It hadn't been her fault.
Nope, not one bit; she was totally, completely, absolutely blameless in this.
She wasn't the one who drank through a bottle of expensive vodka, she wasn't the one to throw a childish fit and rampage through the apartment like an enraged bull elephant, she wasn't the one to blame for ruining the entire evening.
He was all to blame. For everything.
It was his fault for getting piss-poor drunk, it was his fault that he got angry at her for having had coffee with an old friend earlier that day, it was his fault that he had thrown the vase from her mother at the wall, and it was all his bloody fault for ruining their first anniversary together.
She couldn't be blamed for any of it...right?
...Even she thinks that the lady doth protest too much in this case...
Abigail sighed as she came to a stop by the riverbank, her warm breath puffing out of her mouth in a stream of white that cut through the cold night air with rounded edges. She sat down on a rather neglected looking bench, shivering as she tried to warm herself up by rubbing her hands along her arms. She'd left in such a huff that she had gone out without her coat, and now it was starting to snow lightly.
Wonderful.
Okay, yes, she hadn't told Ivan that she was meeting up with an old friend for a long overdue get-together and some coffee...Was it really such a big deal that said friend happened to be a man and former love interest?
And, sure, she might not have reacted the best when Ivan had asked about it, but she hadn't been expecting him to inquire, and his spiteful tone of voice made her feel defensive and self-righteous. It certainly hadn't helped that the already moody Russian had guzzled down most of the high-end vodka that Abigail had bought to celebrate tonight, adding an explosive fuel to his raging fire.
Evidently, they got into an argument, which easily caused Ivan's temper to flare - leading to him throwing Abigail's mother's vase against the wall and turning the brunt of his anger onto the apartment. Abigail had left their shared living space soon after Ivan sunk his fist into the wall, the blonde Englishwoman yelling at him as she stormed out the door.
Leaning her head back, Abigail closed her eyes. This was the only real relationship she's had that didn't end in a one night stand, and shewanted it to work.
Abigail didn't know how long she sat there with her eyes shut to the world, but it didn't feel like it had been very long when she heard the crunch of boots on dirt and gravel, and felt someone sit down next to her on the bench. The old, wooden bench creaked with protest at the added weight set upon it, but bore it as stoically as Atlas holding up the sky.
"Want some?" a familiar, adorably thick accented voice asked in a tone that was softer than the snowfall around them.
Turning her attention to Ivan and opening her emerald green eyes, Abigail ruefully eyed the Russian's offering. "It's cold enough to snow out here, and you're eating ice cream?"
Ivan gave a silent nod, withdrawing the offered ice cream cone when Abigail made no move to take it.
He knew she would reject it, she didn't even like ice cream, but it was sort of like a dog killing a rat and offering it to its owner in repentance for doing something wrong; the dog is sorry, and, while the owner doesn't want the dead rat, they accept it anyway. Abigail acknowledging him was enough for Ivan to know that she accepted his poor, round-a-bout apology; there was no need for her to actually take the ice cream.
"That's rather stupid. You're going to make yourself sick eating all of that in this weather," Abigail chastised, stubbornly blinking snowflakes from her lashes.
Dragging his tongue over the frozen treat, Ivan mumbled, "I know...but I love it anyway."
Abigail could take a hint, shaking her head as she leaned into Ivan's warmth. "I forgive you, you pig-headed galumph. But, don't think I'll just let you get away with what you did to our apartment, mind you," she sniffed, shivering against the large Russian's side.
Ivan glanced at the golden haired blonde from the corner of his vision, his purple eyes shifting back towards the dark waters of the river. "Here, hold this," he said, handing his ice cream cone to Abigail as he started to unbutton his jacket. "You...You know I just get...jealous. I know that you could do so much better than me, so, when I find out that you're meeting some guy, I...overreact."
Abigail sighed when she was enveloped by the blissful warmth that the heavy coat provided her, blinking when the ice cream in her slight hands was replaced by durable leather gloves. "Yes, I know. You're like a territorial animal, always feeling threatened when another male comes close to what you perceive as yours. But you don't have to get so worked up about such things, since I'm only interested in what'smine. And, in case you didn't know, that would be you - not some guy."
"Put those on," Ivan murmured, nibbling on the waffle cone in his hand. "They'll keep your hands warm, and I don't want you to feel uncomfortable..."
Abigail quickly complied, tugging on the worn leather gloves without any hesitation. They were much too big for her own small hands, but the sheepskin on the inside of the gloves - as well as Ivan's body heat - left her hands feeling pleasantly warm and cozy. "Thank you, Ivan...But, aren't you cold?" she asked, huddling further into the warm jacket wrapped around her slender frame.
Chuckling, Ivan replied, "I am purebred Russian, this little chill does not bother me." He was still wearing the white button-down shirt Abigail had wanted him to wear that night, but the collar was askew and a button had been popped off. "I'm...happy to hear that you are happy with me," he hummed, a small smile on his face.
As Ivan silently lapped at his ice cream, Abigail's attention was suddenly drawn to his right hand. It was bruised and scraped up, dried blood smeared across his knuckles. "What happened to your hand, Ivan?" Abigail demanded, grabbing his wrist so that she could look at the damage more closely.
Smiling through a pained wince, Ivan said, "Well...Apparently, that's what happens when you punch through drywall."
"You idiotic, dough-faced...Ugh, you didn't even clean it out or bandage it! Honestly," Abigail huffed with concern, brushing her gloved hand over his bruised knuckles.
She wanted to blame him for everything...
"Abby, it doesn't hurt so much - Ow, ow, ow! Don't do that, it hurt!"
And for making her fall in love with him, Abigail could blame Ivan most of all.
But she wasn't blameless in that either.
This is a continuation of my other prompt story "A List of Reasons Not To".
What can I say, I like to have a little RusEng in my life! Or, as I like to call them, the Splendid Isolation couple. There might be more written for this little series, but I can't say for sure.