For being such a small space, The Bunker did manage to provide some surprises – like how the "cabinet" between the bookshelves turned out to actually be a record player. Or a type of record player – or maybe she was confusing a type with a brand? In the end it didn't really matter, because Myla was a little burnt out on television and reading. She didn't even care that the only music available was a choice between folk and opera.
A routine began. Every "morning" she put on a record, tied her hair back, and baked something. Today was an attempt at a blackberry pie, accompanied by Otello.
Pies weren't exactly her thing, and it showed. Myla could bake an excellent tray of muffins, her cookies were a consistent hit at bake sales, and she could frost a cake better than the average person – but pies were something of a weakness. Mostly, it was the crust. Not enough flour and the dough was too sticky. Too much, and it would crumble. You want the crust to be flaky, but there is such a thing as "too flaky"?
And there was the waiting game. Myla could generally tell if her desserts would turn out alright, but with pie, it felt like a gamble from start to finish.
That was one regret of hers – she had wanted to be a better baker. Not that there wasn't time for that, but she had been on the right path to being a better baker at Jerry and Pam's, and Oswald took her from that. She was going to college for art history, because she felt it would give her life a richness of culture, and he took that too. Of course, her life with Oswald was bound to be a cultured one, but again, it was not on her terms.
The only positive thing about Oswald that had come to mind was the fact that their children would certainly never want for anything. He could sure as hell afford them all the paintbrushes and music lessons and whatever else they might want, and then some.
Once the pie was in the oven, Myla washed her hands, and looked around at her latest mess. There were deep purple smears on the counter, gelatinous pools of berry on the stove, and a generous amount of flour seemed present on every surface. Myla drummed her fingers against the wall. She had been fairly good about keeping the place tidy so far, but it felt more and more pointless each day.
The door began unlocking – a clear sign that she wasn't meant to clean (yet) – and she leaned back against the counter, waiting.
After coming through the door, Oswald was slightly taken aback by the sound of music playing, spending his first few moments inside searching for the source. "A Victrola?" He asked. "Hm. When did you lean to work something like that?"
So that was the name, although she still wasn't sure whether it was a brand or a type. "Honestly, it was a lot of trial and error. I found it...a week ago?" She explained. "Anyway – thank you."
Oswald became briefly amused. "For what?"
"For the life of me, I couldn't remember what that thing was called. Drove me crazy for like, a month."
He paused. "You just said you found it last week."
"Whatever." The days felt so long down here. "I guess it's been driving me crazy for a week, then." Myla noticed Oswald looking at her oddly after that, and decided maybe it was good time to clean the kitchen. Busywork was the perfect distraction from his stare.
"Are you feeling alright?"
The exaggerated tone of concern was grating. "You know it." Myla said through her teeth.
"Do you need any new clothes?" By "new", he of course meant "larger".
"Not yet." You would think it would have been hard for her to tell, considering she spent about ninety percent of her time in sweatpants (or no pants) and a button-up from the closet three times too large, but when the mood struck Myla (and struck quite often, actually), she would put on the dress from the night Oswald brought her down there. It was silk and cotton, very fitted, next to zero give in it – in other words, something in which she would instantly be able to tell if her body had changed shape or weight-wise. "Maybe in a couple weeks."
Looking pregnant was something Myla was starting to get a little desperate for. Sheldrew told her how "blessed" she was to not have many symptoms, but it felt very…wrong, somehow. Defective wasn't quite it, but not seeing herself grow or experiencing any normal sign of pregnancy left her feeling very uneasy – like something was going to turn out wrong, in exchange for her good fortune in not having to puke every fifteen minutes.
Oswald was still staring.
"If you're so concerned I'll go crazy down here, maybe you should have thought first, and put me someplace else." Myla watched his eyes widen in surprise.
"Excuse me?"
"God, I can't believe you were ever so hard for me to read." She mumbled. That thought had been written all over his face since the first night. Subsequently, every visit he made, it was plain to see that he was worried this would be the time he would come in to find she had completely lost it.
"Just...stop worrying." In her annoyance, she threw the mixing bowls into the sink a little harder than she should have. "There is no yellow wallpaper. There are no shadow people. I'm fine."
"But are there shadow people?" He asked jokingly.
Myla shot him a look. "Don't. That's not the point."
Oswald didn't know to make her understand that there was simply no where else for her. No other place nearly as safe, nearly as secret, that didn't require as many people to know their situation. She didn't understand that moving her was a gamble neither of them could afford to lose. Well, he could try.
Oswald bit his tongue. "Darling..."
"Don't call me that. This isn't an eighteenth century novel, you just sound ridiculous."
He hoisted her up, a little clumsily – the counter scraped against her backside as he did – but she didn't terribly mind. The burn it left behind was almost pleasant.
"Darling," he said again, "you have to be here."
How unsatisfactory. "Why?"
"It wouldn't be as safe as it is here." She would never be a more serious target than while she was pregnant. "And I wouldn't be able to see you."
What a tragedy that would be. Myla bit her tongue before that sentence could come out, and picked up his head from her lap to regard him more closely. She was starting to get pretty decent at discerning his lies now, but today there was nothing but his steely eyes staring back at her.
But Myla did rather like Oswald from this angle. Staring down at him, while he looked so upset. His face felt almost fragile in her hands, as she watched the light glint off his eyes, wondering how long he would allow the tension and his lust to build. The last time with him was so wild and desperate, and had more fighting than fucking. He pulled her hair, clamped his teeth down on her shoulder hard enough to leave dark bruises. At one point, his hand was on her throat – just a light squeeze, but Myla responded violently all the same. She remembered staring down at the dried blood under her nails after promising Sheldrew that she wasn't doing anything too rough on her body.
It didn't look like she was in for that same forcefulness today. Hands slipped under her shirt, ghosting up her sides, fingertips sliding against the skin of her back before they gripped her shoulders, and he pressed his lips against her collarbone.
"I miss you very much, you know." The low vibration of his voice gathered in the hallow of her throat.
Myla only blinked in response.
Oswald's hands began their slow retreat from inside her shirt, moving to the buttons. "Does that surprise you?"
It did, a little. She felt loved by him, in a sense, but you can be loved and still not be important. Ultimately, Myla assumed she was disposable, and so this admission of the contrary was somewhat jarring.
"I don't believe you."
She didn't look at him again, but the subtle movement of facial muscles beneath her palm told her that he was smiling now. "Fair enough, I suppose." With the last of the buttons undone, the way the large shirt hung around her small frame could be considered comical if they weren't so busy being serious. "I know what's true. I know I miss this…"
"Missing my body isn't the same as missing me." Myla said sharply.
"How about this, then...I miss how much better the house smells when you're in it," her baking, the scent of her minty shampoo lingering on his pillowcase, "and your humming," in the shower, as she was doing her homework, reading, "and the way you stare out the windows like a little caged bird." The last words came out like a whispering hiss while his fingers dug into her thighs.
Overall it was a sweet list, even though the last bit was a bit iffy, but Myla remained unmoved. "So, am I supposed to answer with the things I miss about you."
Oswald was silent, and his grip on her lessened.
"Do you suppose there are things about you that I should be missing?"
"I could give you things to miss." He replied simply.
"Right, like how you made me beg." Myla taunted. She could have given him something. She wouldn't even have to fake that something – of course she missed him, regardless of the terrible person that he was. She could tell him that she missed his deceit – there had actually been something special about the way he used to lie to her, and try to make himself look like a decent person in her eyes, to make her think he really needed her. It seemed like a thing he wouldn't want to hear, which made it all too tempting.
His benevolent expression shifted slightly, but he reigned it in, despite Myla's jab.
With no end coming to their silence, Myla hopped off the counter and shed the shirt. Not like it was doing much to cover her now anyway. She tugged on the sleeve of his jacket in a "follow me" gesture, before she led the way to the bedroom. Oswald never came down here for just a check in and some demeaning banter, and that was fine. Truthfully, she wouldn't have minded if he told her it was only her body he missed. Things like that didn't matter to her anymore. It didn't matter that his kiss held something behind it that hadn't been there in a long time. None of it mattered to her at all.
But it mattered to him. It mattered far too much to him. From her dreamy expression and the way they moved together, breathed together – by God, there was nothing about it that didn't matter. He loved the expressiveness of her hands. They glided over the planes of his torso, held him closer to her, gripped his hair when he pushed her knees back to her shoulders. Reveled in the way she gasped and squirmed and whimpered at how deep he went.
"Myla." Oswald had nearly forgotten how well her name rolled off his tongue. How sweet it sounded, saying it over and over. Myla. Myla. My-la. My-love. My…My….
Mine.