Till death do us part
(c) 2023 by ihatemilk
_ June 2014The white and blue wallpaper in their hall, the old run-down kitchen table, the permanently almost-broken light switch in the bathroom — she never realized any of those things would have so much Gabrielle in them; not until she stepped inside their former apartment. The apartment that she was now going to be the only tenant of.
The apartment that smelled like Gabrielle; that wasn't inhabitable without her, the emptiness of which brought her to the brink of what had to be insanity. She would spend hours staring at their front door, anticipating the familiar sound of the key in the lock; other times, she was sure the bathroom door would just open, and it would all turn out to be just a bad dream they would then discuss in detail, sprawled on the sofa with a Thai take-away.
Then she would just daydream; she would do it for days — take off her shoes and wander around the apartment, tracing with her bare feet the floors they walked on together, the old floorboards that still remembered the footprints of the small, warm feet that stepped here six months ago, that were never going to step here again.
Everything else was dimmed out, just mechanical. Reasonable and automatic. Going to gym, eating, going to gym. She would work out until her muscles burned, run on a treadmill till she dropped to the floor. It didn't make her feel any more alive, but it kept her busy, kept her mind focused on pain so it wouldn't wander off to places that hurt a lot more.
She couldn't imagine getting back to Yemen. Not for the time being, not ever. Not just because of Gabrielle. This war had taken its toll on her on every level. She wasn't a stranger to what war did back in the day, but ancient Greece had little in common with XXI century. As thrilled as she was by contemporary weapons, seeing what they did to human body was something she still couldn't get used to, especially when it was children. Mothers cradling the dead bodies of their sons, it all brought back memories of the son she lost, every time, it was stronger than her. The group Ares supported, the Houthis — they had boys Solan's age, even younger, fight in the front line.
Once, she stumbled across a body of a boy who was almost a dark-haired copy of him; she dropped to her knees, taking the lifeless little hand in hers; and there was suddenly no shelling, no airstrikes, no sound at all, just that silent face and a lump in her throat, so suffocating she couldn't even cry. It was only at night that tears came, mourning her flawed, short-lived motherhood when it came to both of her children. She never got a chance to make it right, and it was now too late; too late to be even thinking about it. She wasn't fit to be a mother in this lifetime; not in the state she was in. At the moment, taking care of herself was already a challenge. But it hurt. Even when she first saw her niece; she was happy for Sean, but looking at the baby girl that was a spitting image of Eve, it was too much; she couldn't even bring herself to hold her.
"Hey... you alright?"
"Yeah." Looking at her brother's worried face was painful enough, she wasn't going to burden him with her past.
But Sean, he knew her better. He knew. "It's about that other life, isn't it..." and when he said that, it was as if some safety valve broke under the weight of this understanding, and all she held in couldn't stay in anymore. "I'm sorry, Annie..."
And when she saw his own eyes shine, and it all just crumbled down on her — the loss of her children, of Gabrielle, the joy of having him with her in this lifetime; the gratitude for being able to see her baby brother grow up into the great man she always knew he would be; the gratitude for not having to talk to him over his grave.
"I'm fine, I'll be back with you guys in a minute," she forced herself to smile.
"Take your time. Well, it's not like we're going anywhere - not for the next few years, from what I'm told."
"It's all worth it, you'll see."
"It already is... I love that kid so much I wanna cry sometimes, you know?" he frowned, blinking, "Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm an idiot..."
And he hugged her in a way that didn't stop the tears at all.
Having Sean was probably what still kept her alive.
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And then, there was him.
Back when she woke up at the hospital and realized she was in New York, when she reconstructed the events that led to that moment, when she realized it was him who put her there, when she opened the suitcase he left for her and saw the keys to the brownstone she used to rent with Gabrielle before Yemen — her first instinct was to just leave. The old instincts made her wary to accept any gesture of help from him; his goodwill never came without strings attached. Why did it feel different this time? Maybe she just didn't have strength left to care anymore.
But there was something different about him; something she couldn't pinpoint. That last day in Sana'a, when he came to stop her from blowing up the armory... he was determined to stop her, and he actually had; it wasn't the Ares who just stood by when she drank Celesta's tears, which he thought was poison. No, this time he stopped her, took care of her, made sure she was safe, had means and a place to live. And hadn't bothered her since.
Ironically, this didn't bring her peace of mind at all. As much as she tried to push it aside, it bothered her, his silence. Or maybe just the reason for it. Was it the deal? She fucked him on stupid impulse, and well, yes, she had wanted him to leave her alone but — so that was it? Was it him holding up his part of the deal? So that was him now, a man of his word, suddenly respecting her boundaries, giving her space? But it shouldn't bother her, for fuck's sake. Not the way it did. Shouldn't make her drive herself crazy with the memory of him, with the unrelievable need to — or she could just call him. Call him, have him over, see that stupid grin of his, and then drown in that rich, full, overbearing taste of him again; it would be just sex, they already crossed that line and the world didn't end. There was no reason they couldn't keep it that way. Maybe just one.
"I'm losing it, Gabrielle," she smirked, closing her eyes. "You were right, I guess I got used to him. But now he's... different. I don't know, he feels... safe, it's like... I almost want him to be here... how absurd is that? What's your explanation to that, huh?" She adjusted herself on the bathroom floor, straightening her legs in front of her. The tiled bathtub wall felt cold against her back.
"See, the world doesn't make much sense when you're not here..." she sniffled, exhaling a huge cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.
Gabrielle always hated it when she smoked in the bathroom. Right now, she would give everything to hear the angry voice yelling at her through the door, promising to make her wash the towels daily.
Then, when she closed her eyes, another scene flashed in her mind; him, here on the floor with her; they would share a cigarette and he would then carry her to bed, wrap her up in a blanket and hold her. Like he did in Yemen.
"...you know you could just call him, right?" Gabrielle's voice reached her again.
She was already in bed when the tears came. And once she started, she couldn't stop.
#
September 2014He didn't plan on seeing her.
He didn't even check on her that often anymore. But one day, out of the blue, he ran into her, simply.
And he fucking blew it.
Because on that particular afternoon at the New York UN's Delegate bar — he wasn't alone.
What the fuck did she expect, anyway? That he was going to be saving himself for her — in case she generously decided to give him a chance one day? He'd waited for this, for her — two thousand fucking years — that was how long he waited. Now — he was done.
Wasn't it what she always wanted, for him to move on?
Well, he had.
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She was a valuable connection he'd been working on for months, business-wise. Mostly business-wise, because she soon turned out to have much more to offer than just being a high-rank diplomat that pulled the strings he needed pulled for his businesses to flourish.
She was a beautiful woman in her early forties, and despite her Stepford-wife kind of vibe he very soon learned that underneath the off-putting attire was someone who knew how to leave him wanting more. Even intellectually.
Her name was Julia Anderson and when she was in New York, she hardly left the North Delegates' Lounge, the in-house bar of the UN's New York headquarters, which was where they first met, and where they continued to meet, before he changed the location of their more and more frequent business lunches to his Upper East Side penthouse.
She was the only woman in the world that looked classy even with a mouthful of dick; he found that quite charming.
On that one rainy September day, instead of meeting up at his place, she asked him to meet her at the NDL. They were in the middle of their fourth glass of scotch at their usual table by the window, when the unmistakable chill ran up his spine. He could always sense her presence like that, but this time, it was almost electrifying. Then, looking to his left, he saw her. Gods, he saw her. Sitting at the bar, with her back to him, but he would recognize that body even if he was blind.
A paralyzing warm tingle spread through him like a flame. How come she still had this effect on him, after all the rehab he'd been through? Somewhere in the midst of this annoying realization he felt a touch of a warm hand on his, and turned to face the red-haired woman sitting opposite him, the one he came here with, who completely ceased to exist for those several seconds, along with everything else.
"You okay?" she asked, raising her eyebrow at him, in a way that reminded him of the woman at the bar.
"Yeah, just tired," he lied smoothly, trying to keep his breath even, locking his gaze on the green eyes before him.
"There is one more ambassador I need to hunt down today, and we're free to go," she announced, clutching her purse in a gesture of leaving the table.
"Take your time," he nodded, leaning back in his chair. Only once she was out of sight, he looked to his left once more. There she was, on a barstool, talking to a tall, blonde, law-at-Harvard, holidays-at-the-Hamptons-looking guy standing next to her. Watching the guy's profile made him smirk at the cliche. The guy's hand was on its way to her waist, when she slid off the barstool and turned to face him, causing the loser to chicken out and slide the hand back into the pocket of his pants hurriedly. Did she avoid it deliberately? She wouldn't fuck a wimp like that, surely. Gritting his teeth, he swaggered towards the bar, because either way — this little networking session was about to be put to an end.
He was halfway there when he saw her shoulders tense.
She didn't look good. He knew that face too well not to see what she was trying to cover with makeup; the tired, empty eyes. She did look way better than back in Yemen when they last saw each other, but something was still off. Her eyes sparkled with something unspecified when she saw him.
"Fancy seeing you here," he gave her a brief glance, before resting his elbows on the bar counter and ordering a double scotch for the two of them. He bit down his grin when the blonde cliche blinked, not knowing how to handle being so ostensibly ignored. She was going to rush to the rescue, no doubt.
"Sean Williams, US Embassy Muscat, Oman," she introduced the blonde, raising an eyebrow in what he knew was a warning for him to behave himself. He laughed inwardly at how well she knew him. Gods, how he missed her. He could take her right there, rip that collared black shirt off her, get a mouthful of her tits and take her on that bar stool, for the Harvard wimp to see.
The blonde came up with some small talk no one gave a fuck about. He couldn't follow if he wanted to; looking at her was all he could focus on.
"Excuse us for a minute," he said to the blonde, taking her under the elbow, slightly surprised she didn't free herself from his hold at any point of their way to the outside terrace.
He was equally surprised to see that it was already dark outside. Damn New York with its miserable weather.
She took out a packet of Marlboro Reds and put one in her mouth, letting him light it up with his copper zippo, and he got lost — in that face, in the beauty of her taking that first deep hit and blowing the smoky cloud out of those lips, and gods, he could touch himself just watching her do that.
"Glad to see you alive," he said, lighting up his own cigarette.
"Don't get too used to it," she replied, narrowing her eyes as the corner of her lips curled up in the tiniest of smiles.
He wanted to counter with some witty banter but — maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the sappy music playing over the outside speakers — he looked at her and everything suddenly seemed so simple, so easy, making all their history seem so unnecessary complicated for no good reason.
"I missed you," he said, because it was so simple, really. She didn't have to say anything; he saw her swallow, saw the way she closed her eyes. All her body language betrayed her in one way or another.
"Thanks for the rent," she said hurriedly, drawing in another hit of her cigarette. "I'll pay you back after my next deploy."
Stepping in, he took a deep puff, exhaling next to her face. "You don't owe me anything." Moving closer, he seized her waist, making their hips meet. She didn't move, she let him. "Gods, how I missed you," he brushed his nose against hers, drinking in her shallow breath. Somewhere in the background, the next song started, "True" by Spandau Ballet. Her eyes were cast down, her chest rising and falling, and she had to feel what he was feeling, because for fuck's sake, the volume of her heartbeat was about to make his head explode.
"Look at me," he grabbed her chin. When he finally saw her eyes, he wasn't ready for how it hit him. Their breaths shallow, noses brushing against each other, inhaling one another, their lips finally met, very softly, almost accidentally.
He didn't know what happened.
The next thing he knew was an unwelcome realization that there was a world beside them; strange music on the speakers, an unpleasant night breeze, almost empty terrace, the cold stub of his cigarette in his hand.
And the hand — a cold, unwelcome touch of a hand on his forearm.
"Ready to go home, baby?" the words reached his ears from afar, snapping him back to what he didn't want to be reality. Blinking, he turned his face in the direction of the voice, frowning at the dissonance between the words and the mouth that spoke them, the lips that weren't the ones he just kissed.
The hand that grabbed his belonged to the wrong woman, too, but shaking it off wouldn't change anything at this point.
And there it was, the voice belonging to the only woman that mattered. "Oh, you can have him. A good lay, but quite disappointing otherwise," she said passing him by, throwing him a glare that hurt more than any words could.
He felt a hot wave wash over him, a lump clogging his throat.
And Julia's face, burning, the green eyes turning black with fury. For a moment there, he was sure it would get physical. But no, Julia was too poised for that. And she knew she stood no chance. But for a moment there, he saw Xena squashing her like a bug. For a moment, he saw the two of them nude in his bed.
And she left. Leaving him there, on the terrace, lonely and bruised, with a woman that would never be her.
He didn't expect to see her there when he went back inside seconds later — and he didn't.
But the look she gave him was all that he saw for the rest of the night. He couldn't hear much, either. He vaguely remembered the ride back home, in the painful absence of her, in the awkward presence of someone who would never be her, who, just an hour ago, was a familiar, comforting addition to his life, but who now was just a pesky stranger, an unbearable reminder of the fact that what he ached for had just slipped through his fingers and he did nothing to hold onto it. Imagining that she was likely fucking the blonde right now made his blood boil.
"So, it is her."
"What?" he grimaced.
"The one you think about every time we fuck."
Great. The last thing he needed now.
"You know, when I first noticed how every time you close your eyes your dick gets harder, I figured it was either her or a darkness fetish. But then, you never had me blindfold you."
He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tensing. Suddenly, he was so very tired.
Her hand crept over his knee, giving it a light squeeze, giving him a cringe. "Would she be into joining us?" the hand slid up to his crotch where he brutally stopped it.
"Drop it."
"What if I ask her myself?"
"I said, drop it!"
"Oh God… you're in love with her..."
The disbelief in her voice was laced with a hint of distaste. It would piss the hell out of him if he wasn't so numb.
"Lotte New York Palace," the green-eyed voice said in response, informing the cab driver of the destination, and him about the fact that she wasn't going back to his place, which he knew was meant to be a punishment, but for which he was more than grateful.
It was the first time Julia left without a word. And he couldn't give as much as a single fuck about it. He knew she was in town for another week, and the fact that she didn't call him once didn't stir him in the least. It wasn't her call he was waiting for.
Well, fuck it, he was going to get business done one way or the other, it was just a matter of time, well, more time, but everything was doable. It just irked him because he didn't like it when he invested his time in projects that didn't pay off in the end.
But that wasn't even half as bad as the fact that no matter what he did, how immersed in work was, how drunk or high he would get, or whatever number of nameless women he pushed off him — nothing managed to remove the imprint of that brief moment on the terrace, to wash her taste off of his lips. And she never called him either. He ached to go to her, but anything he could say to her sounded so fucking stupid in his head that he eventually never did.
For the sake of reason, he didn't open the portal on her either — if he found her fucking the blond loser, well, she would never forgive him for what he knew he wouldn't stop himself doing.
The weeks that followed were a blur.
Whenever he was about to go see her, his pride would get the better of him and he would go blow off steam instead, transporting himself to a random battlefield disguised as a random private. It went against his old code of conduct, but new times called for new measures, and if he wanted to stay on top of what he did, he needed to keep up with the nuances of contemporary battlefield, inside and out. And it calmed him down as nothing else did.
What a bullshit saying, time heals all wounds. It didn't heal shit, just covered it with layers of more or less meaningless insulation. Only the time spent on war made him eventually functional again.
Most of the time, he was almost okay.
And then, there were days like this one, one of the early October nights of 2014 — when all he could do was sit through the night on his 108th-floor terrace on top of the world, with a cigarette and a glass of scotch, watching the damn morning fog and struggling to shake off the pesky thought of how it would feel like to be sharing that cigarette with her snuggled up next to him.
The fog was now gone as soon as the sun started rising, making the full panorama of the city come into view. It was the view he knew by heart, but, filling his lungs with a hit of the newly lit cigarette, he found himself mesmerized by it like the first time.
It always felt like the first time.
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