Till death do us part
(c) 2023 by ihatemilk
June 2014
June 3rd 2014.
The day when, in just a second, her life lost all meaning irreversibly.
It started just as any other of the recent days, with her trying to clear her mind of him, of the memory that kept plaguing her for the last several days.
"Are you and Gabrielle a couple?"
The way he looked at her then, his eyes, the way his lips quivered almost imperceptibly, for just a millisecond. A millisecond too much.
"Xena?" the beloved voice dragged her back, from last year's New York into the early morning reality of the stale-aired raw-brick room in the war-torn country on the completely opposite side of the globe. The room where a blue, plastic crate served both as a desk and a coffee table, and occasionally a stool, depending on the current demand. It was surprisingly sturdy for a piece of fragile looking plastic. Module furniture, Gabrielle called it. Very functional. At the moment it hosted an almost empty packet of cigarettes and a half-empty mug of cold coffee that she'd been drinking for an hour now, in which time Gabrielle already had breakfast, two cups of herbal tea and cleaned up after it.
"Xena..."
"Yeah?" she feigned readiness for the conversation that was about to start, the conversation she wasn't looking forward to. She could feel the migraine settling in.
"Did you even hear what I was asking?"
"Uh-huh."
"Really? So, what was it?"
Here they were again. They'd been at it for the last two or three days. Yes, it was just a UN delegation visiting the presidential palace for a meeting with the president, but first, it was on the other side of town, where bullets pierced the air day and night now, and second, Gabrielle passed out twice this week, and they couldn't risk it happening in the middle of a street with lead in the air.
"Gabrielle, you're not coming to the meeting with me—"
"That wasn't my question... Xena, what's going on?"
"What was your question?"
"Xena, what is it? You've been like this for days..."
"Just tell me what the damn question was..."
"Fine. Of course, you're not gonna tell me."
"Gabrielle... you know what I think about you being here—"
"Xena, yes, I know you'd rather see me bed-ridden back in New York, but we made this decision together, remember?"
"Yes — six months ago — when no one assumed that Yemen was about to be set ablaze by a full-on civil war!"
"Xena, we came here to help, and it's what's needed especially now."
"Yes, when you get better..."
"So what, you expect me to sit here and do nothing? Xena, I don't know how long I have..."
Her throat clenched. "Don't say that."
"But it's the truth! And it's time we both face it, Xena. You don't really expect me to spend the last months of my life sitting idle in the midst of..."
"Gabrielle..." she started and trailed off, her voice dying in her throat. Where the hell was her strength now that she needed it? Sometimes it felt like she'd used it all up after all the months of watching what modern warfare did to people. But she needed to conjure it up now, for Gabrielle, for herself.
"Xena, you need to stop babying me. It's not helping, it's only making me feel worse."
"I'm just looking out for you—"
"You're suffocating me!"
The harshness of the tone hit hard. She couldn't do it now. She needed to breathe.
"Xena, I'm sorry, I just—"
"It's fine. I just, I'm not handling things too well at the moment. I'm sorry," she stroked her friend's forehead; usually covered with a mess of blonde hair, now just bare, sweaty in the thick air of a humble room that never saw the air conditioning. The green eyes shone at her apologetically.
"I'm going for a smoke," she said, as she always did when she didn't want Gabrielle to see her cry. She shouldn't see it, shouldn't feel like she was being mourned alive.
The air outside was hot and dry, the sun blinding; the only thing she loved about being here. Strangely, as sure as she was that she'd quit smoking in such scorching heat, it turned out to be quite the opposite; she smoked more than before. And it tasted different. The desert air, the burning sun; it made everything feel stronger, rawer. Everything felt different here than in New York. Reality hit stronger.
Thinking about him didn't help either.
"Are you and Gabrielle a couple?"
Why did it haunt her so much? Yes, she hadn't answered that question. She looked away, not in the mood for his mocking, not back then, not after Gabrielle's test results had just come through the day before. Really bad timing on his part, to show up with his stupid teasing. But then, surprised by the long silence, she looked up and met his eyes, full of something so different from what she expected, something that shouldn't be there. Something that made her feel bad, almost protective of him.
And then it had dawned on her. He wasn't asking to mock her, the question was genuine. And he must have taken her silence for an answer. And then, for that split second, he failed to mask his hurt. A second later, he covered it up with some sarcastic exit line and he was gone.
She hadn't seen him since, for months.
Up until about a week ago, here in Sana'a, when she was out gathering intel on the Iran-backed terrorist group that was now turning the capital city of Yemen into piles of debris-covered corpses. And there he was, supplying them with means to do just that. Why wasn't she surprised? She wasn't; maybe just disappointed that he supported the Persian side of the conflict. Though, knowing him, she wouldn't put it past him to play both sides.
She was on the rooftop of one of the few buildings that still had them, that was when she spotted him. Seeing him without him seeing her, it felt weird, somewhat unsettling even. She almost called him to confront him, but then it came back to her — that softness in his eyes — she didn't want to deal with him with that picture in her head, the image of the one time he looked so human that she almost wanted to hold him.
But the image lingered, stubborn, unsettling, annoying. Was it why he'd never showed up since? Because he was jealous? It wasn't like him at all. The Ares she knew would keep popping up to tease her about it with idiotic innuendos, mock her with his stupid jokes. Why did he choose to stay away? And why the hell did it even bother her in the first place? Wasn't it what she always wanted, to free herself from him?
Maybe he finally gave up on her.
"Not gonna disturb your marital bliss, then."
That was the last thing he said to her. And she should be damn glad about it. It was better that way, for everyone. The last thing she needed now — amidst the horror going on, with Gabrielle sick, with her own mental health taking a toll of it all — the last thing she needed now on top of it all was having him to deal with.
So why did she have to bite her lip not to call him? Seriously, just because she saw him the other day she was now going to — was he avoiding her? He had to know she was here, he couldn't have not known.
"Xena?" the familiar voice snapped her back into the present. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Migraine?" Gabrielle was sitting on the bed with her legs crossed, picking her nails, the green eyes shining with concern.
Maybe he was deliberately avoiding her, so what — one problem off her list, if she was never to see him again, even better — if she was never to see him again — she closed her eyes, feeling her chest vibrate with the growing force of her heartbeat.
"Xena…"
"Mm?"
"Seriously?"
"What?"
"I was asking if you got briefed on who's coming with us to see the president tomorrow."
"You're not gonna give up, are you?"
"You should know me better than that."
"I do," she couldn't help a smile. "They said two delegates in the end, so just you and me."
"Just like it's always been," Gabrielle smiled back.
"And like it always will be," she said, knowing she was in denial, knowing that Gabrielle was very aware that the reason she just looked down was to blink away the tears. "And it's not tomorrow, it's today at noon."
"June 3rd."
"Gabrielle, it's today."
"Oh. I'm a day behind, then."
"You slept a lot yesterday."
"Xena... I know you're worried about me, and the war's tough on all of us out here, but I can see there's something else..."
"Gods, you just won't give up, will you?"
"Just tell me and I'll let it go," Gabrielle smiled innocently.
How was it possible that this little body had so much strength in it, so much heart and determination, so much spirit, and all in such circumstances?
"I love you, you know that?" she muttered, grabbing the green-eyed face, kissing it, burying it in her neck as she felt the tears coming.
"Is that what's bothering you?" Gabrielle's question vibrated against the skin of her shoulder, making her laugh, her tears still fresh. "No, Xena, seriously — what is it?"
What was she supposed to say?
"It's him, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Ares."
"Why?"
"Xena, you only make this face when it's him."
"What face?"
"The face like you can't decide if you wanna kill him or—"
"I saw him. Here in Sana'a, the other day."
"There go you. And?"
"From afar."
"And?"
"Nothing, he didn't see me."
"And so, you're sulking."
"Very funny," she said mechanically. What was she supposed to say, really? That she was disappointed he wasn't calling anymore? That she longed to call him to tell him she was single? Gods, what the hell was wrong with her?
"Have you seen him since New York?"
"No."
"He hasn't showed up, not once? It's been months."
"I think he decided to give us space. He thinks we're a couple."
"He does? Why?"
"He asked, and I didn't say no."
"So, he finally stopped harassing you... and now you miss him."
"Oh, sure, especially the part when he tried to get my daughter killed if I don't give him a child—"
"Right before he gave up his godhood to save our lives — Xena, he's been a part of your life since forever — it's only natural you got attached—"
"I don't—"
"Xena, he's the only link to our previous life that's still around. It does make sense, really."
"Gabrielle—"
"Why are you so defensive about it?"
"I'm going for a smoke."
"It would do you good to figure out your feelings once in a while, you know that? Makes life easier."
"I will, once there's something to figure out."
"Fine, suit yourself."
"Be right back."
"You know you could just call him, right?"
The last question reached her ears just when she was closing the door behind her, gladly pretending she didn't hear it.
But in the end, they didn't go to the palace together.
Right before noon she got called to an emergency outside of town; she was conflicted at first, till she learned that Josh was to go with Gabrielle instead. Good old Josh, he loved Gabrielle like a sister. That part of the news gave her some peace of mind.
But she was furious, nevertheless. At Gabrielle, for being so stubborn. At herself, for giving in. At circumstances, for separating them. True, she shouldn't have taken it out on Gabrielle over the phone like that, but it was too much when another wave of migraine hit her. Well, now was not the time to feel like shit about it — her phone died and there was a job to do. There'd be time to talk about it when they would meet back home tonight. She would take a day off tomorrow so they could spend a day together; hell, she would even play that stupid card game that Gabrielle would always pester her with.
It was late evening when she opened the door to their room. It was empty, the light was off. There were voices outside, one of them was Josh. She ran back outside. Several guys from their team were standing there smoking. And there was Josh. He didn't see her.
He turned around.
He was wearing a cast, his arm in a sling. But it was when she saw his teary eyes that her heart stopped.
#
June 2014
June 3rd — on that day, for the first time in all those months, he couldn't stay away.
Not after her piercing scream exploded in his head, confirming what he assumed. That mind-shattering howl, it was unmistakable; it tore up his own lungs when she died in France in 1940 in one of his airstrikes. It did every time she died.
And it was now her turn to know what it felt like to lose the one person that was everything. He knew the agony that was now tearing her apart; a part of him reveled in it; another part ached for her to love him just as much — a part of him that he'd spend months trying to keep dormant, that now resurfaced in a heartbeat.
Funny, how he used to think that getting rid of the blonde would solve all his problems. Where was the expected joy now? The relief, the satisfaction? If anything, it was as if he added another problem to the list.
If Xena knew about his role in it... the very thought gave him chills. Although something told him that even if he had nothing to do with it whatsoever — she would still find a way to blame him, and it wouldn't matter to her that he hadn't known, that it was accidental. No, that factor never mattered when it came to his transgressions.
His sister couldn't find out either. Aphrodite loved Gabrielle. She wouldn't forgive him.
But it was opening the portal that made him regret what he did. The view made his chest tighten. He ached to go to her; despite all reason, logic and better instincts, there was nothing he wanted more than to go there and hold her.
He found her outside the UN base in Sana'a. She was sitting on the ground, her back against the wall, clutching a packet of Marlboro reds in one hand and holding a lit cigarette in the other. Her hand trembled when she brought the cigarette to her mouth. He knew she picked up on his presence, but the fact that she didn't turn back, didn't even flinch, her utter indifference... She'd never ignored his presence so completely and, judging by the hollow look in her eyes, she didn't even do it deliberately, which was even worse. There was no way she knew about his involvement, but his heartbeat went wild. If he went to her now, she would know. But even just seeing her in this state, made it impossible to stay there any longer.
He kept an eye on her for the next several days, especially since she left the UN camp and moved to the basement of some slum of a house on the other side of town, a location quite suspicious because of how inconspicuous it was.
At first, he couldn't pinpoint what it was; he just knew that something was off.
And it wasn't just the fact that she was drinking for the third day in a row — though that was disturbing on its own — but there was something more to it. As much as it seemed like it, she wasn't just grieving; he knew her too well.
The need to go to her was eating him alive. He knew that it would result in being told to fuck off the minute he would show himself, but fuck it, he had to see her, he just had to.
He opened the portal, for the second time that day. She was sitting on the floor of the windowless room, her back against the wall, her face lit with the dim orange light of a small table lamp. The look in her face gave him chills. He knew that look; it was how he remembered her when he'd first seen her, back in her warlord days; he still remembered how bewitched he was when he saw that deadly, evil sparkle in her eyes which said it was going to be either all or nothing, the sparkle had him enthralled for years; until she met his mongrel of a brother and he never saw it again. For years he would poke her, hoping to ignite that fire that he knew was still there.
He never did.
Until now.
And now — how fucking ironic — he didn't want it there. It made her a stranger. This wasn't the woman he loved, just a ghost of someone he no longer wanted.
He tried to shake off a wave of sudden misery.
Alright, that did it. He hadn't spent all those endless hours in therapy to now let his emotions overrule him like that. She wasn't a part of his life anymore, she should really be no one to him at this point. And whether she was this or that, with or without the sparkle, whatever she did — it shouldn't matter to him. Unless for practical reasons, like if she was to fuck up what he was working on in Yemen, by let's say targeting the Houthis — which was his best guess, judging by how she'd gone off the grid after Gabrielle died in the Houthi attack. Should that be the case, he would have to get her out of the way, but even in this case, there was a whole range of ways to do it without having to deal with her personally.
When he opened the portal on her on day four, he froze in his spot. He wasn't wrong. She had been planning to do a nasty little number on the Houthi forces. But it didn't include just the Houthis.
From that moment on, he lost track of time.
As soon as he snapped the portal close and teleported himself to the narrow little street leading to the armory, the time was no more. It was just one slow-motion, never-ending second of what felt like the last breath before the end of the world.
Making sure there was no one around to see him, he chose to make himself visible so she could see him from afar. And there she was, walking towards him, casually, as if they were supposed to meet there.
Apart from her eyes, she was covered in black head to toe. Of course – inconspicuous, blending in as a local woman, and convenient, to cover what needed covering; and knowing how she loved the overkill, the vest was probably only just a third of what she had wrapped all over her. It felt off to be impressed by this now but damn, she always gave more than a hundred percent of herself with anything she did; it was one of the things he loved about her most.
He might have been a god but never before had he felt that so much depended on him. He had to act, and fast, no time to think of the strategy, had to play it by ear. Open his mouth and not fuck it up as he always did.
Closing the distance between them, she stopped just inches before him. He couldn't hide that he struggled for breath, but it was of very little significance now when it felt like he was breathing in his last living moments.
"Finally grew the balls to show yourself? Took you long enough." Her voice was hoarse, but eerily calm; what would normally come out as a snarl was now uttered in a way that gave him chills.
And she knew. The righteous contempt in her voice meant only one thing. She knew he backed the Houthis, that he was behind the attack. There was no point in denying it now, it would only make it worse. But being overly apologetic was also a bad strategy; it would suggest his involvement.
"I'm sorry," he said, just to say something to pacify her, and only after the words left his mouth did he realize that it wasn't even a lie.
"I know you didn't kill her," she said, with the same numb indifference as before.
"What?" he breathed, his heart thudding.
"If you had, you would have shown your face days ago," she hissed with the usual contempt that had always been there whenever she spoke to him; never had he found it as comforting as now. Then, her voice turned flat again. "Now if you don't mind — I have business to attend to."
"I do mind, in fact."
"I know Gabrielle just got in the crossfire but the whole mayhem here is your doing, so get the fuck out of my face…"
"Xena..."
"…while I'm still asking nicely."
"Just hear me out—"
"Do you think a god can survive being blown up into particles?" she mused, sounding like a lunatic.
"Trust me, I'd rather be blown up into fucking particles than watch you die again."
"This is really not the best moment for courting…"
"Why, 'cause you're in a hurry to blow yourself up in the damn armory down the street?" he snapped, his anger getting the better of him.
"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing you and the Persians can't replace…"
"Why? Why the fuck are you doing this?"
Looking around, realizing that they were not alone in the alley and starting to attract attention, he lowered his voice. "Give me five minutes," he reached out, making her brows furrow. "Please. Five minutes and I'll bring you back here as you are, no tricks, I swear."
He could see she hesitated. "Xena, please… or I'll get down on my knees and beg you."
"Talk."
"Not here. Take my hand."
After what felt like forever, she slowly slid her hand in between his fingers.
For a second there, he hesitated regarding the destination; if he took her to his Dubai penthouse she would lecture him on how many low-paid immigrants died building it, and in case — he couldn't rule out anything at this point — in case that inspired her to press the button, she would blow up Burj Khalifa, his Middle East headquarters, the project he was rather fond of. But first of all, she would likely get defensive when on his turf. He should choose a no man's land. Or even better — her space.
That's why the next second they materialized in the basement two blocks away, in a small, dimly lit windowless room, with a single bed and a table which appeared to serve as a desk, although he didn't spot any chair. The little air that was there reeked of sweat and ethanol.
His eyes widened as he looked around the floor and saw what he didn't see through the portal, due to the bad lighting apparently — damn, with that amount of TNT she could've equipped dozens of vests. Maybe she already had.
No, he had to focus and think of what to say to her, to use the time wisely.
He couldn't see her face, but her eyes said it all — she was surprised he brought them here. It was a good move on his part.
Realizing that he was still holding her hand, he brushed his thumb against it. She wasn't looking at him, her eyes were cast down, or shut. She was so close, and she could blow them up into nothingness any second. And yet, it didn't affect him anymore. Standing here with her, in this shithole of a room full of explosives, he only felt numb.
"Let me see your face," his voice cut through the deadly silence. "Please," he breathed, closing his eyes on the exhale.
She didn't respond, she just looked up and flashed those icy blue eyes at him. They weren't narrowed. They were open, and shiny with what he felt was the permission he was asking for. His hand quivered when he slowly reached up and removed the fabric veiling her head and face, and fuck, he had to bite his lip to keep his composure. She held his gaze with her own glossy eyes and for a moment — if he ignored how hollow her eyes were — it felt like they meant everything to each other. Within seconds he would hear that he had one minute left, but if it was the last minute he had with her, he wanted to spend it like this, high on this illusion of what they never had.
Just as he predicted, her voice snapped him out of the moment brutally.
"Will you leave me alone if I fuck you?"
"What?" he asked, dumbfounded, as if she slapped him in the face. He felt his ears burn, his arms growing rigid.
"If I fuck you now, will you leave me alone?" she repeated, oblivious, like she was asking if he had a cigarette to spare.
She was actually asking him that. Who the fuck did she take him for? He clenched and unclenched his fists rhythmically, waiting for his rage to go from boiling to simmering before he spoke, and he didn't know what was worse — that she thought him so pathetic that she assumed a piece of ass was enough to pull his strings, or that she wanted him to leave her alone in the first place. Both, all of it, just being here, her very existence hurt. What a fucking mistake it was. He should have let her blow herself and all this godsdamned town up for all he cared.
"You know what? Go to hell — I'm done," he smirked. "Wanna blow yourself up, suit yourself, join the al-Qaeda for all I care. Do whatever the fuck you want," he turned towards the door, trying to ignore the misery clutching at his throat. Why the fuck would he even use the door instead of snapping himself out of here, he had no idea.
He was reaching for the handle when she closed the distance between them and pulled at his belt, unbuckling it in a swift move, taking him off guard, his body reacting to her touch in an instant.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he grabbed her wrists and jerked them away.
"Whatever the fuck I want," she hissed, pushing him back on the bed with a force that would've cracked his skull against the wall if he was mortal.
Catching his breath, he slowly lifted himself on his elbows, paralyzed, hypnotized by the scene in front of him. For all the dozens, hundreds of times he'd envisioned this moment, never did it occur to him that it would include stripping her of a shitload of explosives, and least of all, that he would love it. She was fucking crazy, that woman, making him lose his mind, straddling him in a swift jump like a damn predator, so beautifully nude apart from a dog tag necklace outlining her cleavage, and he ached for her with every fiber of his being.
He slid his hands up her bare back and crushed her into his chest with a growl, drowning in her hungry mouth devouring him, her body grinding against his in such fever that he didn't care what the conditions were, he had to have her now if it was the last thing he would do in his life.
Afterwards, his breath still ragged, he sat up, pressing his back against the cool, raw bricks of the wall; he looked to his right where she was curled up next to him, his eyes tracing along the red scratches adorning the whole length of her back - the marks from how he slammed her against the wall in the fever of their frenzied humping.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled the stench of the room, breathing in and out shakily, unable to produce any coherent thought.
He half-expected her to gear back up and ask him to take her back to the alley, but it didn't seem like it yet. She was lying there without a move.
He reached to his left, finding a blanket, and covered her with it. Wrapping it tight around her arms and back, he laid down behind her, pulling her close. She tensed at first but then eased into his embrace. When he moved his hand to her head, to remove her hair from his face, her body shook with a stifled sob; she probably didn't want to cry in front of him as much as he didn't in front of her; they were both proud that way.
He drew a deep breath in and exhaled with slow frustration. It was unnerving to feel so powerless, unable to do anything that would make any difference. But if she was now feeling even half of what he felt when he lost her — it was hopeless. Grinding his teeth, he crushed her more into his embrace.
"No deal this time, her life for mine?" she sneered. "You're losing your touch."
He pressed his lips tightly together, taking a few seconds to let it go. He wasn't going to let her provoke him so she can add another notch to her count of what a dick he was.
"I would bring her back if I could," he said, dimly realizing that it wasn't even a lie. Fuck it, he would, he would do anything not to see her like this.
"No, you wouldn't. You wanted her gone."
He felt his throat tighten.
"I just wanted to be with you."
"You didn't want to be with me, you wanted to own me."
"I loved you."
"You don't know what love is."
"When I look at you now, I really wish I didn't."
"You do know how to fuck, though," she added after a pause, making him cringe with the way she said it, with how much she sounded like her old self. "Speaking of which, I fucked you so you can go now. We had a deal, remember?"
Her words felt like spit in the face. He wanted to both strangle and fuck her now, fuck her till she bled.
"I shouldn't have stopped you," he gripped her neck, wishing he could turn back time and let her blow up the armory along with herself in it, as she intended.
"You shouldn't have. And you won't."
"How about I just kill you now, and save you the trouble of putting all that shit back on," he offered, tightening the grip on her throat.
"Do it," she challenged, her eyes fiery. "And then you can fuck me some more when I'm still warm."
For a moment he was just speechless; then, for another few seconds just silent, knowing his voice would break if he spoke.
"Gods, you're the worst fucking nightmare of my life."
"And yet you still keep coming back, like a stray dog," she hissed with such venom that something snapped in him.
Why was she doing this? Did she think he could actually kill her? Could he? He had to shut her up somehow so this didn't go too far.
With a forceful move he pushed against her back to pin her against the mattress and before she could push back, a snap of his fingers had her handcuffed to the metal bars of the bed headrest. Before she could kick him, he straddled the backs of her knees and, reaching aside for the blanket, he leaned over to grab her chin; she clenched her teeth so he took a fistful of her hair and pulled it roughly, and used that split of a second she opened her mouth for to stuff it with the blanket, making her squirm, which edged him on even more, and made the next few moments more out of control than he intended to.
He did silence her, in the end. Still recovering from the brutal force of his release, he reached to pull the blanket out of her mouth. She didn't even make a sound. It was fucking unbearable. He wanted to shake her. He couldn't look at her when she was like this, so lifeless after he'd taken out his pent-up hurt on her.
He closed his eyes and spent the next minute or two wishing for it to be just a nightmare he would soon wake up from.
Eventually, he stood up and snapped his clothes back on. With another snap of his fingers, she was deeply asleep and clad back in what she wore before — minus the explosive accessories — but seeing the result — bulletproof underwear, seriously? — he frowned and decided to go with black jeans and a black t-shirt. Her original ensemble remained piled on the floor. Kevlar body suit for a suicide bombing, seriously? What, did she hope for a plan B in case the blow-up didn't work out quite the way it was supposed to?
"Gods, I wish I'd never met you," he exhaled, sitting down on the bed, pulling her shoulder gently to roll her onto her back. Her cheeks were still blushed, soft to the touch. Her skin; he could still feel it pulsing under his palms, warm and smooth.
"I should have let you do it," he brushed his knuckles against her chin. "I would mourn you, but I would move on, I would live. But when you're alive, you're only killing me."
He stroked down to her neck, running his fingers down the side of it, trailing up with his index finger to feel her pulse, to shake off the impression that he was looking at her dead body.
But he could be. He could do it right there, just seconds of pressure around her neck, nice and quiet.
Like tearing off the band-aid in one swift move.
It would hurt as fuck, but so did living and wondering what it would feel like to come home to her, to have that normal, boring life that mortals had, with kids and a dog, or whatever else she would want; the things he hated himself for wanting, the things she was never going to give him, even though it was her who made him want them in the first place, making him — the god — weak and pathetic no less than mortals were.
"I can't do it anymore, Xena. I don't wanna think about you, I don't wanna see you ever again, I just want you to get the fuck out of my damn head for fuck's sake, is all I'm asking…"
He licked his dried-up lips, breathing through his mouth, rubbing the weakness off his face angrily, glad she couldn't see it. Gods, he really was pathetic.
Till death do us part… wasn't it how it was supposed to go this time around? And here she was again, fucking up his plans yet again, without even her knowing.
He ran his wet thumb against her cheekbone, clenching his teeth as his heart came up his throat, cutting his breath off. Scooping her in his arms, trying not to look at her face anymore, not to see the tears falling on it, he snapped them out of that rotten dump.
When they landed in NYC, he wondered if she still had the lease on the Brooklyn brownstone she and Gabrielle used to live in back before they left for Yemen. Upon swift check it turned out the place was currently empty but already booked. Though, as soon as he offered to pay the 12-month worth of rent in advance, the situation proved to be easily reversible.
He hesitated about the next step.
He knew she would never forgive him if he booked her into a mental health treatment program, so he decided on a VIP suite of a regular hospital, saying that his wife was a veteran and been under acute stress recently. Seven days should be enough, though knowing her, she would be out of here as soon as she woke up. He instructed the staff to make sure that — no matter what — she got the suitcase he left for her. She wouldn't accept it if he gave it to her in person, and she would likely discard it anyway, but it gave him peace of mind to know she would find it there when she woke up.
Satisfied with checking the boxes he wanted checked, trying to keep emotions in check, exhausted with trying not to look at her, torn between wanting to hold her hand and needing to get the hell away from her, he finally got himself out of the damn New York — the city he hated because of how much it made him think of her.
The only destination that could now at least partly restore his wrecked mental balance was quite the other side of the globe, and within the next several minutes there he was, breathing in the woody, spicy scent of the only place on Earth that felt like home.
#
He didn't leave Dubai for he didn't know how long. In fact, he didn't even as much as leave the apartment, resorting to self-medicating with a 1,9-million-dollar bottle of Macallan 1926 for a start, and any substance possible that would, even if just briefly, fabricate the illusion of erasing her from his mind.
At times he would break, and snap the portal open, to see her even just for a second — and it was never just a second — and would send himself spiraling down into places he wished he'd never known existed. If it hadn't been for his immortality, he would have died dozens of little deaths, from all the shitload of everything he did. At some of those moments, he wished he had.
But worst of all, all those times when he kicked his dopamine into overdrive, everything would suddenly seem so irresistibly possible, so simple, and he ached to go to her and tell her that; and it would always take the utmost of his self-control not to.
He wondered whether it would have made much difference if they'd never fucked in that basement, and he wasn't sure. Then, when the memories of being with her would get vivid and delirious to the extent where he would feel himself drowning in her, his palms and all his senses full of her — at those times, he wished he hadn't known what she felt like, and wished he could just erase it all of from his mind permanently.
Two, or three, maybe four weeks later, he called his therapist.
It was the first time in all the months of their sessions when he couldn't hold it together. David said that it was a normal part of the healing process that one had to go through in such a situation, but it didn't make him feel any less pathetic.
He needed to go back to Yemen, to catch up with how things were developing. Not surprisingly, as it soon turned out, his absence resulted in a significant setback. It was a good thing, it forced him to get down to business and kept his mind busy for a while.
The truth was, he did keep tabs on her ever since the day he checked her into the hospital. More or less regularly, but he did, not to go insane. Although, at some point he started wondering what was going to fuck him up more in the end, checking on her or not knowing how she was.
Not that there was anything special to snoop on — after three days at the hospital she checked out and went home. He was glad she decided to stay in her old apartment, even though she knew it was a gift from him. The fact she didn't let her pride cut herself off from him completely and ostensibly — like he'd half-expected her to — it felt good, and it was fucking bad because it made it harder to cut off, and kept him hung up on her.
But he couldn't stop himself.
The need to go see her was unbearable, but he promised himself that, as a matter of dignity and keeping his mental balance, he wouldn't do it. Not unless she called him first; which he knew she never would, and this realization would always fill him with such misery that he would at times come dangerously close to deciding to fuck his pride and sanity and just do it.
Weeks had to pass before the urge to go to her subsided to a bearable level. It did help that she appeared to be doing okay, from the flashes he caught whenever he opened the portal to check on her. It was just glimpses, really; he would mainly see her go in and out of the UN office and gym.
He couldn't help a grin when he one day saw her leave the premises of the Woodhaven Rifle & Pistol Range. She had that blush of excitement on her face that she would get whenever she handled weapons; and he wanted to go there and just grab her right there on the street and gods, it took all of his willpower not to.
She worked out a lot. And since Yemen, he never saw her drunk; it was good, she seemed fine, and it made him feel at peace. He didn't have to worry about her. He could finally focus on his work duties full-time.
And it was high time to get down to business. Due to how side-tracked he'd been since the damn June 3rd, there were now enough pending issues to devote himself to for the next several months.
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