Chapter Text
Thought he was a tad overprotective before, but since waking from some of the worst pain she’s experienced in her long, trauma-filled life, he will not release her from his eyesight.
Her view on his caring is bifurcated, while it’s nice to know that he truly cares for her—knows he cares because she saw the panic in his face when she awoke the next day and his face was red and wet with tears—he now ignores the fissure that split between then in the first place. Just cuddles up to her like he didn’t ask her to remove the amalgamation of them from her body.
She doesn’t particularly want a child, or this child, but what she does want is the room to think over such a big decision that may never come her way again. What she wants is for him to admit he was pushing, when she just wanted a little bit of time to mull over the options.
But then, she knows she’s not perfect, knows she’s guilty of investing feelings, because the more time she spent with herself holed up in the house thinking about big thick stews with huge hunks of game meat, the more she talked to herself to keep herself company because the neighboring wives were quite direct when they told her to never speak a word to them again.
But the more she talked to herself, the more she realized that she wasn’t speaking to herself, but to the life tagging along with her.
She didn’t become enamored with the idea of being a mother—still isn’t—but in all the killing she’s done, been made to do, had no say in, this one felt wrong. Tried to talk herself down, that it really wasn’t a murder so much as a precaution, after all she didn’t enjoy her childhood on her chilly home world with similar, though laxer, values.
Cannot imagine what it would be like as a child on a world where most of the day is spent in prayer. Where the love of the Ori comes before the love of the child.
She hasn’t seen many young children—hasn’t seen any babies at all—and she wonders if the villagers specifically do not want to bring more children into the village for that reason.
“Hey, you didn’t touch your breakfast.” Cameron bounces down the stairs, full of energy from sleeping in the bed all night. She’s adopted a space on the almost comfortable couch as she’s still not completely trusting him. Believes she may love him, but as of now, when she looks him in the eye, all she can think of is what he made her do and for what reasons.
She pushes away the bowl of ground grains he created by mixing a few spices with goat’s milk. It’s tangy and peppery and not sitting well with her current condition. One she will seek Denya out to remedy again today.
As much as she doesn’t want to go through the pain again, as much as half of her wants this child, if not as just an experience, the brighter half of her knows there’s verity in Cameron’s words, and that they need to remedy the situation before she becomes more involved.
“I’m not feeling very peckish today.”
He slides an arm around her, retrieving the bowl, and while doing so, drops a kiss into her hair. She doesn’t know how he’s so civil with all this, how again he doesn’t choose to acknowledge her feelings, her need for rumination, her need for space. He gulps down a spoonful, leaning against the paltry kitchen counter. “Want me to make you something else?”
“If I wanted something else, I would make it myself.” She pushes her chair away from the table, even unhappy with the tea this morning. The weather is colder, and while the temperature reminds her of where she grew up, she would much prefer to be curled up by the fire.
“Yeah, but why waste the fact that you have a husband at home today?”
He battles her negativity, her blatant strikes, her desire for him to leave her alone, with his comedic responses, still spooning his breakfast creation in his mouth.
“I’ll just get something to eat when we go to the tavern.” Tightens her shawl across her shoulders as she steps towards the hearth, leaning to the side and retrieving more wood to add in.
She counts the seconds before she hears his bowl clatter.
“I can do that.” The words stumble out of his mouth as he darts across the room ready to intercept her slow movement of adding a log, maybe two, to the fire.
She rolls her eyes, one hand still buckling her shawl in place. “So can I, Cameron.”
“Yeah but why—”
“Because I can.”
Immediately feels a twinge of guilt from snapping at him, unable to initially look at him. Instead she leans her heavy head against the stonework of the hearth, trying to steady her breathing in a nauseous, fatigued body with a sore back from the couch.
“Look,” his voice is calm and even, trying to lull her into listening to his apologies for the umpteenth time, “I know things have been a little stressed between us the last couple of weeks.”
At that statement she turns, offering him a doubtful expression.
“Okay, so they’ve been stressed since I found out you were pregnant—” he trails her around the couch, perching himself on the arm as she sits back on the cushions that cradled her back in all the wrong ways for the last two weeks “—but you have to believe me when I say that—”
“—all I wanted to do was protect you,” she sing-songs it along with him, glancing up at him and finding a weak smile on his face.
“Well, at least you know.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that what happened two weeks ago was completely preventable, Cameron.”
“I know I—”
“I just wanted time.”
“You can have—”
“Which you still refuse to give to me.”