Chapter Text
It was winter, and Ethan had never been happier.
There was something about the snow and ice that comforted him in a way it hadn’t before they moved to Romania. When he lived in Los Angeles, they had never gotten snow, but he remembered romanticizing it for a time; movies always made it seem so pleasant and cozy, and all California ever got was a slight freeze. Besides, it was only fitting to fantasize about the season he shared a name with—he was always a bit of a hopeless romantic. It was short-lived, however. He was given a swift reality check when he moved to Texas with Mia, where he learned that winter was the annual bane of his existence. Ice made driving anywhere near impossible, the cold nipping at him stung terribly, and their apartment’s cheap heater did little to combat the chill.
It was there he also discovered that it was one of the more depressing seasons of the year; it made everything and everyone irritable, and he and Mia were no exception. Their marriage, as loving as it was, had always been a little tumultuous at times. They’d quarrel over small things, and the cool weather would only exacerbate their pre-existing frustrations. Every mole hill would be a mountain, and their financial situation certainly hadn’t helped—the encroaching holidays and rising rent made money tight, even with the both of them working full-time. Combined with perpetual close quarters and their already reserved lifestyles, winter turned their shared apartment into a pressure cooker, fit to blow up over the slightest inconvenience. It was stressful; being so cooped up had made him restless.
Nowadays, it seemed silly to have ever become aggravated with Mia. It turned out the love of his life going missing for three years could really give him a new perspective of things. Before, he’d sequester himself away if his social battery was ever too low to hold a conversation, afraid of disrupting the peace or being annoying, but now he couldn't get enough of her, eager to make up for lost time. He had so many things to show her, and so many things he wanted to do with her that the old Ethan would’ve never done, whether through self-consciousness, or busyness, or some reason or another. His old self was pretty stupid in that regard, not realizing time was limited and precious. He was glad he changed.
The confinement winter once brought was something he looked forward to rather than dreaded. It was no longer a seasonal hurdle, but again something worth fantasizing about; with it came an exciting anticipation. It meant he got to spend more time with his amazing, perfect, and gorgeous wife.
She had been itching to visit the village more and more, which he found ridiculous. There was nothing in the village they didn’t have at home—after all, it was where the heart was. Everything they ever needed was there, and if it wasn’t, he’d provide in an instant. All the village had were strangers and hicks, and who knew what kind of people they were? Likely dangerous, he surmised. Someone could come along and try to take her away from him.
Someone already tried to take her. He simmered just at the thought of it. Thank goodness he nipped that in the bud before it bloomed into something more troublesome. Anything could’ve happened to her if he hadn’t intervened. The snowfall gave him the perfect excuse he needed to keep her inside, tucked safely against him. Life was at its finest when it was just the two of them. There were times he felt a little guilty about it, but he was easily consoled by the reminder that it was all for their best interests. He’d always do what was right for them, even if it didn’t always feel that way. He had been ignoring the nagging in his brain for a couple months now—insisting that he was being absurd, he wasn’t that kind of man, petty, fanatical, and so grotesquely obsessed that the mere suggestion of separation made his anxiety spike—and it was one of the better decisions he’d made in recent memory. He needed her more than she needed to leave. Originally, he was disgusted with himself for her medical addendum, having thrown it into their fireplace to burn, but the good it would do outweighed his remorse—all it included was an antifungal prescription alongside a new brain scan, and he was confident she didn’t need it; he saved her, he cured her, she was fine! All medication would’ve done was delay progress toward their ideal future: starting a family together.
Chris and his team still called on occasion, but the snow kept them idyllically isolated. The incoming storm made their reception mediocre—Chris would barely be able to get a word or two in before a loud blare of static cut him off, or the call dropped completely with a monotonous beep. His disruptions were as irritating as they always were, but the calls were never long enough to be intrusive. The soldier hardly managed to get through a sentence, but even through the crackle, the questions were the same as they always were.
Yes, they had plenty of food.
No, they didn’t need supplies.
Yes, he and Mia were doing alright. They’re fine, more than fine, really. In fact, he told Chris that they were doing so well that the check-ins weren’t even necessary, at least while the signal was bad. Actually, why not put these calls on hold entirely? They were unnecessary by this point, but if the government insisted, they could surely wait until the weather cleared. Ethan would hate to inconvenience them, and Chris probably had more important things to do than babysitting civilians. They’d be good on their own for a while. They could drop by once the storm passed.
Miraculously, Chris had agreed, and Ethan was positively thrilled by the answer. With how particular the soldier could be, he expected more pushback, accompanied by some spiel about safety or duty or whatever motto the B.S.A.A followed, but he wouldn’t complain. It was great news! No more soldiers parading around their house and rummaging into their personal lives, at least for a little. While Chris and his squad tried to keep themselves as unintrusive as possible, Ethan still wasn’t fully able to stamp out the flicker of agitation that appeared whenever he saw them at the door or heard the phone ring. He tried to make their visits and calls as quick as possible each time; the faster the status quo resumed, the better.
It was a duty he was more than willing to take on, and he took pride in it as a sort of husbandly obligation. Mia spent so much time managing the house—cooking, cleaning, laundry—that it was only fair he handled the rest. He saw how she seemed to stiffen whenever they arrived, lips thinning into a tight line. She’d keep her answers clipped and brief, eyes trained to either the furniture or the floor. It was easy, then, to conclude that they made her uncomfortable. The exact reason didn’t matter; he wouldn’t pry. What mattered was his self-appointed task of keeping Mia happy, and if that involved him shepherding the B.S.A.A out the door, then he’d gladly do so. Her contentment was his; a happiness shared was doubled. He had nothing specific against Chris, of course. He didn’t dislike him, quite the opposite really. Chris had done nothing but help them, and that alone was commendable, though his squad had the nasty habit of stepping out of line.
It ruffled him just thinking about it. Who did that soldier think he was, talking about his wife like that, like she was an expendable piece of meat to be thrown around? What the hell did they know about marriage? Suggesting a husband and wife sleep apart was as laughable as it was absurd. He was glad Mia hadn’t been around to hear such impertinent foolery. He was already confident that they snooped around his house behind this back, but meddling in his relationship was a step too far. In some ways, he could understand the good intentions of the offer. Mia told him they hadn’t meant to pry, but her words did little to soothe his lingering agitation. He had been a busybody himself once, before everything.
‘Oh, what was your babysitting job, honey?’
‘Where did all that money come from?’
‘Couldn’t you find work elsewhere?’
On and on, just like that. He was different now. Things had changed; he had changed. He could recognize the value in the undisclosed. It was only expected for families to have their skeletons. Some things were better left unsaid, lest ideas be planted where they had no place. Their relationship was going swimmingly; everything was perfect! To even imply it might not be created uncertainty, and he’d rather die than have his adoration questioned. There was no doubt that he loved Mia with everything he had. He’d do anything for her. Daring to suggest otherwise was an insult. If Chris’s men knew what was good for them, they’d be smart to change, too.
On the bright side, less oversight meant the both of them could breathe easier; no more double-checking whether they were doing something wrong. More importantly, there was no one putting ideas in his darling’s head. Less interruptions to potentially jeopardize their livelihoods. Nothing broke his illusion of normalcy faster than seeing soldiers at the door, uniform-clad or not, and he much preferred maintaining the peace. Their house was his sanctuary. It had everything he—they could possibly need. Open, spacious rooms, the kind where he could easily see across the house if he stood at just the right angle, blankets, comforters, lovely furniture, food and drink. There was no need to go into the village; no need for any visitors. They had all the company they needed in the form of each other, and that was enough.
Or, it should be enough. He worried, sometimes.
Watching Mia was one of his favorite pastimes—it only made sense. Everything she did enthralled him—so it hadn’t escaped his notice that she was especially antsy as of late. The storm had kept them indoors for a few days now, piling nearly five feet of snow at their doorstep. She couldn’t go out even if she wanted to. Being the patient husband he was, he didn’t pry. Mia preferred keeping to herself; privacy was a part of her character, and he was willing to grant it if it meant keeping her comfortable. She’d come to him when she was ready. She always did. Nevertheless, it didn’t keep him from guessing. He did everything in his power to anticipate her needs and woes, but he couldn’t fathom what exactly had her worked up. He believed, perhaps, that her restlessness stemmed from the garden. Her plants were practically like children; she’d go the extra mile in carefully pruning their leaves, and selecting soils. When they were originally furnishing the house, she kept him out for hours just picking out the cutest pots she could find. Her enthusiasm then had been infectious, and he adored the way her face lit up whenever he presented her with one.
To put it plainly: the garden meant a lot to her, and it wasn’t hard to see why. His brief time at the Baker’s had been a living nightmare—physically and mentally. Extend that torment an additional three years, and he could barely scratch the surface of what she experienced there. Nothing grew for miles, and the few plants that remained were shriveled yellow, dead, or dying. He could hardly imagine a life surrounded by death. She wanted to live again as soon as possible, escaping the reaper’s shadow by tending to life. It was a pursuit he was more than willing to enable; whatever it took to ease her.
If she couldn’t work in the garden, courtesy of the snow, it only made sense that she’d become twitchy. His beautiful, thoughtful Mia, worrying herself over a few plants.
So, he put extra effort into making her happy. Wherever she went, he followed, eager to take her mind off things by simply making his presence known. If she was in the kitchen, he’d wrap his arms around her from behind and nuzzle into her hair, letting the sweet perfume of vanilla lotion and shampoo wash over him. He’d fetch her things before she could even think to ask: her favorite snack, the television remote, anything to anticipate her needs. His favorite activity so far was when he caught her shivering on the couch, bundled in one of her thick, woolly cardigans he adored. He had happily nicked a blanket from the nearby chair to drape over the both of them, cuddling up to her as close as he could physically get. He laid his head atop hers, and stifled a pleased sigh when he felt her body gradually loosen, relaxing to fold into his. How perfectly she fit against him, filling the nauseating dread in his chest with affection. It was a feeling that has been plaguing him since Dulvey, an ever present tightness that resided and gnawed at his core. It was difficult for him to even describe, best sorted into the vague categories of good and bad. When Mia was absent, he felt bad. When Mia was with him, he felt alright. Spending time with her always helped, but this—close quarters, warm skin to skin—eased him the most.
It didn’t alleviate his anxieties entirely, but it mitigated them into something more manageable. If only he could get closer, and closer still; maybe then he’d feel normal again. For a beat, cuddling together on the couch, he wished the boundary between them could dissolve entirely, no room for separation. Shamefully, it wouldn’t be the first time he had the fantasy, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Ever since they moved, the thought had only become more pervasive, consuming more and more of his most malignant daydreams. He fantasized about a world where he lived inside her, like a tapeworm! He imagined being one body—curling around her heart and lungs like a rib cage, keeping her safe. He wanted to be the blood pumping in her veins. He wanted her to need him like he needed her. He knew there was something mortifying and morbid in the thought. He didn’t have them before. Had they even crossed his mind in the past, he would’ve easily dismissed them as intrusively macabre, and maybe enrolled himself in therapy. Thoughts like that weren’t healthy. This fixation he had, intense and yet growing, was marked as troubling somewhere in his hind-brain. He was distantly aware that something was wrong with him, a disease of the mind, but if that were the case, sickness had never been so wonderful. The lows were low, sending him spiraling, but the highs were ecstatic. She was his designated cure-all, and he was addicted. He couldn’t ever get enough of her.
He took a breath, willing his shoulders to slump and his mind to quiet. Her scent immediately made him relax, drowning his thoughts, and rendering him blissfully empty. There was no harm in a few taboo thoughts. He needn’t feel guilty in the privacy of his mind. He could indulge as he pleased, provided he didn’t scare her away. He would never recover if she thought badly of him. The last thing he ever wanted was to worry her. He was supposed to be her husband, her refuge and her island where she could retreat to unwind. If she discovered crumbs of his thoughts, she’d surely worry. She was so considerate and careful with him. She’d probably beat herself up over it, finding some inexplicable way to blame herself. His dear wife had a guilty conscience, but he’d never understand why. She was perfect. She made the noise in his head stop.
He loved her very, very much.
His favorite part of the day, however, was nightfall.
He couldn’t help but watch her as she prepared for bed, himself already comfortably nestled in the sheets. She was so gentle in everything she did, from the delicate way she brushed out her tangles to the smooth glide of her hands smearing streaks of lotion into her skin. She made even the simple act of preening look graceful and elegant. The low, amber lamplight only further accentuated her beauty, highlighting her contours in a coppery shade of bronze. It was his own private show, one he was partly convinced she did on purpose—she loved seeing him flustered; she told him once that the blush flushing his ears and cheeks could light a room pink. As long as he was around, she teased, she had no need for a nightlight.
His eyes slid from her head to her shoulders, catching on the jagged scar tissue lining the side of her neck. The sight of puckered skin was nearly enough to make him wince. No matter how many times Mia said it was okay, that it wasn't really her, and he deserved to defend himself, the guilt lingered, sinking in his heart. Defense or not, he raised a hand against her, had dug an axe into her throat as though she were a pig for slaughter. The memory haunted him despite her many reassurances—her wet gasp, her death rattle a whispered: “I love you,” thinking of him in what may have very well been her final moments. He felt her blood on his hands, wine-red and tacky, staining his fingers with life-essence no lover should see, let alone touch. With the limited information he had at the time, he believed her spilt blood was the last vestige of warmth he’d ever again experience from her.
The mold ruined their lives. The second chance they’ve been given was a miracle in itself. Yet, he was grateful for one thing: giving his precious Mia back after death. He couldn’t live with himself if he killed her; he would’ve nose-dived straight out the helicopter the B.S.A.A picked them up in.
His hands twitched under the duvet, absently trailing his fingers along the scar decorating his left wrist. As grim the admission was, in hindsight, he was a little glad she managed to nick him in return. The scar she left was ugly, the skin still rough and uneven, but it was hers. In a sick way, they matched, and he liked the thought of that more than he should have. It reminded him, briefly, of those cheesy romcoms they used to see when they lived in Texas—the kinds that always ended in declarations of true love, and whose leads were tied together with a metaphorical, or sometimes literal, red string. He liked to think he and Mia were bound similarly. Maybe not with red string, but with blood and sweat and tears, stronger than any flimsy piece of thread.
Preoccupied by his thoughts, he didn’t notice when she spared a glance over her shoulder, having felt his stare boring into her back. When her gaze landed on him, something in her face jumped, an indescribable pass of emotion gracing her features, before settling into something teasing.
“What?” She curled a brow. “You want lotion too, baby?”
In a blink, she leaned over the bed, playfully dabbing a dollop of the creamy pomade onto his nose, and flooding his senses with artificial vanilla. It was a smell that drove him crazy and she knew it, but it was nowhere near as nice without her natural scent underneath. She simply wore it better.
“Just admiring the view,” He hummed, reaching a hand up to rub the lotion into his skin. He sounded love struck and dopey, but they’ve been married for too long for him to feel embarrassed. His corniness has never bothered Mia before. If anything, it was his selling point. Given his…average appearance, he was fairly certain it was one of the reasons she married him. She was a supermodel compared to him—his personality must’ve charmed its way into her heart.
“It’s a view you’ve seen a hundred times,” She retorted, crawling to join him under the sheets. She twisted onto her side to knead her pillow, facing him, and he took the opportunity to wrap his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace without hesitation. He tugged her to him until they were flush, hooking a leg around her calf, and she was more on his side of the bed than her own.
He nudged into her hair. “I’ve seen the sunrise a hundred times, too.”
She playfully rolled her eyes, face dusted red. She wriggled in his grip for a moment, but eventually settled when it didn’t loosen.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” She sighed, craning her head to give him a quick peck on the lips as she switched off the lamp with a clipped click. “Goodnight, baby.”
“Goodnight, babe,” He cooed, shifting to nuzzle into the junction of her shoulder, lashes fluttering against her bare skin. He loved the feeling of her body against him—her soft skin, the gentle press of her chest to his, the clean, smooth texture of her curls tickling his jaw. It was all so perfect, a fantasy come true. What did he do to be the luckiest man on earth? He couldn’t wait to do the same thing tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after after, for the rest of their lives. He had never been more excited to grow old and die together.
He tried to calm his racing heart, hoping Mia couldn’t hear his blood rush from there she was tucked to his chest. He counted the minutes in his head—one, five, ten, twenty—until he mustered the nerve to slowly pull away, tilting his head to peer down at her. He didn’t want to wake her. She already caught him staring once, and he wasn’t keen on being caught again. It had been a little embarrassing then, but a second time? He didn’t want her to think he was some sort of freak. He hadn’t been lying when she spotted him that first instance; he liked watching her. It made him happy. It had started innocently enough, admiring her late in the night after he was stirred by his own horrid dreams, but his one-off gazing quickly spiraled into a nocturnal habit. He hardly slept anymore. Even now, as exhaustion tugged at his lids, he didn’t want her out of his sight. He’d burn her into his retinas if he could.
He studied her features as he stared, admiring the symmetrical planes of her face. He couldn’t say exactly why he did it. Part of him inexplicably fretted; it worried that he’d wake to her absence, that Dulvey was a nightmare he had only to rise to a living, waking one. He’d lose his mind if he lost her again, and tear apart anything and anyone that dared get in the way of finding her. He could not live a life devoid of her. The other part of him—foreign as it squeezed his brain and heart—simply enjoyed the activity. It soothed his mind, like counting sheep. Though, rather than sheep, he’d count the individual hairs on her head. It also allowed him to see a whole other side of her, her figure silhouetted in shadows. She looked so peaceful at night, unburdened by the stresses of the day. He adored it, his own discreet viewing, privy to him and him alone. All families had their skeletons; watchfulness happened to be his.
In the tentative uncertainty of darkness, his mind often drifted to their shared future, thrumming with an alien excitement that made butterflies flutter in his stomach. He saw so many new doors, he just had to open them. His imagination wandered, as it so often did since Louisiana, to their budding family. He had been brimming with eagerness ever since they moved, thinking about everything they’d do. He was enraptured by the concept, the domesticity—how Mia might look swollen with child, their child, as their home was saturated by the sweet smell of boiling milk. They’d have a baby girl, a daughter just as beautiful as her mother, with her soft face and the merry slant of her eyes. He’d build her cradle, painted white, and buy seeds for Mia’s garden; she’d be so excited to grow their own food to feed their little future. He knew just how much she loved making her own things, home-grown or otherwise. It would keep her nicely occupied. He could buy anything else they needed, stock themselves up for months or years at a time. They wouldn’t need the village, or the B.S.A.A, or anyone. It’d just be him, Mia, and their baby. A perfect portrait.
While the village was negligible, the B.S.A.A was a persistent thorn, butting into their business as they did. Intentions aside, they’d probably have their whole family on lockdown, and disrupt their peace. It made him fleetingly wish they could run away somewhere the B.S.A.A wouldn’t find them, safely hidden from the prying eyes of soldiers and their neverending examinations and inquiries. It was a fantasy he’s had before, however intangible. Nevertheless, the B.S.A.A was a temporary arrangement; they couldn’t keep them forever. Once they finished doing whatever it was they were doing—cleanup, he assumed—they’d be free to go. No more being observed like lab rats, or treated with the fragility of glass. They could do whatever they wanted, and resume life as normal. He couldn’t wait.
His eyes flicked to the curtains they forgot to close, glimpsing the world outside. Wind howled at the house’s shingles, rattling as their floorboards quietly groaned. Steep shadows, in tandem with the winter storm, obscured the view entirely. He couldn’t see any hint of a world beyond their home—no driveway, no trees, no faraway village. For a moment, the world was devoid of anything aside from the two of them. Just him and Mia in a realm of their own, belonging to them wholly.
It elicits a small smile from him.
The weather was beautiful.