Desperation
Blade let him hold her. She didn't know what else to do. She hesitated, and then put an awkward hand on his shoulder. He pulled her closer. Her mouth rested on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his neck. His skin was so warm after her hours of walking through the cold. She let out a slight murmur, nuzzling deeper into him. She wasn't thinking. She didn't want to think. She was letting herself run on pure instinct, pure emotion.
He was kissing her neck, so gently, just brushing his lips across her skin, dabbing so softly at her throat.
"Jaina?"
She lifted her head. His voice was tight. "Yes, Michael?" she asked, softly.
"This... this is real, isn't it. You are here."
"Yeah. This is real. Sorry."
"Sorry?" His voice was weak, as if she had made a bad joke. He straightened up, pulling back from her slightly. His eyes were red, tears streaked his face.
She saw them and frowned, holding out a hand to him, concerned. He shook his head and moved back out of her reach, sharply.
She mistook the gesture for a spark of anger, and, seeing it in her eyes, he immediately sought to reassure her: "No. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He moved forwards, his lips once again on her neck, gentle pads, so gentle, "I'm sorry. I'm so... so..." his voice was a gentle murmur, so soft, the touch on her shoulders so gentle. "God, Jaina... it's really you... you're really here..."
"Yes. I'm here."
"Ten years. It's been ten years. Did you know that?"
"Yes."
"Do you... I mean, do you want to... know anything, d'you want to ask me anything?"
She pulled back a little, looking at him. She thought about it. Ten years... She shook her head, "Is Darcey still Town Crier?"
He smiled, at first weakly, but then he realised that she was trying to lighten the mood a little, and the expression grew genuine, "Yep."
"Good. Good. And the Cow and Corset?"
"Still run by the Houstons, yes. Bit cheaper now, probably, since you last saw it."
"Fantastic." Then she waited a beat. She looked at him. "The children?"
He looked at her. Then he shook his head, "Rose is eleven. Mattie's just turned ten. Ten and a bit."
"What's he like?"
"He looks like you. Dark hair, brown eyes. Thin, but strong for a little kid." He paused for a second. "He speaks like you."
"What were his first words?"
He smiled, "Cup."
"Cup?" she gave a small burst of laughter, and then shook her head, still smiling, "Of course. Of course it was."
"He'll be a regular in the Corset when he's older."
"He sure as hell won't." she hesitated a second, and then shook her head, "And Rose?" she asked, softly.
He shrugged. His smile was almost sad. "She's beautiful. So beautiful. Fiery, like you. She's got a temper."
"Really?"
"Yeah. She's brilliant with a sword. For a girl her age."
She glanced at him, surprised, "You taught them?"
"Me and Hannah. Get them ready. You know what she says, every day?"
"What."
"She says, 'When I grow up, I'm going to be a Hero'. Just like her mum."
A tear glistened in Jaina's eye. She blinked it away, quickly, licking her lips. She shook her head, "I... I used to take her for picnics. Down Bower Lake."
"Yeah."
"Can she still fish?"
A flicker of confusion moved over him, "Fish?"
"I taught her to fish. In the river. In the creek."
He paused, and then shook his head, slowly, "No."
She frowned, "I did. I remember."
He shook his head again, "Jaina, Rose was less than a year when you left. How would she have fished? How could you have taught her?"
Jaina hesitated. The memory she had, the memory she had fixed so adamantly into her brain... that was... wrong?
Michael looked at her. He took her hand. "Come with me."
He pushed the front door shut, not caring about the mess of china still on the floor, and led her along a corridor, coming to another room. It was a bedroom. A flash of unease flittered through her far too fast for her to notice it. She looked around the walls. There was a sword on a plaque above the door, a Master Katana. It glittered and seemed to glow in the light of the candles Michael was now lighting.
"This is yours. All of it." He opened a wardrobe by the door, exposing lines of clothing, all somewhat obsessively ordered by colour. He ran a hand over them, "I kept everything as you left it. Just... just in case."
"You never gave up hope." She murmured, softly, her eyes lingering on the blade above the doorframe.
"Of course I didn't. How could I. With Hannah and that Theresa, and Boy... in and out all the time... how could I give up."
He turned back to the room, clearing his throat slightly, "Your books are all here... everything important... your Guild Seal, all your little trophies... Hannah collected the rent from the few houses you owned and delivered it to us, once a week. We barely even touched the gold you left us, so it's all there."
"I don't care about the gold."
"No. I didn't think you would. But, regardless, it's there." He turned back to her, looking her over. The slight tint of desperation in his eyes was back again, something like an innate desire to please, to make her happy, "What do you want? I mean, is there anything... anything..."
Under any other circumstances, Jaina could've smiled. He was still trying to play host? What a man...
She shook her head, "I'm fine. I'm good."
"So am I."
She looked at him, properly. His emerald-green eyes were locked on hers. His skin glowed in the flickering light of the candles. There was a small, thin scar extending from his right eyebrow to his hairline. A lock of his sandy hair had fallen across his eyes, and she suddenly had a deep urge to brush it back, away. Her heart was beginning to pump harder in her chest. For a moment, she didn't know why. Then realisation passed over her.
Michael watched as it moved through her eyes. He didn't seem confused in the slightest. He knew exactly what it was. He knew her well. He took a few steps forwards, removing the space she had put between them. He put his hands gently on her arms, just above the elbow. He felt warm against her still cold skin. He leant forwards.
He kissed her, hesitantly, brushing his lips gently across hers as if he was asking for her permission. She didn't move, didn't object. She didn't know what she was feeling. Something. It had been some time since she had last felt this, the sweet, heady shiver moving through her. She didn't know quite what to expect.
He took her silence as consent, kissing her again, a little harder, leaning into it. He moved his hands up to her shoulders, around to her back, pulling her closer. His hands pressed against a cut, a knife slash from a bandit at Rookridge, and she flinched, pulling back, the back of her legs hitting the bed, sharply. She gave a small, vaguely frustrated murmur, glancing down at it. She looked back up at Michael. He'd moved his hand back to her elbows, eyes moving over hers, uncertainly. The very green orbs were filled with concern. He was treating her so... carefully. Like a doll, like a delicate china doll.
Jaina hesitated, and then brought herself up to his level and kissed him. He shivered. She felt it run through her. She had to put her hands on his forearms and go up on her toes to reach. He put a hand on her waist to help stabilise her. When she drew back and her heel retouched the floor, the movement slid his hand up, rumpling her top slightly. He looked at her for a second.
He kissed her, pushing her back against the wall. He popped a few buttons of her ridiculous country blouse, glancing at her again for concurrence, and then opened it completely, sliding his hand inside, touching her. He slid a thumb into the side of her bra as his other hand traced the line of her cheek, her neck, her shoulder.
She pulled back a little, letting his touch leave her skin, and then moved her hand up his chest, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt.
He watched the hand move down, "You're shaking."
"Yes."
She loosened the final button, allowing his shirt to fall open. She pushed the cloth aside so she could touch his bare skin. He felt hot, very hot, like he had a fever.
Michael pulled her closer. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the line of her neck, his hands moving back to her skin, her hips, sliding into her open shirt, crossing around her back, pulling her closer.
She fumbled with her blouse, pulling at the unfamiliar sleeves, finally managing to get them over her shoulders. She let it drop to the floor without looking, clumsily, and then put her hand back on his belt, unbuckling it with the same awkward movements. She felt raw, new, and her awkwardness sent a flush shooting through her cheeks.
He shook his head. He didn't seem to mind. A hand traced her bare stomach. She took in a slow, shaky gasp of air, closing her eyes. A tear trickled down her cheek.
He saw it. "You're crying."
"Yes."
He pulled her closer. He moved his hand round her back and popped open the clasp to her bra without her awkward fumbling. He negotiated the straps down off her arms, letting it fall to the floor, and then moved to her belt, unbuckling it, deftly, pushing it to one side.
Sweet, gentle Michael was fading. He was breathing hard, his breath hot on her neck. He nipped at her throat, and this time did not seem to care as she flinched. His kisses came fast on her lips, giving her little time to breathe, his hands on her neck, over the scarf.
He tried to undo it but she stopped him, quickly. "No." He glanced down at her, confused. She just shook her head, "Please, just... leave that. Everything else. Just... not that."
Michael looked at her for a second, and then nodded, his fervour too much to let him question her. He bit her lip, hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. She yanked her head back and he kissed her again, forcefully, pulling her back towards him.
The kisses the men had stolen in the Spire had been rough and forced, the touches brutal, foreign lips claiming hers. She couldn't help but feel the similarities. Now he knew she wasn't going to pull away, wasn't going to stop him, Michael kissed her like she was the last thing in the world, desperately, passionately, roughly, roughly enough to almost hurt her. His grip was tight, digging into her flesh. He scared her.
But she wasn't pulling away.
One hand moved down to the line of her skirt, and he was pushing it down, yanking at it when it got caught on her hips. He was wearing everything while she was wearing close to nothing. She didn't care.
He pushed her, and she felt the back of her legs hit the bed again. She sat, quickly, an attempt of stopping him forcing her backwards, but it didn't work. He came down with her. His kiss was firm and had more than a pinch of urgency.
Easily, he pushed her back against the bed, kissing at her neck again.
"You're so goddamned beautiful." His voice was a low growl, muffled by her skin.
She retreated slightly under the covers and he let her, following her. He was on top of her, heavy and firm, pushing her into the mattress. He was letting out murmurs, low groans, a long, soft purr as his tongue traced a line from her collarbone to her cheek.
Jaina shivered as his hand followed her body, moving down to her hip. She couldn't help but feel that, maybe, this wasn't quite how a relationship was supposed to go. That it was his desperation that was powering him, almost fear, fear that this all wasn't real, fear it was a dream. This was Michael, her husband, the father of her two children, their protector, their carer. For ten years.
After ten years, who was she to deny him?
She let him vent his fear, his desperation, head back against the pillow, breathing hard through her nose as his mouth seized hers and he pushed himself fiercely inside of her.
Afterwards, Michael lay there for a moment, spent, panting slightly, leaning his forehead on her chest, eyes closed. Then he rolled over, freeing her, moving his body seemingly automatically close behind hers. His arm fell over her stomach, almost possessively. His breathing lessened, and then fell into an easy, rhythmic pattern. Within minutes he was asleep. Jaina laid awake, eyes tracing the soothing glow coming from the sword framed above the door.
After a moment, Jaina sat up and silently blew out the candle, leaving the room in darkness.
