"They only had black tea."

"I don't mind. I prefer it, actually."

He frowned, pulling the cup away from her open fingers in his surprise, "Since when?"

"Since always," she shrugged, reaching, still trying to take it from him.

"You never said that."

"You never asked."

He shook his head, "I must have at some point."

"I'm telling you that you never did."

"That's impossible."

"Okay, well, can I have it anyway?"

"Am I a charity now? Have I taken to giving things away for free?"

She clicked her tongue in irritation, but leaning up, left an unconvincingly chaste kiss on his lips.

"I'll let you off this time, but as your paramour and husband I really do deserve better," he admonished her.

"So long as you promise never to say that again, fine." She took the cup gratefully into her outstretched hands, gripping it tightly as she leaned against the frame of the car.

If he hadn't seen her sleep, he wouldn't believe that she had. She looked exhausted to say the least. She kept her elbows pulled in tight to her body, her fingers interlocking around the cup in a tangle. There were a few blissful moments of silence wherein she sipped at the hot drink.

After all this time he ought to have known that silence was too good a gift to last.

"Listen, we really have to talk about what happened yesterday."

He froze for a second, staring at the open horizon. His men were a ways off. Good, they wouldn't hear.

"I hardly think that's necessary."

"I… think it absolutely is."

"There's nothing more to say."

"What do you mean there's nothing more to say? There's plenty more to say!"

"What are you trying to get at? What more could there be?" Things had just been nice. They had been genuinely nice. He had, foolishly enough, thought that maybe they could get through the rest of the day, and everything would still be nice. He should have known better. Of course she'd want to ruin that. Heaven forbid he have anything resembling happiness. "It is what it is. Don't put too much thought into it."

"I'm… just trying to figure out how they knew that we were coming?"

He looked at her, his eyebrow cocked, "Excuse me?"

"Yesterday, when we got there, and they already knew? Don't tell me you hit your head that hard."

"I…" he cleared his throat, recommencing his shuffling, "Yes. Well. Obviously they didn't and you're just being paranoid."

"But that's not-"

"I'm sorry that it's not an entertaining answer, Dearest. Not everything has to be so great. You really want to know the big secret of why we succeeded in killing exactly no one? Because they left. We were too slow, case closed."

"You don't-" she bit her words off, clenching her jaw. Why should she help him? That's what it would be if she were to tell him, wouldn't it? There was no point, no reason for him to know that they had been a step ahead. Maybe they deserved to be there. Maybe justice would sort itself out.

"Not to worry, though; this is almost behind us. Just a bit more time, and then we get to try again."

"Try again?"

"Of course; you didn't think this was over, did you?" He cocked his eyebrow, "Have you ever known me to accept defeat?"

"I suppose not," she could feel her teeth grind together.

"You're still married to a very powerful man. A single loss doesn't change that."

"I'm aware."

"And I always get what I want."

"Believe me, I know."

There were a few heavy moments of silence. She tried to bite down the bubbling feeling in her chest that had shifted from sorrow to anger.

"Why so on edge? There's no reason to be so tense."

"Isn't there?"

"A lack of victory isn't a loss. We'll make it up."

"You mean you'll make it up."

He squinted his eyes, studying her, "What has you so bothered?"

"I- Am I supposed to just be okay with the fact that you weren't going to tell me that we were going to plausibly kill my siblings?"

"Oh, is that all?" He waved her concern off, "It didn't seem necessary at the time."

"It didn't seem necessary?" The shrill pitch of her tone was impossible to repress. "What about that wasn't necessary?"

"We'd already discussed the possible casualties. You of all people ought to know that this is not work you can do without a body count. I can't hold your hand and walk you through every single eventuality, and I really can't do anything about your delusions."

She could feel herself wrestling with her anger, trying to grapple between her desire to live uneventfully and making him aware of his heinousness. He was all that she had, and he was nothing. She ought to leave right now, she thought, ought to just escape. But the thought gave her no comfort, no happiness. Instead, she just felt the mournful emptiness of what her life would be.

"You're a hateful man," she finished, making sure he felt the crispness of her tone. He didn't seem too perturbed, not even dignifying her words with another glance.

"Yes, yes. Coming from you, that's practically a love poem."

"I despise you."

"With the full height of your fury, I'm aware." He straightened up, as if to make a point of the fact that after all this time, he still towered over her. "Even when ignoring the fact that I contain more fury in six inches than you do in five feet-"

"You have no idea." She needed to stay in his good graces, she needed to, but how the hell was she supposed to ignore this? Why was he so stubbornly ignorant? Did he really want to try underestimating her again?

He smirked, looking at her, "Oh, I don't?"

She kept her chin defiantly straight, doing her best not to be intimidated as he leered down at her, "No."

"Well then," his hand unfurled slowly, "this shall be an adventure for the both of us."

She was almost more aghast when instead of grasping her, he only mussed her hair roughly.

"But let's put this aside-they'll be plenty of time for that later."

"Plenty of time for what?"

"For you to prove your rage. I look forward to it."

She bristled, livid at being so disrespected, "You don't know-"

"Oh I do know," he almost hummed in his quiet contentment, "and I remember fondly. You're always so… physical… when you're angry."

Seeing red was supposed to be an exaggeration, but she could swear she saw crimson before her eyes in her heated indignation.

"I- You don't-" but the longer she thought about it, the more right he was. She hated that, absolutely despised that. She'd show him. But even now her palms itched reflexively with the desire to pull him down by his collar, to make him apologize. It was the only power she had; was that really her fault?

"Oh come now," he ran his hand along her shoulder, a patronizing tone to his voice, "don't be so cross, Dearest. We'll be home soon enough, and you can go back to pretending you don't think about me just as much as I do about you. But until then, do you think you can manage to at least pretend to behave like a lady?"

She pushed him off, "Oh sure, I would hate to disappoint your fine company."

Catching her uncomfortably tightly by the arm, he kissed her cheek, either not noticing or electing to ignore her sarcasm, "That's a good wife."

She wrenched her wrist from his grip, pointedly avoiding his gaze. She wasn't sure what point he was trying to prove, why he suddenly seemed so hell-bent on intimidating her. Perhaps the loss had hit harder than she had realized. Good. He could stand to be taken down a notch or two, at the very least.

He leaned back against the car's frame, not looking at her, not wanting to deal with that mess. He really shouldn't push her so hard, he knew, but her anger was so much fun. Very few people had the nerve to talk back to him. It was still novel, and it was endlessly entertaining.

All the same, the last thing he wanted was for that anger to turn to apathy. So long as she cared with a passion, whatever that passion may be, he still had a chance.

They stood in silence. This wasn't supposed to have happened; she hadn't wanted to fight. She was supposed to be getting back into his good graces. But everything about her braced against him, wanted to shove him away, out of her life. It was a horrible feeling when your eternal torment was the only person you had, was the only thing you had. Stupid, stupid, she chided herself. If she was going to pick a fight, couldn't she have at least waited until after they were done being confined in a small car together? She sighed, rearranging her grip on her cup, trying to siphon as much warmth off it as she could.

"I still think you're horrible, but, I also don't want to go home angry. That's as close to an apology as you're going to get."

"Now now," he smirked ever so slightly, tilting her head up to kiss her softly on the lips, "don't go throwing that away. As I've said before—I like my women fiery."

It was weird, to feel so neutral to the cause. If anything, she should be fighting vehemently against him, but she was surprised to find she simply didn't care enough. They'd be home soon—she could look forward to that. The thought was a welcome one. She longed for routine, for the ability to lose herself within her own world again. It was out of her hands now, she thought, breathing in the steam off her tea deeply—it was finally no longer her responsibility. The thought was intoxicating.