Archive of Our Own

No.

He was livid.

The board of directors weren’t compromising. They hadn’t been since he’d gotten out of prison, but the past week had been a living hell as he pitched idea after idea and they could do nothing else but provide snide remarks, quietly mocking him as they turned their heads to whisper with one another, their laughs giving away their petty conversation topic.

It drained him of every last ounce of patience he had in him.

He had known that he would be treated differently when he returned, but he hadn’t anticipated the absolute lack of respect from those that used to crawl over one another to receive his approval. The whispers he could deal with; the fleeting glances, the rushing off mid conversation, even the outright avoidance, he understood. But if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was being disregarded as a joke, having his dignity stripped from him like he was on a pedestal, being tested for their entertainment after years of keeping them under his own heel.

He was humiliated.

He couldn’t entirely blame them for their behavior. It was only natural for them to seek to demean the same man who once controlled their fates, but it made it entirely impossible to run the business properly, and that would have repercussions on everyone if they didn’t let up soon enough.

He had been reduced to working almost every hour of the day, trying as hard as he could to ensure that the business wouldn’t fail while the board and everyone else was having their fun with him. It wasn’t something he had worried about before, but lately he couldn’t bear the thought of having to cut workers, especially not in the atmosphere after the flood.

Much to the chagrin of the American currently cohabiting in his penthouse, this meant he spent long nights at the office, sleeping at his desk and receiving a change of suits from Eugene in the mornings, who he often sent home early when he was certain his work wouldn’t be completed until late.

He tried his best to come home, not wanting to abandon her on her own after they had barely found a way to be together in the first place, but he knew she understood how important this work was to him. How hard he had to work to get back on top.

Fortunately though, this was one of the days where he could come home early, even if just to spend a little time with her.

Or so he thought.

In reality, he got home an hour earlier than she usually returned, and while waiting for her, had managed to fall asleep rather uncomfortably on the couch, his long legs cramped into a position that would at least stop him from tumbling onto the floor.

When she arrived home an hour later, she laughed softly at the sight before turning to hang up her coat and bag by the door.

She made her way over to him on sock-padded feet, hoping that she wouldn’t wake him as she pulled the blanket off the back of the couch (an addition to the penthouse that she’d insisted on after one too many nights of her feet getting cold while reading on the couch) and gently draped it over his sleeping form, grateful he had already removed his waistcoat and jacket so that he wouldn’t be complaining about wrinkles when he woke up.

She leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead and was about to pull away until she noticed how his brow was furrowed in his sleep. She frowned and gently lowered herself onto her knees to level her face to his as she studied it, realizing that he was struggling with whatever dream he was currently having.

It wasn’t the first time she had seen these nightmares. Every few months, he’d wake in a sweat, mumbling profusely in French, apologizing for something, desperate to receive a response he’d never get again. It always took a few minutes to bring him back to reality from his state of fervor, and when she finally did, he would cling onto her like he had nothing else in the world, whispering in French, begging her to never leave, to never let them part over a few bad words and the bitter taste of alcohol. It broke her heart, but she knew it was part of the territory that came with loving him, so she always did her best to comfort him and to hold him in her arms as long as he needed her to, whispering soothing things back to him in French, knowing that sometimes, only his mother tongue would be any good at soothing him.

He didn’t seem to be in that state yet, but she could tell that as his slumber continued, his nightmare was only getting worse as his furrowed brow turned into soft mumbles, cries for something to stop as his face contorted into pain.

Quickly, but gently, she reached forward to cup his face, her thumb brushing against his cheekbone, trying to pry him from the sleep that was plaguing him.

“Vincent, mon cœur, please. Wake up.”

He let out a soft plea that cracked her heart in two as she watched him struggle to get out of his own head.

“Non… non… j’suis désolé… laissez-moi le voir… j’dois lui parler...” (1)

He sounded terrified.

She caught the formality slipping from his tone, the words melding together in the conversational way her friends would often speak to each other, but never him. His guard was down, and she got the notion that this is the way he would have sounded among people he felt comfortable with, once upon a time.

She continued to gently stroke his cheek, leaning in to brush her nose against his softly, hoping that something would be able to ease him out of this trauma.

He sighed softly in his sleep, and she could tell that he was aware of her presence. He started to come to ever so slowly as his mumbles quieted down, and his brow relaxed, but the exhausted, miserable expression never left his face, even as he slowly opened his eyes to watch her.

He couldn’t respond at first, his brain still lagging behind, reliving the images of those days he never wanted to see again. She could see that his eyes were still focused elsewhere, even though his peridot gaze never left her face.

She sighed softly and leaned forward, resting her forehead against his while never breaking his gaze.

“Vincent… tu est ici. Avec moi. Reviens, mon amour.” (2)

She spoke softly, taking the care to pronounce his name with the soft, lilting accent it was given in.

He was silent for a while longer, trying to keep the silence for as long as possible as he allowed himself to leave his own head, his eyes coming back into focus, and realizing that the fuzzy image ahead of him, touching him, comforting him, was his fiancée.

He took a deep breath before trusting his voice enough to speak.

“J’y suis… j’y… je suis… ici…” (3)

He was out of his nightmare, but his voice still shook, somewhat hoarse from the lack of energy he had in him to give his own words.

His eyes weren’t wide open, but she could see that there was a shine to them signifying more than just a reflection of the light. She continued to stroke his cheek softly with the pad of her thumb to try and keep him from disconnecting from their word again. She let him continue to breathe for a minute, giving him as long as he needed to come back down to earth before she continued.

“Tu n'est pas seul. J’y suis avec toi. Ça va…” (4)

He nodded softly before closing his eyes again, taking a deep breath, and opening them again, mostly grounded.

His eyes scanned her face softly before he sighed, relieved that she, at least, was still here with him. He slowly raised a hand up to cover hers on his cheek. Turning his head ever so slightly, he pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand, watching her sincerely.

“Je te remercie, ma chérie.” (5)

He tried for a smile, but was only capable of a soft look, still competing with the scenes of suffering within his head that never seemed to disappear.

She smiled softly at him, reassuring that he needed to make no effort right now of consoling her. That she was there for him and him alone. Her hands found their way into his hair, gently combing back into position from where it had fallen in his nap.

“Same dream?” She asked softly, planting a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He sighed and closed his eyes, his brow furrowing once more as he once again remembered the dream he was having, this time by choice.

“Not... the same. But they’re all similar. Different retellings of the same events, playing over and over when they get the chance.”

He opened his eyes again and scanned her face before slowly pushing himself up into a seated position, letting his own hands take over for hers, working to straighten out his hair from it’s tousled state. She joined him after a moment, sitting in the space he had made between his two legs to allow them to sit as close as possible to each other, unhindered by their own limbs.

Her arms found their way around his neck as his settled around her waist. Her head fell perfectly into place at the crook of his neck, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head before his chin rested against her hair. He let his eyes close again as he reveled in their moment of peacefulness.

She had learned early on in their relationship that there was nothing that helped him more after his fits than just holding her tight in his arms, letting himself be reminded that he was not alone, that he had something, someone he could grasp onto now, instead of letting himself fall further into that abyss of grief.

He felt one of her hands lazily twirling the strands of hair at the back of his neck, a habit she often unknowingly exercised when they were together. He knew it was nonchalant to her, that it was just a silly habit of keeping her hands busy, but to him it was one of the most reassuring things in the world, especially in moments like this.

He had never expected this level of domesticity between the two of them. After everything they’d been through, the best he had hoped for was oddly timed meetings and an ever present tension that neither of the two ever planned on acting on. But she had proved him wrong, like she had again and again, but this time, she had proved him wrong in the best way.

He didn’t know where he would have been without her. Their experiences over the past couple of years had certainly shaped him, for better and for worse, and he couldn’t imagine trying to face the challenges he now faced without her at his side. She kept him sane. She kept him safe.

This silly American journalist that had saved the entire city, partly from his own form of destruction, had turned around and saved him too.

He was broken from his thoughts as he felt her breath tickle softly against his neck as she spoke up once more.

“You haven’t dreamt like that in a while. What brought it back today?”

She shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to let her see his face again instead of hiding it away.

He didn’t have the courage to tell her that part of the reason that his nightmares had started to quiet was because of her presence beside him.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, his brow furrowing in frustration.

“The board has me working nonstop. Ever since I returned to the office they seem to have a personal vendetta against me and aren’t letting me continue my work in peace.” He shook his head softly, feeling himself get more worked up at the thought of his present situation. “It’s bad enough that they make those bloody impossible demands just to ridicule me in front of the entire company, but now they’ve started stealing my personal time at home with you and Este-”

He froze for a moment, feeling his eyes go wide as a pair of soft lips pressed softly to his brow, over the place where a nearly invisible scar from a long time ago sat, sectioning his eyebrow into two.

She stayed there for a moment, letting her lips linger before pulling back with a gentle smile, resting her forehead against his once more.

He was used to her throwing him off his rhythm, whether it be ruining his masterplan to control Paris, or straddling him on a bench at three in the morning after being carried home in his arms because she fainted, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for her to surprise him.

But this action, this tiny little kiss, signified so much more than that to him. Her kissing the only physical reminder he had of the incident, the only scratch he had gotten when others had received so much worse, made him connect all the dots together in his head, and he momentarily forgot about all his troubles at work.

He wanted to pull her into his arms and never let go. To tell her all the pent-up words inside his head; the paranoia that one day she might grow tired of him, the overwhelming love for her that swelled up so much at times that he thought his heart might burst, and most of all, the crushing fear he lived with that reminded him that one day, she might be taken from him too, and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to recover from that a second time.

He closed his eyes and swallowed tightly, carefully considering his words so that they might not tumble out frantically and so that he might be able to fight off the tears from rolling down his cheeks that were currently building up within his eyes.

“J’ai peur… j’ai peur de te perdre… juste comme je l’ai perdu…” (6)

His eyes opened again and gazed into hers. His walls down. His fear displayed for her to see. There were no innuendos, no games to protect him in this moment. Not in her presence. He wanted her to see everything. To give himself bare to her that she might accept him with open arms.

“Je ne sais pas ce que je ferais si je te perdais… Je ne pourrais pas supporter de perdre quelqu’un d’autre comme toi… donc s’il te plaît... ne me quitte pas…” (7)

He looked at her with the wide, shining green eyes of a broken man. More open and sincere than she’d ever seen him be. She felt her own eyes welling up with tears at the thought, knowing that she, too, could never bear to lose him, and at the knowledge of how he truly felt about her. She never wanted to see him suffering again.

She nodded softly and pulled him just to gently rest her forehead against his, not trying to kiss him or insinuate any other type of affection, just reassuring him that she was here, and that she would do everything in her power to ensure that he would never be alone again.

“Je ne vais nulle part, mon cœur, pas sans toi.” (8)