Till death do us part
(c) 2023 by ihatemilk
_November 2015
Julia didn't really feel like going out – she almost never did these days – but it turned out that a little stroll around Central Park was a good idea. It did elevate her mood, no matter how much the whole feverish pre-Christmas cancer spreading all over the city worked quite to the contrary.
But fall foliage was nice – was this a sign of being old? – and the ginger palette of colors was starting to put her in a calm state of mind that she hadn't been able to tap into for a while now.
The Pond area was her favorite; even though the view of the little stone Gapstow bridge would always bring back the memory of dear old dad forcing her to be a good little girl and hold his hand while on a walk – as if this little detail had been able to save their image of a perfect family from being tarnished by his never-ending extramarital affairs and cocaine addiction.
Exhaling the cloud of smoke of the newly lit cigarette, she sat down on the nearest bench, her eyes not leaving the bridge. She wished he was alive, at times; there were so many things she would never be able to tell him, things that would pop up in her mind and simmer, and itch, never leaving her mouth.
Someone laughed in the distance. She looked towards the source of merriment; to her right, a four, maybe five-year-old boy was leaning down, inspecting something clearly amusing in the grass. Further in the distance, nearing him, were a man and a woman in their early forties, both wearing awful-colored cheap-cotton sweats, the woman pushing an empty pink and gray stroller and the man carrying an overjoyed pink-and-purple-clad toddler in his arms.
She let out a cloud of smoke through her lips, smiling. Sometimes, seeing happy people felt good. Today was one of those days.
Her eyes remained glued to the smiling baby girl, long after they passed her by.
"We're going to have a daughter…"
She blinked hastily as the memory stung her out of the blue, his voice resounding in her head, her eyes closing, the images of him holding the pink-clad toddler making her heart go up her throat, all of this unhinging her – a woman who never wanted children – to a point where she smeared her mascara all over her bright cashmere coat sleeves.
As always when she needed to calm down, she called Bill.
"Good morning miss Anderson, how can I be of assistance?"
It had been a while since she slept with Bill. It had been a while since she slept with anyone; anyone who wasn't the man who didn't sleep with her anymore.
"Julia?"
"Book me on JFK-Heathrow for next week."
"Will do."
"Unless there's anything on my schedule before then."
"Checking… nope, all clear till next Friday."
"What's then?"
"Embassy briefing with Colonel Davids."
"Awaiting the booking details, then."
"On it, cheers."
Taking a red and white packet out of her purse, she lit another one. It was starting to get dark and cold, but no wonder – she'd been sitting here for ages. The last one and she would go.
She had a trouble with sense of time recently, but nevertheless kept on raking through her memory in search of the approximate date they last slept together. No, it was pointless. She'd have to sit down with the calendar. But she remembered every other little detail about that day; what time it was, what the weather was like, what he said, what she was wearing. And that they didn't use contraception.
Her phone screen lit up with a notification from Bill.
Her flight was Wednesday.
She had six days.
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November 2015
She was sitting down at the kitchen bar counter, opening her laptop, when she remembered about water.
Damn water, as always. It was a drag to remember to stay hydrated when her thirst oscillated from little to zero, but it wasn't much of a choice – she got headaches otherwise, not to mention him and his damn lectures on the importance of staying hydrated when pregnant – which gave her an even bigger headache. So, with a grimace of frustration, but she eventually slid off the chair and walked to the counter to pour herself a glass.
She put it next to the computer, ostensibly, so he would see it when he came back from the shower. She let the air out of her lungs loudly. They were back on speaking terms, but ever since the Julia conversation, he would trigger her with just anything; sometimes, the sight of him was enough. Yes, didn't fight as often as they used to –but it was hard to fight when she was upstairs most of the time.
This morning, when she woke up and went to make coffee, she found herself walking downstairs, simply, as if on autopilot; and decided to stay. She went back to grab the laptop and here she was, gritting her teeth even though she hasn't even yet seen him today. They should talk. She wasn't looking forward to it. She'd tried to approach the subject for the last several days, but would always eventually end up dropping it; she had nothing on him – he could've as well told the truth about not being in touch with Julia, she had no way of verifying it. Julia was a pissed off, heartbroken ex – the contact could've been one-sided. But still, he could've told her. This was a small caliber, but she couldn't help it – it triggered the flood of old memories that she apparently hadn't managed to lock in the past as well as she thought she had; the memories of all the times he'd deceived her, tricked her, made her life hell for his own entertainment. She had forgiven him a lot, most of it in fact; but some things – the fact he had tried to get her to kill her own mother – it still burned her from the inside; it was stronger than her. He was livid when she brought it up the other day; but in all honesty – she couldn't really blame him – how the bare mention of his ex managed to bring this shit about – was beyond her comprehension as well.
Settling herself back on the bar stool, she winced as the back pain hit her again. This piece of furniture definitely wasn't made for pregnant women. She grabbed the glass and the laptop and moved to the sofa.
When she heard his heavy footsteps, a soft flutter in her stomach made her roll her eyes at herself, but she couldn't help it – knowing what she was about to see made her pulse race every time.
Her head turned of its own accord, and gods – no matter how much she resented him, the sight of him wet with just a towel on his hips made her temperature rise whether she liked it or not. Remembering that he was a god and didn't need to shower, and only did the whole mortal act for her – it was only making it worse. Feeling the damp heat of his body next to her, for the first time in three days – it was a lost battle.
He took the laptop from her and placed it on the coffee table, and, pushing her down on her back, kissed her in a way that she could swear was about to melt her body into liquid if he went on; and he did, until she was his again.
He pulled her into his arms afterwards; and when he held her like that, stroking her head, telling her he missed her, when they breathed each other, nothing between them – at that moment, it was hard to remember what had gone wrong between them; and she let it stay this way for a bit, it felt too good not to.
The past was done, anyway; there was nothing either of them could do about it, apart from accepting and letting go. So damn obvious, so simple – and yet, anything but. Either way, it wasn't fair to keep blaming him for the things he'd done when he was someone else; it wasn't like she didn't have a past to apologize for – the ghosts in her own closet still kept her living with a sense of guilt that would likely never go away. It was terrible, the feeling – suffocating, sickening even, when some of the flashbacks would hit her. She wouldn't wish that on anyone; even him; especially not him. He didn't deserve to live with such burden; him from two millennia ago – yes, but him as he was now – no.
"Your water," he motioned to the untouched glass of water she left on the table. He handed it to her and waited for her to empty the contents. Once she did, he walked over to the kitchen counter where the water dispenser was. When he was refilling the glass, his phone vibrated on the bar counter. He discarded it, or put it on mute, and was on his way back to the sofa when the sound of a text message made him turn back. She didn't see his face when he looked at the screen, but when he came back the tension was palpable. As much as he tried to hide it, she could see how out of breath he was.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, just need a smoke," he got up, grabbing the discarded towel, wrapping it around his hips on his way to the terrace.
As soon as he slid the doors behind him, she walked over to the bar counter, the lock screen lighting up the moment she touched the screen. The newest notification was a text message. From Julia. A text so short that she could it all from the lock screen.
She had to sit down. Her head was spinning, gods, she needed to sit. Her cheeks felt burning hot, her breath shallow. In what felt like a long trance, she finally reached the sofa and collapsed against the cushions. Now, she ached for water, her throat felt like desert. When she heard his footsteps nearing, another wave of heat washed over her face.
This time it was him asking her if she was okay.
She looked up at him, all her previous resentment back with triple volume. "Don't you have something to tell me?"
He was staring at her, mortified. "Have you been going through my phone?" he asked with stark disbelief.
"Really? Don't you have bigger concerns at the moment?"
"Xena, it's bullshit, she's bluffing."
"Is that why you went to smoke with your hands shaking?"
"She's just seeking attention, she's been like this ever since she learned about you and I…"
"Didn't you say you weren't in touch anymore?"
He groaned. "I stopped sleeping with her, what else do you want? Half of my businesses depend on her, for fuck's sake!"
"What else do I want? For you to not fucking lie to me, for starters."
"Xena, I couldn't afford to tell you the truth, not—"
"How would you know if you haven't even tried?"
"Are you even serious? Tell you the truth – and have you give me an ultimatum and make me lose billions of dollars just because you're jealous?"
She inhaled slowly, closing her eyes, her ears burning, her whole body burning hot. She had to calm down, it was bad for the baby. She had to go, had to leave, now.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
"Get the fuck out of my way..."
"I don't think so."
She was familiar with strong emotions, but the rage that overwhelmed her now made her choke; her breath was gone. "Fuck…" she gasped, holding her belly.
"What's wrong?" he touched where her hand was, and if she could speak, she would tell him to fuck off but now, on the verge of fainting, all she could think of was the surface she could lie down on before she lost consciousness, even if it meant him carrying her there.
She didn't know where she was anymore, there was his voice but she didn't hear the words; he laid her down on something soft, and it felt so good, but as soon as he did, a wave of nausea hit her.
"I'm gonna be sick," she freed her hand from his hold to remove the hair from her face.
"It's okay, do it," he whispered somewhere close to her face, helping her roll onto her side, pulling her hair back.
His hand felt cold against her forehead, and her head so heavy; if he wasn't holding it, she wouldn't be able to keep it up by herself. She wasn't sure what she threw up on, but she was glad it was quick and she could breathe again.
The sickness gone, but her throat so dried up that she was surprised to hear the voice leave her mouth. "Water…"
She couldn't lift her head; he lifted it for her, holding the glass to her mouth and letting her sip on it slowly. Water felt so good.
The contractions in her belly were gone, too. It was just the fatigue that was left. Opening her eyes, she saw the sandy cavern ceiling, the TV to the left; they were in the living room. He was sitting on the floor, staring at her, terrified. His eyes were glossy.
"How're you feeling?" he asked, wiping his eyes.
"Heavy. I can't move."
"We should go to the hospital."
"No."
"You don't look good."
"Fuck off."
He sighed, taking her hand in his. She didn't have the strength to fight it. And she couldn't look away from him either. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his eyes welling up again, and now hers welled up too. "I'm sorry, baby," he brought her hand to his face, nuzzling her knuckles, brushing them with his lips, making her tears fall. She knew that loving him was going to hurt eventually, but knowing it didn't make it hurt any less. "I fired her last month, cut ties with her for good."
"Thought you needed her for your businesses."
"Fuck it, it's just money. You're more important than that…" he said, and the way he said it, the look on his face, the way he devoured her with his eyes – she tried not to let it get to her, tried to hold onto the grudge that was still there, but it was pointless. "Want me to take you upstairs?" he asked softly, making it only worse. He never offered to take her upstairs himself.
Once they materialized in the upstairs suite, he brought her straight to bed. Only now did she notice how cloudy it was outside. It was an odd view. After all this time in the Middle East, she almost forgot what a cloudy day looked like.
"You need anything? I'm leaving you water here, you want anything else? Food?"
"Just you…" the words piled up in her throat as she closed her eyes, unable to fight it anymore. "Don't go…"
He let out a breath, blinking, looking like he was about to cry. She found his hand, pulling him down on the bed next to her. Settling her head against his chest, closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent that calmed her down in an instant and, sighing, tried to keep the echoes of what happened downstairs from invading this moment. She needed to stay calm, couldn't let her feelings get to her like that, it was bad for the baby.
"Why do you think she's bluffing," she asked after a longer while when she couldn't help it anymore. He stirred but didn't say anything.
"She can't have children," he finally spoke, reluctantly.
"Why, 'cause that's what she told you?" she pulled back and looked at him; he was blinking at her, puzzled. "You might be a god, Ares, but you're an idiot just like every other man…"
He was silent, and the hesitant look on his face made it all the worse. Now he was hesitant – now – when, for the first time ever, she wanted, she needed him to be right. And still, despite everything, when he was looking at her now, helpless as she'd never seen him, she had to fight the urge to hug him and tell him that it was going to be fine, that, no matter what, they would face it together.
Because right now, she wasn't entirely sure they would.
Taking a deep breath in, she turned her head to the right. Still no trace of sun; the window was stained with little droplets. Her hand went to her belly, stroking softly as she felt the slight movement inside. Their daughter; she needed both of them. But they didn't need to be together for that; that was what joint custody was for.
She reached out, putting her other hand on his head, running her fingers through his hair. His breath was quiet, shallow, and when he opened his eyes in response to her touch, there was nothing but raw misery there. Reflexively, she grabbed the nape of his neck and pulled him close to her chest, and they stayed like this for a while, until she felt moisture on her skin where his face was; then, frowning, she wrapped her arms around his head tightly and, closing her eyes, for those next few moments, her chest welling up, she could only feel one thing. As clearly as she never had.
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