsheets.
It a bit of a struggle considering you’ve got your son stuck to you and your daughter bouncing eagerly right next to you but somehow you sit up. You blink, the free hand that isn’t holding your son’s curly head of hair rubs sleepy out your eyes.
“What we eatin’?” you groggily ask is an overly put on accent that sort of sounds like the accent your kids and Reed share (you really do like to tease, even if it is early).
“Well ma’am-“ Reed starts in more stereotypical ‘American’ accent, Texan you assume, his words going back to the good old Reed Richards American as he lists off the food on the tray.“-w got some fresh fruit-“
“I CUT THEM!” your daughter shouts.
You lean away, your ear ringing from her enthusiasm. You look over to the small plastic Lightning Mcqueen bowl, which is little Miss loudmouth’s favourite bowl that only she shares when she really wants to, which is hardly ever. The bowl is filled with cleanly cut orange and melon segments and some not so clean cut strawberries and apples pieces which she butchered with a children’s safety knife when you were asleep and oblivious to the chaos of Reed cooking with two hyper children.
Next to the bowl is a stack of three small square waffles covered in flavoured syrup and some caster sugar dusted on top for some pizazz. From how the kids are so hyper and awake they probably had waffles too but theirs were probably drenched in chocolate spread and fake maple syrup.
“Thank you!” you smile as you dread trying to scoop up the mush of strawberries sitting at the bottom of the bowl so you decide to start with the waffles.
Your daughter plops herself next to you, Reed snaking his arm around your son so he can place the tray on your lap without it falling on him. The cutlery hardly clacks as the tray lands on your soft tights, the folded kitchen roll tissue cushioning the sliding tea spoon from hitting the wide shiny ceramic plate piled with waffles.
Reed’s leg nudges yours as you begin to dig in, the tall man still hanging off the side of the bed whilst your children wait for the verdict of the meal mainly made by Dad but somewhat made by them.
“Is it good, mom?” your son quietly wonders as his face snuggles into his sister’s arm.
“Perfect.” you hum as Reed hands you the warm mug of tea with a quick ‘careful, it’s hot.’ your hands touching his and staying put for just a second before detaching. You hum happily some more as you take a sip of tea perfectly made.
Reed looks at you with loving eyes but you can tell he’s worried.
You don’t bring it up with the kids around, later, sooner than later if it’s up to him, you’ll try and recount the nightmare you had late last night.
But for now you eat.