When someone sees her now, they all whisper at how beautiful she is because, well, how can she not be? Dressed in a gown of downy white, her fiery hair in thick curls, those glowing green eyes of hers flashing - she was an incomprehensible beauty and one simply couldn't take just a single glance: she was meant to be admired, and so they all looked on.
He kept her though - Slade Wilson was his name - he kept her because he thought she would be the perfect addition to his perfect image. The underground business tycoon and the ethereal alien princess - could there really have been a better match? They travel the world because his job demands it, and because he knows she loves seeing all the sights this little blue sphere has to offer. She's enthralled with Japan, enamored by Paris, fanatic about Rome, and in love with Germany. He doesn't understand why, out of all the places on this earth, she chooses Germany to fall for. It's a country surrounded by a history of darkness and dispute, a country that some still look upon and scoff at; he doesn't understand her tenderness and affection towards the former war machine alcazar of torment - why she thinks that just about everything in the harsh sounding mass of land is a wonder to be observed.
Oh, he supposes that the food is passable and the architecture is decent - but that doesn't explain why she insists upon buying a home there and setting up a residence.
She asked for a house.
He gave her a mansion.
She wanted a small patch of land to grow roses on.
He gave her a garden that was a mirror image of the one formerly found at the Louvre.
He would give and give, material items were such easy things to give - you ask for it, you'll receive it. And so, he'll cover up what he can't measure up to (morality) in terms of pearls, mansions, and priceless jewels. After all, they're so much easier to give than your heart.
Dinners at the manor were always stately affairs, with dozens of important families being invited in and funneled through; she planned all the menus of course, and more often than not, exquisite German fare would be served.
They sat together - but of course they did! The perfect husband with his divine wife, sitting so prettily side by side in the medieval style dining room. One long, large table sat oblong at the head of the room, while four - two on either side - hand carved mahogany tables were spaciously set about on the east and west sides. The Master and Mistress always took a drink before they began to eat - that was a habit noticeable by anyone who'd dined at the Wilson's once or twice. He drank scotch, neat; she drank blood red wine with a white rose dropped into it.
Sometimes, when the atmosphere was conversational and gauzy - just before the hard liquor was served - they would be able to hear a few words exchanged by their host and hostess. Casual words, conversational words.
Words that didn't have any meaning.
"What time is it, Slade?" She would ask, oh-so-prettily, sipping at her wine.
"Just around nine, darling," he would respond (it was eight thirty), his voice deep and throaty and rough.
She would smile, "may I retrieve the champagne?"
"Not today, Kori my love, not today."
But it one were to pay just a bit more attention (though that's a very hard task to complete when one is so completely and utterly drunk), they would notice the small glances and sighs. The odd word choice and the bizarre questions; they would see that it was indeed not nine o'clock and that champagne was already the centerfold to each and every velvet lined table.
"How long has it been, Slade?" She would ask, oh-so-prettily, sipping at her wine.
"Around nine years now, darling," he would respond (it was eight thirty), his voice deep and throaty and rough.
She would smile, "will you let my friends go now?"
"Not today, Kori my love, not today."
Sometimes, if she has the courage, she would ask him if she can see them. He would look at her, analyzing every delicate feature upon her face before skimming down at her body, eyes resting upon that small, growing bump on her stomach.
It was easier to tell her 'no' now that she was carrying his child - she was unaware of earthly pregnancy customs and so he had simply told her that going down to such deep levels would harm the baby. He never elaborated on what conditions were in such 'deep levels' but that bit of knowledge she could determine for herself.
When he first gave her that answer she'd been stunned, frozen for a moment. When her trance had broken all the fire had unleashed itself unto Slade. His mental shield for her verbal onslaught had been put up and strong, but he was still surprised by how much venom and fury she had placed in her words; enunciating every syllable with such a broken manner and deep seated anger, but had somehow never quite reached the boarder of hatred. That was years ago; now, as he informed her of the improbability of seeing the Titans again, her eyes would glow with displeasure and disappointment but that would soon fade, and she would kiss him good night and leave.
Not to some separate bedroom, of course, but to take her nightly stroll. He knew exactly where she went - The Underground Gardens - a place he had carved out for her with the aid of about a dozen or so skilled laborers until the beautiful cavern was complete. There, she grew flowers that could survive without sunlight, but there would always be a small opening for the moon to glow in, allowing its silvery glow to scatter about the white petals of the flowers that grew there. Once, he had followed her there and the sight of her - dressed in her lacy white nightgown, her fiery hair in loose curls with the silvery moon beaming down upon her...he was sure he was in the presence of some angel of mercy.
Her tentative disgust with him had faded over the years; there was still some - oh, yes - but not nearly as venomous and strong as it had been nine years ago. She resented him, she remembered what he did, and she hated him for performing such acts.
But she could also appreciate him, forgive some of his actions, and perhaps, on a good day, she would love him.
They were such a lovely couple, many would swoon, the handsome, debonair businessman and the enchanting, foreign wife-to-be. A child of just three months cradled in her tan arms as she donned a gown of sky blue, the entire ballroom of gold seeming to have dimmed the moment she set foot in it.
His arm wrapped about her waist, a pleasant smile upon his face as he shook hands with potential business partners (victims and allies), all the while thanking them for their congratulations.
"Say, what's the name of the little tyke, eh?" Robert Stanton of Stanton Oil inquired as he leered at the red haired woman's exposed chest before allowing his murky brown eyes to flicker down at the newborn babe. "He's just a real looker already, Wilson!"
The taller man gave a polite smile, his eyes as cold as ice.
"Thank you, Robert," was his response, the tone was filled with a bred aristocracy and the Stanton president furrowed his brow slightly at the dismissive tone.
"His name is Acheron," the green eyed beauty supplied, cooing at her newborn son affectionately. "He looks just like Slade, right down to the chin," was her lighthearted giggle as the women began to crowd about her, each taking turns prodding at the babe.
Stepping from his wife's side, Slade took a few sips of scotch as the men spoke of stock portfolios and sometimes, his wife.
"Can't believe it took you nine years to knock her up," a short, balding man chortled out as a few smiled but the rest merely looked apprehensive.
The former assassin merely chuckled along, and in his mind the tally of victims just went up to twenty two.
Author's Note: My second TT fanfiction piece, although it's more like a drabble than anything else.
Review please :)