He tilted his head till his nose brushed her forehead, the smooth skin of her back warm under his palm. She felt so slender and fragile in his arms without the chunky, metal armor she used to wear back in Greece; not that he didn't love her warrior ensemble, but this — he loved it even more, how small her body felt against his. Wrapping his arm tighter around her, he reached towards the bedside table.
"You won't believe what time it is." He frowned, raising a hand to snap the drapes open and regretting it immediately, squinting against the blinding sunlight flooding the room.
She stirred in his embrace, her face in the crook of his neck. "I will. We went to bed 7 am," she mumbled sleepily.
"Funny, I remember us going to bed somewhere around midnight." He nuzzled her forehead, sniffing, his hand slipping down her side, stopping at the curve of her hip. "We fell asleep after sunrise, that part is true." He cupped her breast, giving it a soft squeeze, getting a hum out of her, feeling himself grow hard, pressing against her thigh wrapped across his pelvis, gasping when he felt her fingers close around him.
"I wonder why that was…" She whispered, rolling onto her side and pressing her butt against him, guiding him in. "Go slow." She grabbed his thigh with a wince.
He focused, trying to do so, seeing that the more he hardened inside her, the more pain he caused her.
"It's okay, don't stop…" she whispered, as if reading his mind. It didn't surprise him at all. It had just been a few days but they were so in sync, like back in Greece, back in her warlord days when he trained her; like they'd been together all their lives; yet another thing that blew his mind, as if everything else wasn't enough.
"Oh, gods…" he uttered breathlessly as he felt himself fully sheathed inside her; cupping her jaw with one hand, pressing onto her stomach with the other, her scent flooding him as he buried his face in the nape of her neck, all of it distracting, the view of her hand clutching onto the sheets, all of it making it difficult to mind his pace when all he wanted was to grab her hips and ram himself inside her.
"I can't…" She put her hand on his hip, halting him, wincing as she slowly pulled away.
He rolled her onto her back, pulled her legs apart and settled himself in between, his mouth tracing down her abdomen. "Lemme kiss it better…"
It was so different now; she was tense, it was palpable. There were moments when he was sure she was about to push him away.
She did, eventually. He didn't say anything, just pulled her into a hug and threw the sheets over them, no words spoken. No words needed. Feeling her racing heartbeat and shallow breath, he knew.
His eyes opening, he gazed over the flawlessly smooth, white plane of the ceiling for a while, his shoulders tensing. So, this was it. The moment she told him it was over, she had to go, he was an outlaw, this could never work. At least the tears were there, so it meant it hurt. Though, what the fuck did it matter, it wasn't what he wanted; her tears, her pain; he'd seen enough of that already. For once, he wanted to see her — to make her feel — to finally prove to her what she'd never fucking let him.
"We have to go," he said, and drew a slow breath in, not wanting to hear the answer.
"We?"
"You're coming with me." He ran his fingers through her hair, grazing her scalp with his fingertips. "We'll leave this all behind, start life anew."
Her heart was pounding so loud he could feel it pulse against his chest. "You know I can't do that," she said breathlessly.
"You can and you want to, you're just trying to convince yourself otherwise." He pressed his mouth to her shoulder and nibbled, trying to silence the tempest building up in him.
To start anew; a different life, one they could share. Unlike his pig-headed past self, this time around he wouldn't make the same mistakes, this time he would pay attention to her needs, meet her half-way, or more, fuck it, however much it would take.
The words piled up, refusing to leave his mouth. No wonder; with his current mood, knowing where this conversation was headed, he hardly made himself articulate what he did so far. It all sounded stupid in his mind, anyway. What was he supposed to say to her, really? That he'd become a law-abiding citizen, leave it all behind?
Then, it was her who spoke. "I'll never be who you want me to be."
He pressed his forehead to the back of her head and inhaled. "You are what I want you to be."
"You think it's a matter of time, that I'll join you, eventually."
He let the air out with a grunt. She thought this was what he was after, that he wanted to play Bonnie and Clyde. Of course he fucking did, what did she expect? With her? It had been a dream of his since forever. The one she was never going to grant him. He came to terms with that. He'd told her that already, more than once.
And now was the time to say it, tell her she got it wrong, that it didn't change anything, didn't matter—
"You're expecting me to give up my morals, my job, and my life," she said pensively.
He huffed bitterly. How ironic; how stupid it felt, to realize that — for her — for the first time in his life — he felt he could give up all three. Not that it would come easy. But maybe he finally understood that she was worth it. Not that he was ready to tell her that. Not that it would change anything. Apart from making him sound like a desperate loser. "A job's just a job, you can do it anywhere," he said dismissively.
"It's not just a job… I owe them my life… you wouldn't understand."
"Oh, and here I thought you owed your life to me, last time I checked."
She left his embrace and got out of bed, her energy turning cold, an angry vibe about her as she walked over to the chair in the corner of the room. He propped himself on one elbow, his eyes following her, hungrily roaming over the curve of her backside till she covered it with the robe she collected from the backrest of the chair.
"If you saved me to capitalize on it, you should've left me there like I told you to," she said, the sharp iciness of her voice taking him aback, the words leaving him dumbfounded.
How could she think that? That it was premeditated? Well, if it was anyone else, it could've been, but her — this — this was different, what he'd done back there — burned all the bridges for her — he wasn't thinking. When he saw her hurt, it was like someone hit him on the head — nothing mattered, not him, not his life, nothing — nothing but her — and now she accused him of — he shook his head, his brows arching. "Is that what you think of me?"
"There're people here who depend on me, I can't leave them behind," she said after a moment of silence, without looking at him, walking over to the window, resting her hands on the sill.
The last rays of the setting sun coated her silhouette with a warm glow, blurring the edges, making him wish she wasn't wearing anything. He could make the robe vanish with a snap of his fingers. He would have, if it was several hours ago, if he could move back time; back to when it still felt good to be alive. "Oh, yeah, I forgot that your life's about risking it for losers who can't take care of themselves — though, you might wanna keep in mind that you won't help them if you're dead."
She turned around, the all-too familiar look in her face; the bitter frown, lips pursing with contempt; the expression he'd been the recipient of so many times that it was surprising it still had the power to sting him. "I swore an oath to serve my country — it means something to me."
"More than your own life?"
"Way more. Not that someone as selfish as you would ever get it."
His bit his lip, heat washing over him. Selfish? All he'd been doing for the past few days was trying to protect her — and he was selfish? He huffed, his forehead creasing. "You're right. I don't get it."
"I didn't expect you to."
He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of liquor. Maybe he should just leave. Now, before it got ugly, before they both lost their temper; and holy fuck, he was close to. This wasn't going anywhere anyway, he knew her too well. Once her mind was made up, she wouldn't change it if he held a gun to her head.
"I gotta tell Amy's parents their daughter's dead," she said, her voice lifeless. "Her father's sick. I'm all they have left now," she added quietly. "But you don't give a shit, do you? It's just you and what you want that matters."
He clenched his fists, his chest rising with an angry breath. "Look, I get it, you're upset, but — for fuck's sake, we don't have time for this now."
She scoffed, shaking her head; he didn't see her face but could bet there was a contemptuous smirk on it. "You don't get it… of course you don't," she trailed off, sniffling. "The one person that meant the world the me, and you can't respect even that," she added, with such bitter disappointment that he suddenly felt like shit.
Of course. Even dead, there she was — the blonde pain in the ass, always there to keep them apart, to remind him how little he meant to the one person that meant the world to him. He'd never win with that, never had.
He huffed, bitterness overcoming him. "The one person that was everything to you… yeah, I can't compete with that," he said, his eyes transfixed on her back, on the shiny river of dark tresses covering most of it.
She turned around, slowly. He didn't want to see her face now, the bitter contempt there. But there was none; when their eyes met, hers were soft, causing a lump to grow in his throat like only she could.
"I'm sorry," she said, her tone soft like her features, like she was about to come closer and touch him, put a hand on his face; he hated himself for the knot in his chest when she didn't. Gods, he had to leave while he still had it together.
"You wanna join her that badly, fine — be my guest," he said, trying his best to sound calm, and headed for the door; and stopped and waited, for a moment; for what never came; for her to say something. A word, anything.
"I'm sorry," her voice reached him as if from the distance, replaying in his head for another while after he slammed the door behind him.
#
"The one person that was everything to you… yeah, I can't compete with that," he said somewhere behind her back, the quiet pain in his voice making her chest tighten. She couldn't cry, not now, not until he left.
She took a deep breath, stopping herself from turning around; she shouldn't see his face now, she couldn't; and she ached to, so badly she lost the battle.
His dark expression softened when their eyes met. "I'm sorry…" she managed to say, blinking as her eyes welled up. His lashes fluttered and he cast his eyes down. And never looked at her again.
"You wanna join her that badly, fine — be my guest," he said when he was at the door.
Her voice stuck in her throat, she stared at his back, the thought he was about to leave making her chest contract painfully, sending her over the edge, almost, her heart about to burst when she saw him with his hand on the doorknob, like he was waiting. Waiting for what she couldn't tell him, what she didn't even believe was true; because she couldn't feel this away about a stranger, someone she just met, someone she knew nothing about, apart from things that disqualified him in the first place. Someone who got her so high on the feelings he had — not for her, but for somebody she reminded him of, somebody he made her a projection of. Which hurt more than anything.
She bit the inside of her cheek till it stung and burned, to keep it together for those several more seconds.
He didn't look back. The door closed.
She lived.
Air leaving her lungs with a swoosh, she walked to the door and rested her palms against the white, flat surface, dropping her head to her chest, struggling for air, her throat closing up painfully under the pressure of a stifled sob.
She would live. She had to.
Though, for the first time in years, it didn't feel like it.
Catching her breath through open mouth, she walked over to the sideboard and grabbed the half-empty bottle sitting there. Several swigs later, she regretted each one of them when her stomach churned. In the bathroom, she opened the tap to drink it down with water, but as soon as she bent over, the contents of her stomach ended up in the sink before she knew it.
Coughing, her throat burning, she scooped the running water in her palms and drank greedily, splashing it over her face, for what felt like ages, till her forehead was about to burst from pulsing headache.
Panting, she clutched onto the sides of the sink for support and sniffled; and frowned, when her eyes opened to the red drops over the white ceramics. She touched her nostril and cursed when she saw her fingers.
Holding a piece of toilet paper to her nose, she sank to the white, tiled floor with her phone in her hand. And tensed when it chimed. A text message. Unknown number.
Her heart leapt when she opened it.
#
Much later, when he smoked his third cigarette in a row, sat on the stairs of the open jet — fighting with his pride, he texted her from the burner phone. The location. That he'd be leaving 9 pm sharp, in two hours. Sentenced himself to two hours of self-deprecation and torture that could only be survived in one way.
Sinking into the black, leather plane seat and spreading his legs over the one facing him, he reached for the new bottle.
"You okay there, boss?" the pilot's voice filled the inside of the plane.
"Just fucking great," he mumbled, taking another swig from the bottle, pressing his lids together; gods, he was shitfaced. "What time is it?"
"An hour to go."
He went outside, sat on the steps and lit a cigarette, reached for his phone. Both texts were marked as read. She didn't even as much as care to text him back.
As if he hadn't learned shit back in Greece; as if the first time he'd given up his life for her had taught him nothing about how little it meant to her, whatever he did. It was never enough, never would be. And here he was, ready to leave his past behind, start with a clean slate, give her the life she could share with him on her conditions; and she would still deny them.
And here he was, fooling himself she felt something too, that she wasn't just doing her job, using him for her benefit like she always had. She thought he didn't know what she was really after — he didn't give a damn, he would've given her all the intel she wanted, on a plate, spare her all the sneaking around with the phone, the contents of which he knew inside and out as well as she did — did she forget he was a god? And still, he didn't even mind, stupidly blinded by this damn weakness she instilled in him, by what he thought he saw in her eyes last night, when she touched him, looked at him the way she never did, in a way that — she could've asked anything, he was hers, completely, mortifyingly so.
And a fool, to think it meant anything to her, to think her giving up the case meant she wanted to be with him. As if he hadn't learned his lesson back in Greece.
Realizing the cigarette went out in his hand, he dropped it to the ground; and stared at it for a painful, sobering, frustrating moment.
A sudden gust of cold wind blew it away, up in the air, too far to see; all of it as meaningless as everything else there was; the world, all of it, the weight of its insignificance burdening as never before.
He took another look at the phone screen. Fifty minutes left.
It didn't make sense to wait.
He turned the phone off and took out the sim card; stared at it for a while. His vision blurring, he took the thin piece of plastic between his thumb and index finger. Funny, how so much could be destroyed so easily.
His rubbed his sparking fingertips together, till all he could feel between them was ash.
All that was left of her.