Title: A Little Understanding.
Author: thesewarmstars.
Rating: R.
Summary: Eight years later, Victoria and King are very happy together. Most of the time. Usually.
Author's note: Originally written for the 2008 Yuletide Obscure Fandom Fanfic Exchange as a gift for Merfilly.
He threw up his hands. "I just don't understand why not."
She could have restated the hundred reasons she'd already given him on various other occasions or the hundred she had kept to herself, but she was weary of the argument. Eyes narrowed, she declared, "Because Victoria Marchand sounds utterly ridiculous, that's why." Rather than vent the frustration she was feeling, she wrapped her arms around herself and stalked from the room.
He followed.
She would never understand the American obsession with feelings and the examination, elucidation, and incessant voicing and beating to death thereof.
"I thought you said you loved me."
"That's because I did."
"But you don't anymore?"
She signed and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. "I meant that I did say that. And I do still love you, King."
"Well, forgive me if I'm being a little dense here, but this isn't making sense to me."
Victoria let herself fall heavily into an armchair. It didn't make all that much sense to her either, really. She knew that something was wrong, or something was missing, but she wasn't sure what. Maybe it was just living in this ridiculous city.
"You know, it's damn near impossible to find a decent cup of tea in this country."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Tea. It's always iced and sugared and lemoned and Lipton."
"What's wrong with Lipton?"
His face was contorted into such a rictus of confusion, she almost laughed. "Nothing, there's nothing wrong with Lipton. It's just not for me."
He sat in the chair opposite her and rested his hands on his knees. "Okay, even I know this isn't about tea. Please tell me what's going on here."
"Would you give up being a gangster for me?"
"I'm not a gangster!"
She rolled her eyes. "Supposing you were, then."
"Okay, supposing I was, and you really insisted, then yes, I would give it up."
With a small smile, Victoria replied, "I know you would. But I would never ask you to."
There was a long moment of silence before, finally, King spoke. "Ah, I see. You're upset about having to give up your," he made a vague gesture with his hand, "singing act. It's been eight years – are you still hung up on that?"
"Yes, eight years of being King's girl, and keeping King's house, and singing every now and again in King's dusty, dreary, half-empty club. What a grand existence."
"You want grand? I can give you grand!"
"I don't want you to give it to me, I want to get it for myself! Why can't you understand that?" She leaned back in her chair and covered her face with her hands. Why must he push her so?
"You know, it's the middle of a war over there right now. You can't just waltz right in. Plus, Nazis tend to frown on anything… abnormal. They'd take over France just to round you up."
She looked up at that. "Abnormal."
"Oh, you know what I mean. They think it's abnormal."
"And they're the only ones, I suppose?"
"You do remember I kissed you once when I still thought you were a man, right?"
Yes, he'd be reminding her of that until his dying day, she was certain. His sole defense against accusations of bigotry. She almost responded that he hadn't really believed she was a man at the time, but that argument was even older than the marriage one. She couldn't handle them both in one day.
"I'm sorry, King. I don't know what to tell you." She wrapped her arms around her chest again and stared at her knees.
"Vicky, baby."
His voice came from right in front of her and startled her into looking up.
"I'm sorry, too. I wish there was something I could do to help."
She shook her head. "All I really want, I suppose, is for you to understand."
He trailed a finger down her cheek and she leaned into the touch. "I think I can work on that."
When he tugged her up out of the chair and across the room, she followed easily. She stood still next to the bed as he removed her clothing slowly, one piece at a time, and his own with disregard.
When they both stood naked and several feet apart, he looked at her with such intensity she felt faint. He reached for her and they tumbled sideways onto the bed, straining to align their mouths for a kiss.
They moved together with the ease of years. He knew just where to nip at her neck and if she scratched her nails on his back just so, he would make that lovely, pleading noise. It still burned when he pushed into her, but she savored it.
Every time she looked at his face, his expression was saying, "I love you and I'm sorry, please don't leave me."
She tried to look reassuring.
As usual, he buried his head in her shoulder when he came. What was different was that he stayed there for several minutes, just breathing against her skin and clutching her upper arms until his prick softened enough that it slipped out of her.
He gave a little mournful whimper that she knew she wasn't supposed to hear and rolled to the side.
She could see the tension in his body, like he was forcing himself to keep still, so she took it upon herself to arrange his arm into an acceptable pillow and cuddle up to him.
"I love you, King. It's not that I don't want to marry you – it's that I don't want to be married."
"Yeah, I know." He stroked a hand down her arm. "I've, uh, been thinking a little about us moving away from Chicago. I don't really want to be a… businessman anymore, and I know you'd be happier some place like New York City, or maybe San Francisco. Cities like that, they got whatever you want. And no one knows us there. You could do anything. We both could. Does that… sound like something you'd be interested in?"
Victoria propped herself up on one elbow so she cold look at him, and so he could see her grin. "That sounds terrific."