Till death do us part

(c) 2023 by ihatemilk

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October 2015

"Ma'am?" a stranger's voice reached her from the hall, but she didn't move; it was hard to leave the comfort of the sofa once she could finally breathe again; and so, with eyes closed, her palms kept roaming over the soothing softness of the dark red corduroy, then over her chest and up to her neck where she could still feel the heat of his touch.

"Ma'am?"

Forcing her eyes open, she got up, tying the loosened belt of her robe, brushing away the locks of hair tickling her face, and headed towards the hall. She knew he wouldn't be there anymore, but her heart skipped a beat regardless, and only calmed down when she saw that, standing in the doorway, was a teenage kid in a red polo shirt with a prominent logo of the place she had completely forgotten she'd ordered food from, the memory of which was now very dim. It felt like it was ages ago. Back when she'd been hungry; when she'd been still able to eat.

Right now, she was only able to throw the pizza box down on the floor next to the sofa; the sofa where she'd just confessed her love to the man who was about to take her life – thinking about which felt weirdly exhilarating now, for some reason.

He was mad at her. At her – Julia – who had to endure his other life with a woman who, on top of everything else, as it now turned out – was able to drive him to a state of murderous frenzy. Because it couldn't be explained otherwise. She knew the brunette was bad for him, but this was a whole new level of harmful – to bring him to a state where he showed up at people's homes unannounced to threaten them – this was insane. Julia had seen him mad, even livid, but he would never hurt her. He wouldn't. The black-haired witch would. But he wouldn't. Not without her poisonous influence.

Maybe it was time to take some precautions.

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He was alone when he woke up.

Her side of the bed was empty, the bedroom door closed. She wasn't in the bathroom either; he would've picked up on her presence.

Jumping out of bed, he hurried out, through the living room and into the kitchen area – and only then he finally let out the breath he was holding, and scolded himself for his stupid reaction.

The air smelled like coffee, and she was wearing just a towel, her hair wet, streaming down the path between her shoulder blades. Her hair; it was so deeply black when wet, even more so against the bright beige of the towel.

"You want some?"

He knew she was asking about the coffee, but he knew that she knew what was going to happen.

The skin of her shoulders shimmered with occasional little drops the towel must have missed, that he was now catching with his lips, holding her when she shivered in his embrace. "I do want some."

"Ares… can we have this coffee while it's still hot, for once?" she asked, but put her head against his shoulder and let him do what he wanted.

"Not if you make it looking like this…"

They did have the coffee, eventually.

And he tried hard to push away the recurring thought of Julia and last night.

They were lounging on the terrace when, at some point, she went back inside and returned with a glass of water and a bowl of pistachio nuts.

He gave her a puzzled look. "I thought you didn't like those."

"I don't," she said, snuggling up to his side. "You do have a weird palate, though."

"You got them for me?"

For a second, she seemed as stunned as he was.

"I just got you a snack that you like – it's not a big deal," she said, and she was right, and he felt stupid as fuck that his heart was thumping the way it was, because of something she was right was trivial. "Come here," she said softly, the tenderness in her eyes making it worse; then, she hugged him, gave him a brief kiss on the neck – and if he thought he'd loved her before, he didn't know what he was feeling now, but it was more than he was ready for.

Then, he looked down at her fingers wrapping around his wrist, in the same manner another, smaller hand did last night, and the knot in his chest rose to a size that made it hard to breathe.

When she asked about last night, all air left his lungs.

He told her it was nothing, a random nutcase. She asked what he did with the guy. "Took care of him," he said. She wouldn't buy it if he said he'd let the guy go – and, as long as it added credibility to the story, the contemptuous glare he got was a small price to pay for it.

"What's wrong?" she asked, and he could feel her eyes scanning every inch of the left side of his face as the question reverberated in his head, and he wondered, was he that shitty a liar or was she that good at reading him. Oh, she was good. She was not to be underestimated, she was damn good, she was more cunning than any god or mortal he knew; it was what got him obsessed with her in the first place.

He ached for a smoke, but it would mean walking over to the railing and would raise her suspicions even more.

"You okay?" she asked, her hand on his shoulder adding to the heaviness of his chest.

"Nothing, baby, just worried about you," he lied through clenched teeth, putting his arms around her, pressing his forehead against the side of her head, her words from days ago echoing in his ears. "You could've lied, and you didn't…"

He needed to go, needed to leave, now. He wished she ate the damn ambrosia already so he could stop worrying about her life – why the hell wouldn't she? – she agreed to it, for fuck's sake! – why wait for the baby to come? But he knew better than to bring it up again – the last time he did, it didn't end well.

"Ares… why are you worried?" she asked, and he had to lie again, to come up with some work emergency. He could see it in her face – she didn't buy it – but what the hell was he expecting – but she didn't say anything – and he didn't care, he needed to get away.

A while later, he found himself in his Manhattan place – and gods, never did he need to smoke as badly as he did now – and he needed a drink, but, just like the last time he was here – all he wanted was to burn the damn place down. It was bad enough the memory of Julia had been plaguing him since last night; and this place even smelled like her.

The roof deck was neutral; he'd never brought Julia up here. He stretched himself over one of the cushioned recliners, producing a glass in his hand and the black stone ashtray on the side table to his right, before changing it to bright marble; black stone one was reserved for home, this place would sully it.

He took a deep breath, taking in the outline of the cityscape. In the light of the setting sun, it did have its charm. Regardless of his antipathy for the city, the urban planning was on point here, that he had to admit. It was a pity she couldn't be here with him; closing his eyes, he imagined what she would say, the distant look on her face, the slightly narrowed eyes as she would take in the view. It would hurt if she liked it better than Dubai. But she wouldn't. She loved their home. All the times he'd found her glued to the terrace railing, she was like in a trance.

He opened his eyes, the pleasant warmth leaving his chest when he looked around what was now just a random, dreadfully meaningless place without her in it. Taking a deep hit of the newly lit cigarette, he snapped a portal open.

She was in the kitchen, staring through the wall window, holding the phone to her ear, her other hand rubbing her belly; gods, how he ached to be there now and do the same.

On the one hand, it was annoying, and was starting to worry him, that he couldn't spend a minute without thinking about her; on the other hand, the high it got him on felt too good to snap out of it. Even if it made everything else a drag.

In the very same second his phone vibrated. His Emirati office PA; damn ENOC board meeting, he completely forgot about it.

"Yeah?" he turned the phone on speaker.

"I apologize for bothering you, sir, but you haven't RSVP'd regarding the board meeting this week, so I only wanted to—"

"Text me the details, I'll be there."

"On it, sir, sending as we speak."

"Thanks."

"Th-thank you… b-bye…"

He frowned, wondering if the girl always sounded that scared or was it just now, and if so, why? And why the fuck did he care, anyway?

Smirking, he downed the glass in one gulp; he very well knew why. Xena and her constant brainwashing; she was sneaky about it, but he knew what she was doing. He just didn't know it would start taking an actual effect; not to such extent.

Taking her feelings into consideration was one thing – he was learning to do it, purposefully – but caring about everyone else, random strangers – that wasn't the deal. Though, maybe he wouldn't even mind it that much if it didn't affect his work performance – and it was time to stop fooling himself that it didn't – but the thoughts were intrusive, he wasted energy on fighting them, energy and focus that he needed elsewhere – in places he didn't want to be, doing things he didn't want to do – things he used to love. Things he lived for. His job – the very sense of his existence. It was like some sickness was taking over his brain, cell by cell, day by day.

She asked him about Yemen the other day, and he didn't have an answer; the last time he was in Yemen was – gods, it had to be weeks ago; not to mention Afghanistan, not to mention other sites, not to mention his businesses. Recently, whenever he told her he was off to work, he would teleport himself to his shooting range in the desert – and gods, this place – he couldn't wait for the day he would take her there with him – she was going to go crazy – and he would spend hours there, in a trance, shooting rifles, until his mind went blank; then, he would take his time to clean the gear, have a glass with a smoke or two, and then, once he'd snap out of it and realize he was about to go home – the home where she was waiting for him – he'd close his eyes, lightheaded, on the verge of sanity – and force himself to take several calming breaths – because he didn't want her to see him like this.

This had to stop. He couldn't go on like this. He'd spent too much energy on all the projects he had going on, to throw it all away like that; and first of all, his mantle – he had responsibilities – war wasn't just fun and games, it was about geopolitical balance, about the world safety – it wasn't the 1930's – there were too many nuclear weapons around to allow for wrong moves.

And speaking of wrong moves, he needed to fix the Julia situation – the problem that would have already been off his list if only he hadn't been a fucking wimp last night and had gone through with what had to be done; but no, the damn doorbell had to ring and she had to say it was her dad – which triggered him for some reason, but which he knew was a bluff just seconds later – so he could have just paid the pizza guy, locked the door and finished their talk – but he didn't. Instead, he just left, fled the scene like a fucking coward, with Xena's voice in his ears, "What if it was our daughter?" And that look in Julia's eyes, shining at him, all green and glossy – she did look like a kid, for a second there, when he'd gripped her throat. "What if it was your daughter?"

He should go back there and finish what he started. And he couldn't.

All he felt like doing right now was trashing this damn place that he was never coming back to.

And that he did.

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