Our Love Will Never Die (Sequel to Your One and Only)

One

After a month spent honeymooning right around Verona, Veneto, Italy, Bobby and Rebel Dall Returned to their home in Los Angeles. While they'd hoped to find the townhouse they shared with the former's bandmates at least somewhat clean, they weren't surprised to find the place completely trashed upon their arrival. One couldn't really expect three rock stars in their mid-twenties, give or take, to be any semblance of housekeepers when they were unattached bachelors–especially in 1989.

Ignoring the train wreck they knew they'd have to clean up, the newly-wedded couple trudged up the stairs, dragging their suitcases behind them. They prolly wouldn't get much done in the way of cleaning the following Day–it'd take them a while to readjust to Pacific Time and get over the jet-lag, after all. Still, they could at least get rid of all the trash laying around downstairs, but not before getting some sleep.

Despite having enjoyed his Time away with his bride, the bassist was glad to be back home and able to sleep in his own bed again. He knew said bride felt the same way by the sleepy smile on her face as she collapsed on their bed, limbs splayed out in every Direction possible and her face buried in a combination of their pillows. He didn't blame the young woman for her exhaustion, though–they'd a busy Time while they were overseas, whether it involved sex or sight-seeing. Now it was Time to recuperate, 'cuz if there was one thing he knew about his band, it was that they'd wanna get back in the studio soon.

"Hey, make room for me, sugar," Bobby chuckled, nudging his new wife's leg as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Can't move," she said, their pillows muffling her words. "Limbs no wanna cooperate."

"Just that exhausted, huh?" the bassist asked, chuckling again as he gently shoved her over.

"Goddess, yes," Rebel grumbled, somehow finding the Energy to roll onto her side. "Those idiots we call friends and roommates better not wake me up, or I might go postal."

"Go postal? That's a new one on me, sugar," he laughed, careful to keep his volume down.

"It's a phrase from my Time," the young woman chuckled. "One of the unfortunate parts of the Future's all the mass shootings, and I remember my mom saying that going postal meant something like a postal worker going and shooting up their place of employment when I was a kid."

"Ouch, that doesn't sound like fun," Bobby winced as he snuggled up to her.

"Mark my words–the Columbine massacre in April of 1999's gonna be the worst prolly till Sandy Hook in 2012," she yawned. "At least, I think Sandy Hook was in 2012–not like I keep a binder full of school shooting dates for a memory refresher or anything."

Chuckling for what seemed like the millionth Time before he let out a yawn of his own, the bassist settled down so he was on his right side and therefore facing his bride. Rebel hummed as she snuggled even closer than they already were, one of her arms winding up over his ribs while one of her legs got draped over his hip. Ever since the first Night they'd slept in the same bed together, long before he'd asked her out on a date, she'd always done this or scooted back against him so he was the big spoon. She was quite the cuddler, and she'd often be unable to sleep, if she didn't have at least a stuffed animal to cuddle with.

Once comfortable, the bassist craned his neck enough to give her a quick, gentle kiss, smiling and sighing happily as he heard her soft hum. It didn't take long before she fell asleep in his arms, her head only turned against his chest enough for her to breathe, and he could tell. Her limbs seemed to gain ten pounds where they were draped over him, but he knew that was just from her going deadweight as she relaxed.