The loss of twelve flowers was not nearly so dire as the loss of his life, Dean thought. The loss of money not nearly so dear as the loss of love. And yet, the pale ceiling mocked him, it's persistent colorlessness only forcing him to be reminded of the state of cloth, right before it's stained with blood. His eyes wouldn't close, though, so Dean decided to give them something more pleasant to stare at. He rolled over onto his side, now faced with his wife's dark hair, tossed around her head and along her bare back. With her face pressed into the pillow, and his state of mind as it was, he tricked himself for a moment into thinking she wasn't breathing.
"Vi?" He called, fearful of the quiet. Getting no reply, he turned her onto her back, brushing away with gentle fingers the curls that still clung to her skin. "Viola, please."
"Dean," she murmured, and he nearly began to cry with relief. "What the hell?"
"It's, it's nothing." He shook his head and smiled, a little too brightly. "Nothing at all."
"Tell me," she coaxed, now quite awake and a bit frightened herself. "What is it?" Dean licked his lips, about to spin up a lie, keep her innocent enough of the paralyzing fear a few choice words had brought him to. I just missed you, he wanted to say.
"I nearly died today," was what he said instead. Her reaction was immediate, though subdued. She blinked, slowly, thinking their earlier interactions through, understanding now the way he'd held her when he'd come home. As though he was drowning and she was the only thing he wanted to save, to not sink with him. Viola reached up, thumbs stroking across his cheeks and fingers grasping softly around his chin. She nodded, then, eyes beginnning to brim with tears.
"Were you going to tell me?" Her voice was flat, half angry, half sad.
"No."
"Fool," she whispered, hands still cupping his face. Then, with what seemed a moment of decision, she pushed him down to his back, a knee on either side of his legs. Viola's eyes blazed, her jaw set, and she nodded again.
"I love you," she began, setting her hands on either side of his hips. "I love you like you'd never believe. With my heart and mind, my body and soul. Every flower I pass I think of you, every day seems like a waste if you're not in it." She leant over him, tangled curls reaching down to brush his skin. "The sky seems bluer with you under it, and every other man I meet blurs away because he isn't you." The sheer fury in her eyes faded into a crippling honesty. "I'm young, I know that. But something else I know is that for me... You're it, Dean O'Banion. You're the love of my life, and if you were to die, I think I might, too." Dean swallowed back tears, and, with a trembling hand, tangled his fingers in her hair.
"Vi," he whispered, "You have no idea."
And then he pulled her down to kiss him. She moved her hands up from where they rested and drew them up the sides of his waist, resting them on his chest.
"I'm glad," she broke away between kisses, "you're not," she gasped when his hand stroked down her spine. "dead- oh god, Dean." He smirked aginst the corner of her mouth. She bit his lip and pushed him back down. "No, dear." She smiled wickedly, and his cock twitched. She raised an eyebrow and dragged her hands back down his chest to his hips. He shifted, and she licked her lips, and with that same wicked smile she abruptly took him into her mouth.
"Is this payback?" Dean somehow managed to hiss out, his fingernails digging- not entirely painfully- into her scalp. She merely licked a swathe up his cock, sliding herself up to the point where she could kiss his lips again. Viola tasted of salt, and other things he couldn't be bothered to name. There was an insistent throbbing between his legs now, and Viola was doing nothing to alleviate the situation.
"This, my dear," she sighed, "is celebration."
"Of what?" he managed to groan out as she slipped one soft finger over his shaft.
"Of your not dying today, of course." And with that explanation, she slid herself onto him, muscles tightening and loosening to accommodate him. She sat up, hands resting once more on his chest, legs spread to either side. Dean let out another groan, and her smile grew. His hands, which had fallen to his sides somewhere along the way, now slipped up her thighs to rest at her waist.
"Vi." It was a breath, hardly a word, but it egged her on, and she began to move. Dean met her stroke for stroke, breath for breath.
Love for love.
It could have been hours or minutes, for all he knew, when she stiffened above him, eyes blown wide and hips thrust forward. She let out a deep sigh, and she tightened around him once more. When he felt her fingers loosen , he pushed her back, switching their positions. A few days more, another minute, and he let go.
"Dean," Viola sighed, twining her arms around his neck.
Later, tangled together, legs braided and arms lovingly wound around waists and necks, Dean pressed kisses into her hair and murmured that he was sorry, that he loved her, that he wasn't going to die, wasn't going to leave her. She brushed her fingers through the back of his hair and closed her eyes, breathing him in.
Eventually, their grips on each other loosened, and Viola stood, walked to her dressing table. She returned with her brush, and Dean smiled fondly as she handed it to him. Shyly, for all the wicked smile she'd thrown him before, she turned her back to him and hugged her knees to her chest. With gentle fingers and loving touch, he untangled her hair. It was knotted from their earlier activities, and he pulled at it, kindly and carefully untagled the most painful of messes. He brushed it until it shone, and when they found themelves reluctant to leave their small sanctuary of intimacy and love, he reached for a ribbon lying on the ground.
He twisted her hair skillfully, pulling and pressing strands of dark luster into a neat braid. She was quiet, glad enough to hear him breathing, and as he braided, he talked. He spoke to her about his business, both legitimate and not, about Al Capone and a stupid joke. About the iron salesman and calla lilies, and the fear that one day she might not wake up beside him. He told her everything, every strand of hair being folded together with story, until he finished, and tied the ribbon into a bow.
She stood, then, and when she turned to face him, he dreaded what he might see in her face. Viola was stunning in the dawning light, softly outlined in gold and silver. Her face was still slightly flushed, her lips worn red, and a pink circle growing darker on her collarbone. She was wearing a sheet, twisted artfully around her, held only by a knot at her shoulder, and he stared at the knot so he wouldn't have to look at her. The minutes ticked by, painfully slow.
"I love you," she said, finally, and his head snapped up in shock that that was the thing chosen to break the silence. Her eyes were level, her mouth turned up in a rueful smile. "So don't get yourself killed today, alright?"
He kissed her, hard, and the broke away with a brilliant smile, all the joy in the world in his face.
"I would never!"
I don't think any of this is historically correct. I have no idea if Viola knew from the start or not, but I'd be willing to bet she did. I also don't own anything. This is all just fun and games. Until somebody loses an eye. Then it's fun, games, and eyeballs.