Till death do us part
(c) 2023 by ihatemilk
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It was already dark outside when she woke up.
Soundlessly, she raised herself on her elbows and looked around, tense and alert; a heritage of long years on the road, either on the hunt or hunted for. But the smell of incense made her let out a breath she was holding, reminding her where she was. And there it was again, warmth spreading in her chest, making her frown at her body's betrayal. Maybe it was the incense and those candles, or more likely, she was still high on whatever they injected her with at the hospital.
Stretching her neck lazily, she took in the dimly lit surroundings, mesmerized anew by the cavern-like beauty of it. The rough texture of the dome-shaped walls was now highlighted by cozy, warm-tinted light, countless little light beams, the sources of which nowhere to be seen.
As reluctant as she was to leave the blissful comfort of the cushioned nest on the sofa, as soon as she looked towards the huge glass wall separating the room from the terrace, her feet touched the black goat skin and carried her outside in the sudden urge to see what the view was like now, under the night sky.
Relishing the soft caress of a cool night breeze on bare skin, the rough, warm wood of the railing under her elbows, she let herself get consumed by the thrill of having what she had at her feet — a web of miniature streets and buildings, illuminated with little vibrant dots of orange and yellow, all of it small and distant, like a separate world. Was that how the gods saw the mortal realm?
And here she was, a guest at this modern-day Olympus, a place that entranced her with how powerful it felt, the sheer beauty of it, but a place she didn't belong in, a place that just reminded her of the abyss between them, the gap that nothing could ever bridge.
Her breath quickened when she picked up on his presence and realized she was standing there completely naked.
"Thought I might find you here," his breath tickled her shoulder, hands brushing against her hips, around her waist, then up over her ribcage, making her body arch back into him of its own accord. For a second, she tensed, out of habit, but then let out a sigh and eased into his embrace; it wasn't easy to uncondition herself after years of having to resist him. But they already crossed that line, and it was fine; it was just carnal, and for once — there was no need to fight it.
Her muscles clenched at the memory of the afternoon; very dream-like, but she was too sore for it to be a dream. Her leg muscles still felt quivery. She closed her eyes as the scenes flashed in her head, making her stomach flutter; no wonder she needed a nap.
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Gods, he loved it how insatiable she was, rubbing her bare ass against him when she probably couldn't even sit straight after what he'd put her through earlier. Well, he couldn't get enough of her either. He planned to let her recover, but not if she had him walk in on her standing so beautifully moonlit-naked on his terrace. He loved seeing her so enticed by his city, and he wanted her to get high on it while he fucked her.
But she winced at his touch, and he didn't want to hurt her.
Dropping down to his knees, he slid his hands up her calves, eyeing the scar on the back of her thigh. He hadn't noticed it before. It looked pretty nasty, likely an exit wound of a gun bullet. She moaned softly as he kissed around the scarred flesh, trying to shake off the anger at the thought of how fragile her mortal body was, and that one day he might not be there to save her.
"Don't close your eyes… I'm gonna make you love this view even more," he uttered before claiming her with his lips as softly as he could, feeding off her moans filling the night air.
He loved it how, finally, she was letting him have her this way, giving herself to him like this, so intimately, so vulnerable and sensitive to his every breath, but it still wasn't quite how he wanted it. He wanted her to let go completely, to feel her come undone in his mouth, to see her face when she did. But they weren't quite there yet.
She shivered in his arms when he carried her to the sofa. He was about to go on when she wrapped an arm around him, clinging to his side, disarming him completely. Having her here like this, nude and drowsy in his arms, it was unreal, intoxicating; feeling her nuzzle his neck made him shiver. Then, when he felt her fingers stroke past his stomach, he shuddered with the shock of pleasure, then cringed when it was over just moments later, gods, like he was a damn virgin, or like his humiliating first time when he was mortal – what the hell was wrong with him? – but none of it mattered, not now, not when her lips brushed his neck so softly.
He didn't know how long they lounged there; felt like ages; the most blissful that silence had ever been.
He was half-snoozing when the scar on the back of her leg came back to him.
"What?" her soft whisper cut the silence.
"I hate it that you're mortal."
Just as he expected, she sighed heavily in response.
"The scar on your thigh..."
"Comes with the job."
"Could've cost you a leg."
"But it didn't."
"For fuck's sake, you almost died in Aden..."
"The charms of modern weapons for you..."
"Xena, you could be immune to all this with just—"
"Don't."
"Why the fuck not?"
"I was born mortal, Ares—"
"So what? If you care about your mortals that much, there you go — become immortal and you can go on saving them for eternity."
He said it on the spur of the moment, but gods, this was genius. How come he never thought of it before?
She was silent, stroking around his chest absent-mindedly. Then, her hand stopped in the middle. He wondered if it was because she felt his heart race.
"You don't care about mortals."
"No. But you do. And I care about you," he said, covering her hand with his. She was silent, her breath shallow.
"You don't get it, Ares... you're talking about eternity..."
"You wouldn't be tied to me, you know? Not unless you wish so," he brushed his nose along her temple, inhaling. He didn't know why his heart was still racing but right now so was hers.
"But I would still have to put up with your being pain in the ass for eternity..." she said, making him chuckle. "And I'm already worn out after just several years."
"You don't seem too unhappy to me," he moved down to nuzzle her neck, making her shiver under his lips.
"Ares..."
"I love it when you say my name like this..." he kissed along her collarbone.
"I need to pee."
"Don't change the subject."
"See? That's exactly what I mean," she grinned, wriggling out of his embrace to sit up.
"Oh, I'll show you pain in the ass..."
"I'll hold you to it," she threw him a sultry glare before disappearing inside, leaving him hard and breathless, and still partly suspicious as to whether he wasn't just dreaming all of it.
When he opened his eyes, she was standing in front of him, nude, blowing out smoke out of her lips. He felt his mouth go dry.
"What?" she raised an eyebrow at him.
"Has anyone ever told you that you look... good with a cigarette?"
It was funny, how hard she tried not to smile.
"Ares..." she drew in another hit of the cigarette and exhaled, settling herself next to him on the sofa.
"Mm?"
"What does the God of War do for fun?"
"You mean, apart from you?" he grinned, dodging a hand coming at his head. "Recently — mostly drink and play guitar, why?"
She started shaking against his side.
"I don't know what's so funny," he said with mock-hurt as the shaking continued.
"Nothing, just trying to picture it..."
He considered something for a moment.
He shouldn't. Soon she'd be gone, every single corner of this place reminding him of her.
"You don't need to picture it if you can see the real thing."
"I can't wait," she said, her voice dripping with amusement, but it didn't matter. She was here with him, her arm wrapped around him, and the sound of her stifled laughter only made him grin stupidly from ear to ear.
However, when he took her upstairs to his studio and had her see the real thing, she wasn't amused at all. He, on the other hand, had to bite down a grin when he saw her sprawled on the black leather sofa with her mouth agape. Turning off the guitar and putting it on the rack, he joined her on the sofa and waited for her voice to come back.
"So, was it how you pictured it?"
"And… this was actually you playing?"
"Just the loud part, the guitar — the rest is the original recording — I put it on lower volume so I could play on it."
"And the song... what is it?"
"Rain down on me, Phil Collins."
He wanted to ask if she liked it but didn't have to; she couldn't be more stunned. But even if it was just for the song itself, he didn't mind; seeing her react this way to something he loved and showed her was elating either way.
"Wanna try?" he turned his head to where the guitar sat on the rack. Her eyes were wild when he looked back at her. Her lips parting, she moved closer, the soft swell of her breast pressing into his chest, trapping his breath in his throat.
"Would you let me touch your instrument?"
"As much as you want to," he breathed as her hand traveled up his thigh. He was fully ready before she even touched him; she gasped when she did.
"How about all night?" she whispered, leaving him panting. His eyes shut from the overbearing sensation of her breath in his ear, of her hand closing around his hard flesh; he shivered with a surge of such need as if he hadn't been touched in centuries.
"It's all yours..." he managed as she slid down on the floor before him and took him up on his offer in a way that left him utterly inarticulate.
He pulled her up into his arms afterwards, tasting himself on her lips, swallowing the words piling up in his throat as she took his face in her hands and kissed him back softly, the way they never kissed; the way that made him think that if she died now, she wouldn't take just a part of him with her — she would take all of him. He tried to shake off the thought, with no success — not now, not for the rest of the evening.
Not even when they had dinner. If anything, it got worse; apparently, sharing a meal constituted some strange level of intimacy he wasn't aware of. Not that he shared meals with anyone before — eating was an intimate experience that only tasted good when done solitarily, which she now fucked up for him irreversibly.
"How're you feeling?" he asked after, when they were both on the terrace, propped against the railing, smoking. She was still holding a glass of white wine from dinner.
"Very well-fed," she smiled into the distance before them.
"Good. So now I'm taking you out."
"Now?"
"Why, is it past your bedtime?" he asked, loving how her eyes narrowed.
"It's almost ten—"
"Nine thirty-five — quite far from being almost ten," he argued, making her roll her eyes in defeat.
"Where are we going?"
"To a bar."
"Alright," she said, leaving him slightly disoriented with such sudden compliance.
"You need it, Xena, trust me. It's good to do it every once in a while. It's healing."
"Getting shitfaced?"
"Well, I was thinking a glass of scotch, but I'm happy to join you in whatever you got planned..."
"Be careful what you wish for…"
"Oh, I do love the sound of that even more," he took the wine glass from her and put it on the railing. She inhaled rapidly when he drew her close. "Now let's get you some decent attire. You look too hot in my gym wear to go out in public," he brushed his thumbs against the sides of her chest that the baggy tank top failed to cover, making her moan softly, and the idea of having to keep his hands off her for the next several hours suddenly seemed undoable.
The pub was small and cozy with its green interior, the smell of spilled Guinness over the old well-polished mahogany bar counter, and the two dart boards stuffed too close to one another in some desperately stubborn attempt to squeeze both on a narrow piece of wall opposite the bar. In the far-left corner stood an old jukebox, a source of effortless entertainment and occasional brawls; though, judging by an exceptionally humble number of patrons, there wasn't a big chance for the latter tonight. But there she was, sat on the barstool, her right elbow casually propped against the countertop, scanning the surroundings discreetly. That was his woman; always ready, always on alert. Stepping closer until her back pressed against his chest, he stroked along her outer thigh, under the cover of the countertop, enjoying her racing heartbeat and the way she covered his hand with hers, pushing back into his chest. He stopped his hand, kissing the back of her head in an attempt to cool them both off; that could wait, right now he wanted to enjoy being here with her.
The group outbreak of laughter made him look to the left, to the group of tipsy Liverpool-sounding guys occupying two joined tables next to the jukebox.
"That's quite a big English representation for an Irish pub," she smirked.
"They can't be picky — it's one of the few expats-only places here."
"And the regular places?"
"Well, let's just say they're a bit more culturally strict in certain aspects a drunk Anglo-Saxon might find challenging to keep up with."
"Like what?"
"Like, you couldn't be wearing this, for one thing," he brushed his knuckles against her shoulder covered with just a thin black strap of the dress it had taken the utmost of his persuasion skills to get her into. "And I couldn't be doing this," he leaned in to let his lips follow his fingers.
"Is this why you bring your dates here?"
"Believe it or not, you're the first woman I brought here," he said, and it wasn't even a lie. He didn't always walk out of here alone, but he never brought company in.
"I'm flattered," she pursed her lips at him with such dismay that he couldn't help a chuckle, although he was actually starting to regret being involved with Julia, or rather her knowing about the affair. The jealousy was fun at first, but now it was just a bitter reminder that he was still untrustworthy in her eyes.
He even had a talk about it with his sister the other day. Aphrodite didn't get it at all, everything was always so dumbly black and white to her.
"I don't get it, Ar — why is Julia still there?"
"I don't understand the question."
"By the ribs of Kronos, you are so frustrating I just can't..."
"So what — so she fucked me in a hotel room once, and I should now go celibate and wait for another thousand years until she decides to—"
"She won't decide anything as long as there's another woman in the picture. Trust me, hon. I assumed she would get jealous and remove the competition, but she's too proud for it. You will lose if you keep this on, because it gets to her, and you have no idea how much."
"If she can fuck blonde wimps, I can fuck whoever I want."
"Gods, I love you, hon, but sometimes you're such an idiot I just can't..."
"Why, because I don't go celibate and wait for her like a good little puppy? Like a whipped loser?"
"Well yeah, letting her know she's the only one is like a basic principle of courting, hello? And telling her how you feel might be just as helpful, you know?"
"Already tried that — doesn't sit well with her."
"When? Two thousand years ago when you said it as a diversion to help get her daughter killed?"
"Oh, leave me the fuck alone, will you?" he raised his fists in the air, putting his arms behind his head.
"Alright, okay, just don't come crying back to me when your childish behavior bites you on the rear again."
Not that he would admit it to her, but damn her, Aphrodite was right. Which didn't change the fact that he still couldn't say it. He just couldn't; the words would either get stuck in his throat or he'd bite his tongue to keep them in.
But now wasn't the time or place to spoil his mood with this.
He ordered the first round; a glass of red wine for her and the usual for himself. But it didn't stop him feeling like a teenager on a first date. Unbelievable. Not even thinking about his own death made him nervous. She did. Booze, that was what he needed; to get desensitized.
She reached for her glass, dipping her lips in the dark red liquid slowly, complementing the exquisite look the dress gave her despite its humble simplicity; it was just a loose, black linen open-back summer dress — her idea — she wouldn't agree to anything more serious — but she clearly didn't realize how she really looked in it.
"Will you stop staring at me like that?" she said, not even looking at him.
He was about to ask her to elaborate but just grinned instead. He knew he was drooling like an idiot, he didn't need to hear it from her.
"Why, do I make you nervous?" he moved closer, not breaking the stare. "You're blushing," he leaned in to whisper into her ear.
"I'm not blushing!"
"You're beautiful when you blush like that," he nuzzled her earlobe.
"You're delusional," she jumped off the barstool and pointed towards the dart boards. "Ready to get your ass kicked?" she asked, throwing him a glare as if she already kicked his ass. She was almost panting, cheeks flushed, fire in her eyes. He sighed dreamily; she looked like after one of their sword fights.
"What do I get for winning then?" he swaggered towards the boards, locking eyes with her.
"What do you want?" she asked casually, her brow twitching almost imperceptibly.
She damn well knew what he wanted. Something she still refused to give him. Well then, if he couldn't get what he really wanted, at least he could piss her off while he was at it.
"You buy the next round."
"What...?"
"Fine, next two rounds," he added casually, trying hard to keep a straight face, and it bordered on impossible while enjoying the sheer bewilderment laced with a hint of disappointment etched all over her face. Served her right. What the hell did she think, that she still had him wrapped around her little finger like she did back in Greece? That she'd throw him a breadcrumb and he'd come running? Maybe he'd still do it a year ago. Now — there was no amount of ethanol that could make him stoop that low. Besides, playing hard to get was a way better strategy anyway; the one that was bound to make him win if he went on playing it right.
But when it came to darts, she beat him, as per usual when they dueled, and it felt as it always did when she defeated him — oddly exhilarating.
And then she asked him, "Ares, can you get drunk?" and he laughed; her face was so serious he could only laugh.
"Why, you fed up with my sober self that much?"
She rolled her eyes in exasperation.
"I can, if I slow down my metabolism and drink fast enough."
"Are you doing it now?"
"How else do you think I manage to put up with you all day?"
"Back at you," she raised her glass. Her lips were slightly pouty. She knew he was joking, right? He wouldn't tell her he'd never in his life been as happy as he was today.
They were back in their spot at the bar and he ordered another round. "It's not really my style, but I like this place," he said, more to himself than to her, taking in the surroundings.
"It's alright."
"There's only one minus — no pool table."
She threw him a mocking glare. "Why, having your ass kicked in darts wasn't enough?"
"Challenge accepted. But we'd have to change location."
"No."
"No?"
"I like it here," she said, reaching for her wine glass and downing half of it at once. He didn't know which consecutive glass it was, but if this went on, it was going to get interesting. Actually, he'd never seen her drunk, now that he thought of it.
"You don't take prisoners," he threw her a sideways glance, taking a sip of his scotch.
"You do know me well," she replied unamused, pensive, not looking at him; and, judging by the long silence that followed, her thoughts likely wandered in the same direction as his — the times when she carried his banner and took no prisoners in the literal sense of the word. Interesting, how the glory of those days seemed totally unappealing in the present moment. He shook his head, smirking. He was already drunk himself.
"Ares... if I hadn't destroyed the contract..."
"Why, you wish you hadn't? We can always make a new one."
"Would you have really used it?"
He blinked, thinking; he might have been tipsy but he knew this was a little minefield that he could turn to his advantage if he played it right.
"A year ago — yes." It was obvious, he couldn't lie his way out of this one. But there was no point, anyway; it didn't matter what he would've done a year ago, what mattered was what he would do now. "Now — I wouldn't," he said, realizing that this actually wasn't a lie either.
"Why not?"
"You would find a way to get out of it as you always do. Besides, I'm not interested anymore..."
"What…?"
"...in forcing you to be mine; wouldn't enjoy it if you didn't want it," he said, and looked at her to gauge her reaction. She swallowed, her brows furrowing.
"Good job, and it only took you two thousand years to finally get it."
"More like hours of therapy…"
"What..?" she asked, wide-eyed, blinking. "You did — therapy?"
"I wanted to understand why, uhm..." he swallowed, "...why things were so fucked up."
The song finished, and for a while they sat in utter silence, with only the distant English laughter in the background. She never took her eyes off him; she looked kind of like she saw a ghost.
"What things?" she reached for the newly refilled wineglass, taking a slow, long sip.
"Things between us. Why we couldn't communicate normal."
She swallowed with effort. "You mean, why your manipulation and schemes always failed?" she asked, bringing the glass to her mouth.
"Hey, not always! And they only failed 'cause you're too good. But that's not the point — the point is, I understood things — many things—"
"Oh, so you finally figured you're a manipulative, selfish asshole?" she cut in, reaching for her glass again and this time downing it in one swig.
"Those might not have been the exact same words, but—"
"Well, I told you as much for years."
"Oh, that you did," he couldn't help a smile. "What can I say, you were right — as always," he slid off his barstool and pulled her close by her waist, nuzzling the side of her face, brushing his nose along the hairline of her temple, closing his eyes as she clawed at his back gently. Maybe it was alcohol — but nothing in the world had ever felt better than this.
Then, a chubby blonde guy he hadn't noticed before played „She's like the wind" on a jukebox and started dancing with the girl standing next to him. So simple, just took her hand and pulled her into his arms; so simple. The girl blushed, avoiding her partner's eyes, hiding her face in his neck.
Finally, he forced himself to look away from the dancing couple, annoyed with how simple and easy they had it.
But then she stirred in his arms, putting her palm flat on his lower back — she was embracing him, had her arms wrapped around him, gods — and he knew he wouldn't trade this moment for anything.
And all the damn sappy songs were about her; so simple and so about her.
"I can't live without you," he muttered into her hair. "I've never felt like this..."
"This drunk?" she tried to sound collected but she felt like a ticking time bomb in his arms, her heartbeat vibrating against his palms.
He buried his face more into her hair, inhaling. "Tell me you feel the same..."
"You're drunk," she said, but she was struggling for breath, almost panting.
"It's you," he brushed his nose against hers. "This is what you do to me… I can't think straight when you're near…"
"Oh, I thought you were just slow..." she pulled away, her face so serious that he burst out laughing.
"You are a one hell of an asshole, you know that...?" he said, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, grinning. There was so much tenderness in her eyes; or maybe he was just drunk.
When she went to the restroom, one of the guys from the Liverpool table came over to the bar to get another round. Not too tall, beefy looking, pale but blushed, short red hair and the overall appearance of an English soccer fan in his early twenties — it was quite surprising when he opened his mouth and spoke pure American.
"Nice piece of ass you got there, pal..."
"Say again?"
"Is alright, man, I ain't looking for trouble..."
"Well, you just found one."
He was an inch away from grabbing the redhead by the throat when he smelled a familiar scent as the strong grip on his forearm stopped him in his tracks.
"You guys having fun?" she narrowed her eyes at him; not at the redhead — at him.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the redhead muttered under his nose before making a shameful exit; and here they were again, just the two of them, her eyes piercing him through accusingly. Why the hell was he always the first one to blame?
"I can't believe it, I'm leaving you for two minutes and—"
"Hey — he started it."
"Do I wanna know what he apologized for?"
"For calling you a nice piece of ass," he said, and watched in confusion how it did not piss her off in the slightest, even worse — she was almost grinning!
She stepped closer to him and took his face in her hands, making him slightly lightheaded. "So, you defended my honor," she half-asked, half-stated. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm but there was something so tender in her eyes that he wanted to kiss her.
"Only I can call you a nice piece of ass," he added to make this one thing clear.
"You're adorable."
"Hey, no one calls the God of War adorable—" he raised a hand in protest, mainly to cover up the fact that some strange warmth was spreading from his chest up to his throat.
She was biting down a grin. Gods, she was beautiful.
"You're right, only I can call you that," she raised her glass to her mouth, shooting him a side-way glance.
"Fair enough," he gave up, they both chuckled, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to take her home; snap them out of here and onto his terrace sofa.
The first notes of "She's like the wind" filled the air again. He glanced towards the jukebox — the chubby fellow was clearly not done dancing with the girl. So simple. And maybe it was. Maybe that was the secret.
She had her elbows on the bar counter, her eyes closed, head thrown back in a relaxed manner; an unusual sight. He'd never seen her like this.
Just a fool to believe
I have anything she needs…
She's like the wind…
He slid of his barstool and stepped behind her, pulling her close against his chest, placing one palm over her belly and the other one on the solar plexus above; he didn't press too hard, but it felt like she almost choked.
"I love you," he kissed the side of her head, "I wanna be with you, I wanna take you home and wake up with you tomorrow and the day after, and the day after that, forever..." he pulled her closer, nuzzling the side of her head, feeling her shiver. He swung her around and now his chest was pressing against hers, her face burning his knuckles.
"No one ever made me want this, Xena, it's you... you're doing this to me..."
„We can't do this," she whispered, panting.
„Do what?" he teased, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. "Why do you run away from this? I know you feel it, too... I see it in your eyes when you look at me," he nuzzled her cheek, stroking her hips in slow circles. "Tell me it doesn't feel right, tell me you don't love the way it feels..."
„I wanna play a song," she pulled away, reaching for her glass.
He smirked, shaking his head. She was un-fucking-believable... but she was his; she could run all she wanted, but she was his; and he was going to take her home and show her just how much.
The fat guy was still holding the blonde girl, both lost to the world. Hopefully, Xena was going to make it to the jukebox before Romeo played She's like the wind for the third time.
But she didn't even look like she had any song in mind, really. Feeling her apprehension, he decided to intervene before she freaked out and decided to go home.
He didn't even think, it was just the first song off the top of his head. He wanted to snap his fingers to play it but then, surprising himself, he decided that he would actually rather do it the mortal way. Jumping off his hocker, he swaggered over to the jukebox.
His eyes closed briefly when the song started with a juicy, crisp sound of a guitar. Not many ballads opened up with a kick-ass guitar solo like that; the opening notes squeezed his eyes shut every time.
Walking back to the bar, he met her gaze, unreadable, her lips slightly parted. Her cheeks were flushed, just lightly, giving her stern features a somewhat girly vibe. But he bit his tongue. They didn't do this; she didn't like it when he complimented her. It was bad enough that now that he started listening to the song lyrics, it was sappy as fuck. Funny how he'd never noticed that, having listened to it hundreds of times at least; maybe because he only followed the music when he played on it.
You said you didn't need me in your life
Oh, I guess you were right
Ooh, I never meant to cause you no pain
But it looks like I did it again
Oh gods, it was bad. It was as bad the previous song, or worse. Why the fuck were all the songs suddenly about them, and so fucking sappy?
Now I, now I know I wish it would rain down, down on me
Ooh, yes, I wish it would rain, rain down on me now
Ooh, girl, I wish it would rain down, down on me
Gulping down the rest of his scotch, he motioned for another round for them.
'Cause I know I never meant to cause you no pain
And I realize I let you down
But I know, in my heart of hearts
I know I'm never gonna hold you again
He rubbed his face, however pointlessly; she was sitting next to him, he saw her gaze through the corner of his eye. He wanted to turn away but stopped himself. No, fuck it. He wasn't going to be ashamed of his feelings.
Besides, he was drunk so it didn't count.
She slid off her barstool.
"It's the song you played in the studio," she said softly, her voice reaching him from behind, reminding him of what now seemed very distant. He batted his eyelids in a desperate attempt to shake off the awkward weakness that made it impossible to look at her. Her arms wrapping around his waist didn't help. For fuck's sake. Telling her he loved her was one thing, but having her see him like this — but fuck it, to hell with it all. He turned around abruptly, seizing her waist, meeting her gaze, glossy, soft and intense at the same time, indecipherable, making the silence unbearable.
"I love seeing you human like this," she ran her fingers up the side of his face, wiping off the residue wetness from the outer corner of his eye. He closed his eyes, both at the sensation and out of fear it would get worse.
"I don't," he swallowed, keeping his eyes shut as her fingers traced patterns along his cheek, so softly; she couldn't walk away now, she wouldn't, not when she touched him like that, gods, she never touched him like that...
"Your reaction does make it a bit better, though," he said, making her chuckle softly. If his weakness scored him points with her like that, maybe he could stomach it somehow.
As soon as the thought ran through his mind, the first chords of the familiar tune filled the air between them, and he knew that now he was fucked for real. The brief glance towards the jukebox revealed that the culprit was none other than the cheeky English-looking American that wouldn't even be here now if it wasn't for someone interrupting their little run-in a while back. But none of it mattered, it was too late. He couldn't count the times he got wasted to this song; the song that made him think of her, every time. But then again, what didn't.
There's a sickness in my soul
And I don't know but I been told it's incurable
There's a darkness in my heart, slowly tearin' me apart
It's unbearable
Drop of blood, a lake of tears
And baby after all these years your still beautiful
And I've been loved and I've been used
Cut wide open, scarred and bruised
I'm unbreakable
Flesh it heals I know
Hearts they never mend
Lover's come and go, girl right now I need a Friend.
Walk for miles, talk for days
And I keep trying to change my ways
It's so difficult
You kick and scream
You curse and yell
Tell me I should go to hell
It's so typical
Touch my heart, feel my pain
Let me know I'm not insane
You're so merciful
Break your heart
I cheat, I lie
And honestly I don't know why I'm so pitiful
Flesh it heals I know
Hearts they never mend
Lover's come and go, girl right now I need a friend…
The song was over in no time, taking with it all the remaining grip he had on his drunk self. And there was her, standing before him, her glossy gaze making it all worse. They both struggled to stay collected and both failed, quite miserably. He was glad she failed, too.
She was standing between his knees, brushing his wet face with her palms, their lips almost touching, when the sudden brightness hit their eyes to announce the place was closing, and she moved away in an instant. In some strange rush of panic, he pulled her back against his chest.
"Don't," he brushed away the wetness from her cheek. "Don't you fucking run away from me..."
"Let's go home," she whispered back, and he didn't need to be told twice.
When they reappeared in his penthouse, contrary to what he would normally do, he didn't snap their clothes away, neither did he transport them to the bedroom. He didn't really know why he did what he did, but there was alcohol involved, so it didn't make sense to get into it, but he materialized them right outside the entrance door to his living suite. Taking his time, he then unlocked the door and held it open for her.
They were home.
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