No Evil Angel
Chapter 2
Set Hell On Fire
He doesn't treat her any differently.
Expected him to heed her warning, to return her to the roots of the mountain buried deep beneath the earth to wilt like a potted plant from the lack of sunlight and fresh air. Were he as pragmatic as he is in the stories he regales her with of his air force years, he'd see the danger in her existence, in her freedom, and relinquish her in order to keep his planet safe.
But he doesn't.
Still holds her at night—or doesn't if she doesn't want the closeness—still plays with her hair while they watch various programs on television. Still sidles up beside her in the kitchen as she cleans the mess he made while making supper, his hands dropping to cup her hips through the tough material of what he calls jeans and sways her with him while his lips pluck at the side of her neck.
When she rouses in fits of panic from the snapshots of memories, of future incidences, flipping through her head, unsure where she is, who she is with, who she is, he sits beside her, calmly rubbing a hand over her back, speaking to her softly, telling her things she's forgotten about herself.
The seasons begin to change, slowly. The humidity saps from the air, instead replaced with a cruel chill that she finds beyond refreshing, the opposite of the oppressive heavy air of summer suffocating her with each breath.
While her skin still steams in the shower, while she cannot help the emotions that grip her body and squeeze, repressing her in an entirely different manner—the sensation doesn't last as long, she doesn't feel as void of herself, because he's present to remind her, and while this is a precarious situation—if her intuition is right, as it usually is—their relationship blossoms again because of it.
Climbs out of the shower and into a darkened and steamy room.
When she needs to be alone, she excuses herself, and showers, the touch of water against her skin reminiscent of a childhood she's almost forgotten, the saunas and hot springs of her native planet, the glaring sun over ice mountains and shimmering beams of light reflected just. Dries herself off and pulls on her sleeping outfit—a loose t-shirt and pants, then sits for a second at the vanity, weaving her fingers through her hair in order to braid it back and out of the way.
Her reflection is easily recognizable, but at the same time, still a stranger staring back at her. A different thought wave, different ideals, another lifetime ago before coming to earth, leaving, returning, and wanting desperately to leave again, yet is anchored here by love.
He's sitting on the couch when she exits their room. His feet up on the table and his computer set in his lap. His expression is pensive, his lips pursed and his irises flitting over the screen reflecting blue on his face. The television is on, flashing images, but soundless, simply a background decoration.
She loves him so much, more than she ever possibly thought she could.
Her heart settles just by seeing him, and she knows that whatever comes, they'll face it together, even if it means imminent destruction.
Even if it means nothing at all.
"Hey." He glances up from his laptop briefly eyeing her before sinking back down into writing notes for his job. She doesn't quite understand it, but from what she knows, he gives advice to people trying to portray the military more accurately in media. Like anything he does, he puts in his full effort, staying up to odd hours sometimes while typing up notes. "How was your shower?"
"Uneventful."
She cuts in front of the television, the newscast he's watching shows photos of riots that had broken out in a larger, more engrossed city. Apparently after their wake, the country was still reeling from the discovery of the stargate and are still very wary of the government.
"Is there more protesting?"
"Looks like it," huffs as he reaches forward, grabbing the remote and handing it to her. "Put it on something else."
"Wouldn't it be pertinent to know the struggles your country is—"
"It's not exactly relaxing to watch—"
"Yes, but if your country is in the throes of a revolution—"
"Shit like this always happens, Vala, and it always ends up going back to normal—"
"Aren't you even curious as to—"
"I know why they're doing it." The laptop jitters on his legs as he shifts, uncomfortable with having to talk about the situation with her. His muscles clenched, his skin growing red. "People are whining because they wanted to know the Stargate Program existed before now, and they think the government is withholding more information."
"Aren't they?"
"Yeah, and it's for their own good. They don't need to know the Ori or the Ancients or the Goa'uld are out there. They don't need to know that races not on Earth still have malicious intent. They don't need to know that space isn't as great as it seems, that there's slaves, and murders, and rapes on other planets too. They're better off not knowing." His speech ends curtly, and he resumes to typing up notes, his fingers slapping the keyboard not so much with intent but as a way to drain his irritation. When she keeps watching him, rather than the people marching in front of some political building with a variety of signs, he side-eyes her. "What?"
"You can't possibly be able to know that for every—"
"I know I was happier before I knew." At the end of his sentence, his eyes widen with the realization in what he's said to her, and inadvertently, about her. His legs drop off the table, and he sets his laptop on the cushion beside him. "Vala, I didn't mean it like—"
Knows he didn't mean it, but also knows that in times of duress, he's not one to hide his feelings. That without intending too, he lets his emotions boil to the surface of him, that for the first time in a long time, there's an empty feeling within her chest.
Something malicious that intentionally makes her feel cold.
"It's fine." Disengages herself from where she sits in the corner of the couch with the intentions of slowly taking over his attention and lap. The contentedness she feels fleeting, the want to be near him even more so.
"Vala, really, I didn't—"
"Then how did you mean it, Cameron?" Stands akimbo to the side of the television, not upset nor disappointed, just hurt. They should be used to living in such close proximity, but there are times when he still gets on her nerves, when she needs a moment alone, and perhaps that's why his tongue went unchecked, because he requires just a moment to himself.
"I—"
"It's fine." Waves him and the conversation away, as she walks to the front door to slip on her shoes.
"It—wait, what are you doing?"
"I'm going for a walk."
"It's almost midnight and you're in pajamas."
"So?" She arches an eyebrow at him, unsure of what the time or her attire have to do with the want of a walk. Since it's cooler, there aren't as many insects floating around, buzzing in her face. The wind is harsher, but it will make for a brisker stroll.
"Okay—" groans as he scratches at the back of his neck, and then pushes himself forward and off the couch. "Just let me—"
"I want to go for a walk alone, Cameron."
His movements don't pause, they halt entirely, freezing him like a statue between the coffee table and the television. Finally, he nods once, tentatively, "okay."
"Okay." She nods back, undoing the first of the four locks on the front door, ignoring the odd feeling of déjà vu it brings her. The sensation that she's done this before—been here before—and that every time she repeats the cycle, things only end up worse.
"Is this because of—" now he pauses, his words fleeting, and perhaps he doesn't know how to end the sentence, afraid that no matter what he says, she'll grow more irritated, because he too is stuck in this cycle, and he too knows the end.
"This is not because of anything except the want of a walk."
Doesn't wait to hear the affirmation she knows is coming her way. Doesn't wait to hear him say he'll stay up until she's safely home. Just opens the front door, still heavy, still sticking, with less craftsmanship than their row house in Ver Isca, and shuts it softly behind her.
A/N: Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's The Merry Wives of Windsor.