Thank you for reading my story, and sticking with it. Little is different from this one on Archive of our Own. The next chapter will be though.
The sun, thankfully, decided to bow out of its struggle with the clouds. The grey muggy weather was a perfect accompaniment to a stroll along the river's banks and for a while, they did so in silence. She had grown tired of walking, and though she was loath to admit it, her body was growing tired. Threading her arm through his, she leaned her head against his shoulder. Eventually they arrived at the Cathedral, and they stopped before what she considered to be the finest church in the world. It was unusually quiet, though she suddenly realised it was late afternoon and most people would be retiring to dinner or to bars around the city.
"Do you think the hunchback is home?"
She still found this feeble joke funny and she gifted him a turn up of her lips.
"The gargoyles are my favourite," she said absent-mindedly.
"Aren't the ones in our bathroom modelled on them?" He pointed to one, "Isn't that one above my sink?"
"Yes," she nodded a little as they wandered towards one of the trees that lined the square, "I was very specific."
"You were."
What followed was that silence that everyone was familiar with. The one that implies that what must come next is the conversation you should have been having all of that time you were making small talk. She could count on one hand the number of times this silence had imposed itself on them as a couple. They stopped underneath the tree's vast canopy. She looked at him, the sun filtering through the leaves throwing strange flecks of light and darkness onto his face. He looked like a nervous school boy. From the tension creasing his forehead, to the way he was boring the toe of his wing-tips into the grass at his feet, it was evident that he was anxious. She wondered if he could see his anxiety reflected in her. She certainly wasn't boring her toes into the ground but she was making a huge effort to still her hands from shaking. She clasped them in front of her as she faced him head on. Under the tree, it felt like just them. In the shadow of Notre Dame they stood, waiting on each other to speak.
"I am so sorry," he finally said.
The tension that had coursed between them snapped like fine thread at his words.
"You lied to me," she said it as if she was shocked, as if it was the first time she had realised it. It was odd because that was exactly how it felt every time she thought about this fact. The idea was so alien to her that it literally left her dumbfounded every time she remembered it.
"I...yes," he murmured, his eyes downcast, "By omission..."
"I think that is the worst thing. You kept it from me intentionally. You wanted to keep it from me," she whispered and she didn't mean to sound so vicious, but she did, "You went behind my back."
He merely shrugged, already defeated, "I know but it was, I thought, for the right reasons. Well no, perhaps for the wrong ones. She was frightened and nervous and - "
"There are no right reasons to lie to me," she said curtly.
Morticia never shouted and she never lost her temper but it felt as if a dam had been opened within her. Anger was pouring forth, stopping only because her body ended at her extremities. If it did not, her anger would have continued forth and spread out onto the square. It had pooled at her fingertips and was gushing forth from her mouth instead.
"Why on earth would you keep her secret? It is so, so insulting. I did not deserve it. Not from Wednesday," she said coldly, "But certainly not from you. What did you think I would do?"
He held his hands out, signalling helplessness.
"I have never asked you for anything, Gomez, other than your honesty," she continued, "I might have disagreed but I would never have stopped them. What could I possibly do? There's nothing more grounding than realising you are completely without control and that the man you love most in the world is duplicitous in that. That is what you did to me. I love her and I want her happiness. However you..."
Her quiet, incisive monologue had come to a stall. She felt breathlessly angry and yet not once had her voice gone above a whisper. She exhaled a little breath and she managed to finish with;
"You just thought about your happiness and you let her have an opinion of me that was unfair."
She felt the catharsis that came with honesty and she felt suddenly drained. She leaned against the tree, feeling the rough bark against her hands, and enjoyed the sensation of complete emptiness that came with guilt-free admission.
"I know," he spoke into the air, "I know I was a fool. A complete fool. I was foolishly overwhelmed. Not once has she shared anything with me, and Morticia, cara mia, you must know that I was touched by that. I felt very trapped, between what I knew was right and how flattered I felt."
She looked at him for a moment, "When was it ever acceptable to be divided? I did not have children with you so they could tear us apart, in fact the very opposite. You know what I was giving you when I gave you our children."
"I know!" He raised his voice a little, "I am so aware of that. But it was not her fault, and nor was it the boy's. I could have simply refused to do it and, half-heartedly, I tried."
She could not help herself from laughing slightly at his refusal to use Lucas' name and anyway, she found suddenly that her anger had fled her. As he stood in front of her, a Victorian vision of debonair, it struck her how far away it felt from the time she had chosen to take her suitcase and go.
He ran his hand over his pomaded hair, slick and shining, and then over his eyes, "Morticia. I know I made a colossal mess. I am so acutely aware of the fact that I was completely and utterly in the wrong. But believe me, my heart was truly in the right place. I defended you. I told her she was being ridiculous but she couldn't see sense. And did I blame her? no. She is in love, and love makes us do strange things. I did it because I didn't know what else to do."
She nodded, "I know that."
And she really meant it. She knew entirely that her husband was a genuinely decent gentleman. He was ferociously loving of his family, to the point that he often did things without thinking. In the space of a few moments, she was able to recall at least five occasions on which he had allowed his love for those around him to cloud his judgement. It had been that ferocious passion that had so attracted her to him in the first place. He was full of fire.
"You left me," he suddenly said, his voice no more than a mumble.
She looked at him, and saw for the first time that there was hurt in his eyes. It was very difficult to hurt Gomez (not physically of course, she was an expert at divesting just enough pain to make him ecstatic). Everything bounced off him in a mannerly fashion. He wasn't easily hurt by her actions and it had not occurred to her that her flight may have hurt him.
"I couldn't sleep," he said, sinking down onto the ground. There was little fire in him when he said that. She was genuinely shocked at his admission and was momentarily embarrassed that she had so hurt him.
He pulled his velvet coat around him and flipped the collar up, fiddling with the ascot around his neck.
"I really never thought you'd do that."
She held out her hand and he looked up at her, confusion evident on her face.
"My darling, you don't really expect me to sit one, without your assistance," she motioned to the grass below her feet, "And two, on the actual grass."
He straightened out his legs, and brushed his coat from either, so it fanned onto the ground beside his thighs. Using his hand, she levered herself, rather gracefully, into his lap. Her face was close to his. The warmth that bled between them made her shiver in pleasure.
Evidently his attempt at exercising extreme self-control was waning. He weaved his arms around her, locking her in place. She touched his face lightly.
"You broke a vow..." he murmured.
"I know, so did you."
"Touche."
"That's French Gomez," she teased, fiddling with the diamond pin in his ascot.
"It just isn't the same," he laughed. It was a genuine guffaw and just the sound made her feel better.
"I am sorry," she said seriously, lowering her voice, "I know I was rash. I just..."
"I understand why you did it," he said softly, "I just don't like that you did do it. It really did panic me. The reason it panicked me so entirely that I could barely function was because I have never, ever spent a night away from you. At one point or another, we always lie down together, or speak, or something."
"I am sorry mon amour," she sighed, pressing her forehead to his, "I am entirely sorry. Not even death will part us, I swear it to you."
He pressed his hand to his breast pocked, then the pocket at his hip. He shrugged and spoke as if she knew exactly what he meant, "Oh I forgot."
"Forgot what?" She was growing uncomfortable on his knee and using his shoulder, pushed herself up, "Help me up please Gomez."
Her request proved hard given the constraints of her dress, but he managed.
"My cigars," he held her hand as she stood, then joined her. He brushed the little stray blades of dry grass from the thick velvet of his coat, "And I really could smoke one right now. I need it."
"We can go back to the hotel."
He did not miss the implicit suggestion on her mouth. The way her eye brow arched and she intended it to be that way.
"No," he folded her arm in his, pressing her hand to his chest, "I mean I forgot them. As in, the last time I had a cigar was in bed after you left."
She raised a brow, "You had a cigar in bed?"
He laughed a little, "It was more of a consolatory ""You're on your own tonight kid" kind of cigar."
She squeezed his chest discreetly, her nails digging in, "I can forgive you that then. Will we go and purchase some? Oh Gomez," she whispered, "How have you survived? A transcontinental flight and marital strife? You must be dying for a La Gloria Cubana."
"Even the way you say it make them sound delicious. Which, inadvertently, they are..." he said, "I mean, what wife can remember the name of her husband's cigars and say it in a way which makes it sound completely visceral?"
"Only yours," she threaded her fingers with his, " I remember it because it was the first thing I ever memorised about you. It's hard to distinguish between the smell of cigar smoke and the smell of husband. I find it disgustingly pleasant. So, shall we buy you some cigars?"
"Will I need them?"
"In all likelihood."
He laughed unctuously and slipped his hand around her waist.