At times, he thought it couldn't get any worse.
Then, there were times when she'd look at him, emotion glimmering in her eyes for a moment, like she was back — like they were about to yell at each other, or fuck, or make love — and her gaze would turn back hollow, like someone hit a switch. The way he hated that — the way it felt — he didn't know if he wanted to kill her or kill himself, or both.
And then, she got better.
It was good to see her out of bed, out of the house; she'd started spending a lot of time on the beach, sitting on the sand, staring at the ocean. As much as he wanted to join her most of those times, he didn't. She needed her damn space, she got it. He didn't feel like once again hearing he was suffocating her.
Back then he didn't know; that he should have. That, most of the time she spent staring at the waves crashing into the large plane of rocks nearby, she spent it wishing there was a cliff to jump off of.
She was having dreams. Nightmares; she'd wake up gasping for breath. She said it was always the same; she'd swim beyond the reef, get sucked into a whirl, pulled underwater. After a week of it repeating nightly, he called the hospital. The doctor suggested mild tranquilizers. She took them for a week, nightmares continuing, till he discovered she hadn't eaten a single pill. They argued about that for a while. Yeah, talked. He talked and she replied with a two-word sentences; that was how most of their communication looked like. He gave up.
Then, there came a night she slept through like a baby; the first one in a while.
It was late morning, he was outside, almost done cleaning his guns, when she walked up to him. "Need a hand with that?" she asked, making him look up in stark disbelief. If she'd asked that same question the day before, he would've locked all the gear back in the safe that same very moment, but now — she seemed different. Better. Her vibe was different. Normal, almost. Calm. It felt like a light in the tunnel; the first in a painfully long while.
Not thinking what he was doing, he dismantled the freshly cleaned guns he almost just put back together, and she joined him, and they went on scrubbing and wiping the already perfectly polished elements; for a while, in silence. She was calm. Too calm.
That night, it was him who jolted awake with a gasp. It was a dream — or not — he wasn't sure what snapped him out of slumber, he just knew something was very damn wrong. The wind howled outside, her side of the bed empty.
The beach.
It was a hunch, an impulse.
A one that likely saved her life, whether she wanted it or not, he didn't care, but it did.
Gods, he was furious — after the initial shock wore off, after he carried her back to the house, to bed — pacing around the room, all the pent-up tension from the last several weeks welling up, he just lost it.
He barely realized what he was saying, he just knew he was yelling, so damn loud he thought his head would burst, split open and break in half — and gods, he wished it just did.
Panting and spent, he approached the bed and stared at her, her perfectly still profile lit by the warm glow of the lamp. He was still saying something, but she wasn't looking at him, her head turned to the side, her eyes shut. His voice died in his throat when she turned her head and he met her gaze, her eyes glazed, hollow, like she couldn't hear a word of what he was saying, her voice flat and hoarse when she spoke.
"I'm tired."
Tired. He wanted to tell her he was tired, too — gods, he was fucking tired of this — this damn impotence he felt when nothing he did or said reached her, like she was behind a glass, that all the ways he tried to snap her out of this were for nothing, did exactly fucking nothing — did she even realize how damn frustrating it felt, that it was hard for him, too? But he bit his tongue to keep it in. Other than make it worse than it was, it would do nothing, change nothing. She would only shut down more. He couldn't take more. He could barely take this.
"Why are you still here?" She sniffed, her mouth parting slightly. "I'm just a burden to you."
"Don't," he said, his jaws clenching, his temples ringing as he forced his lids shut; gods, he wanted to grab and shake her, slap her across the face, break that damn barrier hiding her from him. "Don't make it harder than it is…"
"It's true. You're stuck in here because of me. You should go. I'll understand if you do. Or I will."
"I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you."
"Why? I've got nothing to give to you," she said. "I can't even give you a child," she added quietly, a quiver to her voice.
He bit on the inside of his cheek, wishing he could draw blood, wishing he could make the blood drip off him like the tears rolling down her temples. He unclenched his fist and brought his hand to hold her face. "You got sick, we couldn't control that," he said quietly, his thumb stroking under her lower lip.
"Maybe it's for the best… I wouldn't make a good mother, anyway."
"You would. You will."
"No," she whispered.
"We'll try again."
"I can't—"
"—there are other ways—"
"—I can't — I can't go through this again," she said in a broken whisper.
He stroked her head, combing through the wet, black tresses tangled across the pillow, realizing she was still soaked head to toe. He went to grab her robe, and a towel, and covered her with it, rubbing softly to dry her off.
"Is that why you're still here? 'Cause you think it'll happen?" she asked, the question making him freeze in his tracks.
He let go of her, the towel slipping through his hands as he rose to his feet. He scoffed, shaking his head. "After everything we've — that's what you think of me?" He turned towards the little nightstand and stared at it; he couldn't look at her anymore. "Nothing I do will ever be good enough for you, will it? You don't even remember me and you still despise me as you always have..."
"It's not—"
"—why? — you're — the only damn reason I'm still alive, for fuck's sake, you—" he trailed off, catching a breath, his gaze shooting up the subtly lit wall, to the obscure plane of the ceiling. "What is it — can you just fucking tell me what it is? What is it I have to do to stop being the enemy? 'Cause I got a feeling it's all I've ever been to you."
"I had a dream."
He turned to look at her, her words throwing him off balance. Her gaze roamed over the ceiling like she was spaced out. Did she even hear what he was saying? She wasn't even fucking listening to him. "What did you say?"
"About you. Your family, they wanted to kill me."
"What?" He felt a chill run down his back.
"I had a baby, a daughter, we were on the run… you said you'll help me protect her, if I give you a child, of your own."
He froze in his spot, weighing his words, thinking how to play it — the dream? He knew about the ocean dreams she was having, but this one was a first. Were there more? But gods, it couldn't be — could it be that it was all going to come back to her? He swallowed, his heart racing, he wasn't sure why — because he was thrilled she would be back, or because it scared him she would. "And what happened?"
She was silent for a while. "…and I just thought… I knew I shouldn't have trusted you."
He snorted, his eyelids pressing shut. Even now, even when they started with clean slate, this shit came back like a boomerang, out of nowhere, like that. As if the fucking universe was going out of its way trying to convince her he was an untrustworthy asshole.
"It wasn't going to work between us, you must've known it, too," she said.
"Well, it sure as fuck doesn't, you've made sure of it." He walked over to the window to stop himself from sending his boot crashing into the night stand, clenched his jaw and rested his hands on the windowsill.
"I told you I'm not who you thought I was," her voice reached him, the same old words she kept repeating like a fucking mantra, as if she wanted to tried to make him lose it once and for all—
He squeezed his eyes shut, torn between roaring, punching the glass in front of him and the urge to grab and shake her, knock this fucking delirium off of her. "I can't do this," he muttered through clenched teeth.
"You won't have to. I'll leave," her words reached him, barely breaking through the wind whistling outside.
He closed his eyes, slowly, the words resounding all around him, like he got punched in the head.
"I just need a day or two," she said.
He growled, his fist making a contact with the window, shards of glass scattering all around, his skin unscathed, the wind blowing cold into his face. He wished he could feel it, the glass cutting through the flesh, painting his hand red.
He should leave before he lashed out for real, but leaving her alone after what she just pulled off was out of the question. Knowing her, he wouldn't be surprised if she found a way to slit her wrists with a teaspoon. No, he had to be stronger here. This was temporary. This wasn't her talking. This was her brain recovering. The doctors had warned him, he read about it, too. He just needed to be there, not let her get to him, and make sure she didn't do anything stupid. For fuck's sake… it gave him chills, the thought he might have slept through the night and not showed up at that shore when he did.
Yes, she'd told him about the dreams. But how the fuck was he supposed to know she'd—
He wasn't going to sleep. If that was what it took, from now on he would stay awake 24/7. It wasn't like he needed to sleep, anyway. Gods didn't sleep. He only did to pass the time, reset his mind. With her, he just liked it, it became a habit; falling asleep with her, opening his eyes to see her there in the morning. He loved their mornings. He used to. Now a morning meant another day of watching life fade from her.
He looked over his shoulder, towards the bed, briefly considering cleaning and drying her up with a snap of his fingers, and dismissed the thought, for some reason. A loud gust of wind broke in through the broken glass of the window. With a wave of his hand the windowpane was back to its intact state from a while ago. "I'll run you a bath."
No answer came; she didn't even spare him a look when he passed her by on the way to the bathroom. He hardly noticed. It was normal by now.
Surprisingly, she didn't protest when he scooped her in his arms and picked her up off the bed. He carried her to the bathroom and turned towards the door.
"Why are you doing this?" her voice stopped him in his tracks. He froze, not turning back.
"Doing what?"
There were steps behind his back; he waited for her to come and stand before him. She didn't. So, he turned back himself.
Her face was shiny; pale, surrounded with the black mane of damp, messy hair, the rugged, rock-band t-shirt on her all soaking wet; overall pretty much what she looked like everyday for the past several weeks. But there was something about her now — gods, he wanted to ravish her.
"Why are you still here?" she asked weakly when he pulled her close.
"Why the fuck do you think?" he whispered back, anger rising in him. "What kind of fucking question is that? What, you want me to say it, you need to hear it? It that what this is? 'Cause you couldn't figure it out otherwise?" he sneered and scoffed, his anger fading as soon as it came, turning into fever as he looked down to her breasts poking through the thin cotton, making him ache to cup them and tug at them with his teeth till she screamed. He seized her tighter, breathing her in, the warm, rich scent of her mixed with sweat and the sea salt. Something felt different about her, he couldn't pinpoint.
Somehow, he still anticipated her to withdraw, turn her back on him as she'd usually do; as she'd done so many times that he'd almost quit approaching her at all. His heart swelled when she didn't, when he felt her mouth on his instead, nipping at his lips softly; with affection more than lust, but somehow, it drove him even crazier, his chest about to burst when she cradled his face with both hands now, her lips brushing his cheek, and nose, his eyelids. "I'm sorry…" She sniffled, her warm whisper all over his face; and he didn't know what he wanted anymore, to cry or fuck her, or both. "I'm sorry," she whispered against his mouth, making him shiver, all of it.
"I know." He cradled the back of her head, nuzzling her cheek with the tip of his nose. "I know, baby, it's not your fault…"
"I missed you," she said softly, pulling away a little, their eyes meeting, hers wide open. And then it hit him.
Her eyes. That spark in there he hadn't seen in ages; it was back, she was back—
"I missed you so much," she let out a little sniffle, her forehead pushing into his.
"I'm here…" He pulled her tight against his chest, his mouth pressing to her temple, his eyes falling shut under the force of emotion clutching at his throat. "I'm right here," he sniffed, kissing her eyebrow, holding her head to his face, "always."
He held her when the sobs shook her, his chest welling up with something so strong it hurt, his head and chest both on the verge of bursting open — was it insanity yet? — because it felt like the happiest he'd ever felt in his whole damn life.
She pulled away, rolled the wet fabric up her chest and pulled it over her head, letting it land on the floor with a wet, muffled thud; and just stood there, nude as he hadn't seen her in forever, face shiny, blue eyes slightly darkened, her gaze strange on him, eerie almost, the whole aura about her, with the pale, cold hue to her skin from the LED-lighted mirror in front of her; like a water nymph.
He rubbed his palm against his jaw and watched, mesmerized, as she brought her hand to her collarbone, fingertips brushing unhurriedly, like she was teasing him, sweeping off the heavy, still wet strands of hair clinging to the dewy skin of her cleavage, moving them over her shoulders, leaving her chest perfectly bare; and she stood still, silent, her mouth parting a little. His pulse racing, his gaze left her face, moving lower, sweeping over every single little spot, curve and scar his mouth and palms knew by heart; and exhaled softly, his throat tightening as the sudden moisture pooled in his eye-corners. He used his thumb and index finger to stop it from overflowing.
He saw her chest rise in a breath when he stepped closer and knelt before her, his hands going up her calves, thumbs brushing her knees; she shivered a little when he pressed his face to her thigh, kissing, then brushing with the tip of his nose, his gaze going to the top of her thighs, just the very thought of burying his face there to get a sniff making him hard. He reached up to feel the dark curls with his fingertips, her eyelashes fluttering when he looked up and their eyes met. "I love it that you stopped shaving…" With a little grunt and hum, he pressed his face where his fingers touched.
"You do?" she moaned softly, stroking across his head.
"I'm so hard it hurts," he muttered, loving the little whimpers she made as he sniffed and nuzzled.
He stroked up the back of her legs, longing to reach up further between and feel the heat there, but something stopped him, made him hold back, her touch on his head so tender, loving; he wrapped his arms around the back of her legs and pressed his face to her belly, his eyes squeezing shut.
He pulled away and raised his eyes at her, and didn't speak for another while, none of them did, eyes locked on each other, tears shining in hers, just shallow little breaths between them.
"I'll wash you," he said quietly, stroking below her ankles, and watched her sharp, sob-like inhale, shimmery drops rolling down her face as she blinked.
He walked to the mirror and switched it off, the cold-blue light fading into sudden darkness. For just a moment, before, with a wave of his hand, the room was filled with warm, flickering glow of many candles sitting around, some around the tub, some further away, by the window.
He didn't get in at first, just sat on the edge and washed her hair, unhurriedly, relishing the little hums and gasps she let out as he pressed his fingertips into her scalp and rubbed in little circles; till he felt relaxed himself, his lids getting heavy.
"Get in," the sound of her voice brought him back. He blinked his eyes open, and, for another hour, once he joined her in the tub, he didn't want to close them for one second.
"We should do it more often," she hummed as he took his time rubbing her head with a towel.
"Whenever you want." He slowly combed his hand through the still damp locks and pressed a quiet kiss to the back of her head. If that would make her feel better — he would live in this damn bathroom — hell, he would sleep in the tub if that was what it would take.
"How're you feeling?" He turned her around, his arms going around her waist.
"Better."
He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. She did look better, life in her eyes he hadn't seen in ages. Gods, he wanted to kiss and fuck the hell out of her.
"Take me to bed," she ordered in a low whisper, tugging at the towel on his hips, making it fall to the floor.
"Now you're talking." He did the same to her and picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist. "But we're not going to bed."
He went out on the terrace but, not spotting the right sized surface and frowning at the unexpected cold of the night, he carried her back inside and seated her on the tall, narrow sideboard in the dining area, her back against the wall. It was perfect hight and this way he could control it better — they should take it the slowest of the slow, she was still in recovery — though he had no idea how he was going to control himself after all those weeks — but he would, that much he knew. He had to. Her health was all that mattered, he wouldn't forgive himself if anything happened.
Well, not that she was making it easy with the way she squirmed and moaned in his arms, but as long as he avoided looking her in the eye and kept his hands away from her chest, he could still control it, more or less.
Then, she went and fucked it all up; cupped his face, opened her mouth and it all crumbled in a second. "I wanna try again," she whispered, holding his face to hers. "I wanna have your child," she breathed against his mouth, softness and tremor in her voice.
It took a very deep breath and the utmost of his will and self-control not to crush her in his arms and slam himself inside her — and after another calming inhale, his heart pounding, he locked her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers, just breathing; breathing her in, their breaths intermingling. "Say it again…"
She weaved her fingers into his hair and brought her mouth to the side of his head. "I wanna have our baby," she said, her lips brushing his ear, her heated whisper sending goosebumps down his arms.
It was like a bolt of lightning hit him; and he only knew one thing, that he had to take his hands off of her not to hurt her, because he was about to lose it as he never had in his life, he could feel it in his every fiber. Growling, he slammed his fists into the wall behind her, sweat breaking on his forehead, muscles quivering, heartbeat pulsing wild in his head, his ears, his every blood-cell — gods, if he was mortal, he would've passed out or likely died by now — he wasn't sure he was going to survive it as a god — and he couldn't even wait for her, because when he felt her wrap herself around him tight, her wordless, breathless whispers in his ear, and he felt it really coming, the end, his whole body about to burst open — he couldn't, he let it, he had to, let go.
For a moment, he wasn't sure he survived it, not till he regained full consciousness; and it took a little while. "Did I hurt you?" he asked suddenly, his hand searching, blindly, finding her face. Her mouth opening, she said nothing, just kept breathing heavily. "Baby, please… talk to me."
"I'm okay."
"You sure? I don't know what the hell happened… what the fuck have you just done to me…" he panted, his face still twisted in a grimace, his forehead pressed to her shoulder. "Holy shit, I can't stop shaking…" He gazed up at her and reached up to wipe the beads of sweat he felt were about to streak down from his hairline, but she was faster, removing his hand and running her fingertips across the damp skin. And must've missed a spot, because he felt a droplet trickle past his eyebrow and sting the inner corner of his eye.
"I think it's called a breeding fetish," she whispered, the words and the tease in her voice making him forget all about the eye.
"Well, you got me there." He whispered back, the corner of his mouth rising in a little grin.
"Also, I think we need another bath."
"And we need to fix this wall," he added, and looked at his knuckles, covered with white dust, chuckled, and glanced up at the said wall, a very visible casualty of the madness she drove him into. His hands still a little quivery, he cradled her face, their eyes meeting. "It's you… you're really back…"
"It's always been me." She said softly, casting her eyes down.
"I know, I just—"
"I know," she cut him off, "I know… and I'm sorry, for… all this hell I put you through."
"Well, these last several whiles were pretty bearable, if you ask me."
"Could've fooled me." She shot him her little catlike grin, and — this smile — this face — her, with this spark in her eye — it was too much.
He sighed and, blinking the sudden emotion away, glanced toward the patio doors. The night was calming down, the ocean spent, waves now just a muffled whisper in the distance. He suddenly felt sleepy. And so damn, fucking good, with the warm, sweaty weight of her melted against him; it hurt to move even just an inch. He pressed his face to the side of her head, above her ear; and it felt he so needed to say something, let out the words pressing onto his throat. He just couldn't really make them out, his mind still foggy from this damned, sweet, blinding haze only she could put him under.
"Shower," she said sleepily, yawning as she stretched her neck to the side, her nails scratching across the side of his head, back and forth. "Or fuck it."
"Fuck it," he said, carrying her to bed. They had all the time in the world to shower.
Right now he just wanted to — just stay inside her, holding her, feel her fall asleep on his chest. She drifted off within moments.
He tried but couldn't.
The words came to him, eventually, warm pressure in his throat, unsaid.