Work Text:
Conflict made up the foundation. It was the raw material, the cement that ran layers deep, levelled and durable, able to bear the load of their relationship, no matter the weight.
They set in motion the day they first met, swerving through the streets of Dallas. An authoritative snap was James’s reply to Teresa’s sarcasm. They pushed and pulled, each battling for control, for obedience from the other.
In the early days, their usually low voices often lifted in argument. There wasn't much they agreed on, and both were equally bent on voicing their dissents. Neither backed down. Neither conceded defeat. At their most clamorous—as James restrained Teresa in his arms, demanding she calm down; as they fought over the life of an innocent maid—they felt an accord. An empathy, complex and inherent. There's that saying that the eyes are windows. Their eyes were more like mirrors—the soul staring back a reflection, a foreteller.
From where Teresa stood, trapped in retrospect, lodged between what if, should've and would've, the NOLA skyline took on a characteristic Arizonian aspect. Regret took on a life of its own. It supplanted reality and gave wings to wishes and dreams. If Pote hadn’t been her first call as she sailed away from the carnage of Bolivia, she would've come to a different conclusion. Without Pote’s doubts clouding her judgement, James’s blaring concern, his unmistakable relief when he met her at the airfield would've been evidence enough. If the explosions, the death, the adrenaline hadn’t been on the forefront of her mind, altering her perception of the world, she would’ve sifted through her bank of memories, analysed the part of James that was accessible only to her, and reasoned with herself that what she was accusing him of was simply impossible. She wished that some part of her had had that much faith. She indulged in the fantasy of being James’s defender, shutting Pote down in the strength of her conviction of his innocence. But even as she fantasised, wallowed in the warmth of what she should’ve done, Teresa knew, even had every circumstance changed, the niggling suspicion would've remained. Teresa knew that, at the time, she hadn't been ready to give such unabated trust. It would’ve been as impossible as James being guilty.
The pain, reflecting off his eyes as they stood on the balcony of their old home in Phoenix, was embossed on a harrowed recess of Teresa’s heart. She wished it had been anger instead. Rather than walking away, enforcing a tormenting silence, she wished he had asked her why. And when she failed to answer—because she wouldn’t have wanted to put her excuses into words—his anger would've metamorphosed into a frustrated snap.
‘Answer me; why?’
This time her silence would've been unbearable, and he would've lunged closer, the odd set of his jaw evidencing his anxiety as he ground his molars tight.
‘Why Teresa? God—’ his hands might’ve raised, making to grab her, bring her closer, as if the proximity to him would ease his pain. But they would’ve stopped short. Instead, they would’ve hovered over her shoulders before balling into fists, his knitted brows taking on a haggard look. ‘How could you think that of me—for even a second?’
‘James, I just . . .’ Teresa would’ve floundered over what to say, what explanation she could give to ease his pain. ‘I saw the tracker in Guero’s necklace. Then Pote found the bug in your room.’
James’s expression would’ve become more severe, not accepting her reasoning, not acknowledging her silent question of what did you expect me to think? He would’ve taken a minuscule step even closer.
‘We were looking for proof—’
‘Against me.’
‘I needed to be sure.’
‘You should've been sure that it wasn't me.’
But the fervour in his voice, the bitter disappointment, would’ve sparked an ember of heat in Teresa. She would've bristled back, even as remorse spilt over her in sheets.
‘You expect me to explain, but you've never explained to me why you put the tracker in Tony’s toy.’
‘After everything that's happened between you and me, and you still need an explanation?’
He would've avoided a straight reply, just like he had the times before, but this time Teresa wouldn't let it go.
‘Why won't you answer the question?’
Perhaps he would’ve shaken his head in derision, looked away towards the sky, scoffing scornfully as if fraternising with the black clouds, the corner of his lip upturning momentarily in anything but humour. Then he would’ve faced her, looked Teresa dead in the eye, dead earnest.
‘I was trying to protect you. Okay? Just like I've always been doing.’
Teresa wished that could’ve been his answer. But she knew it wasn't. Even as she hoped that the gesture that had touched her—deeper than he could've known—was innocent, she knew it hadn't been. So she amended his reply.
‘I didn't trust you. That's why.’
She knew that, at least. But it wasn't enough. ‘Was it for Camila?’ All of it? All the deceit and dare she say manipulation. But he had said ‘we’re in this together,’ husky and soft, and as she imagined James coming closer, then closer still—so close his hot breaths would've fogged Teresa’s face—that tainted memory, plummeting to the forefront of Teresa’s mind, would've sent searing pain, as if poison ran in languorous, scorching streams through her veins, en route to her heart. She would've envisaged Tony and his childish exhilaration as he killed the alien bad guys to save his galactic princess. She would've thought of the promise she’d made to Brenda to protect her son. Brenda, and the tears she’d shed over her loss in the safety of James’s embrace.
There would've been silence next; even the wind would've eased—the calm before the storm. Teresa would've grappled with what he could've possibly meant, what he could've possibly intended. She would've tried to tidy the clutter of ambivalence. When the current picked up again, it would've carried a jumble of consonants, James’s baritone voice harsh, Teresa’s taut.
‘You used my godson to get to me.’ That much was clear. A dark hue would’ve tinged James’s glossed eyes. A stiffness would’ve kept his arms straight and immovable by his sides as his thumbs tapped the tips of his fingers in erratic rhythms. James, his mouth a straight line, as if paralysed shut, would've shuffled closer—until their noses barely touched.
‘You sent sicarios, knowing he was there with me.’
‘I didn’t send them, that wasn’t me.’
‘Who then? Camila? What the hell does that matter if it was you who told her where we were?’
With the vehemence of snapped elastic, James’s hands would’ve gripped Teresa’s wrists, tugged her impossibly close. A pervading gentleness would've betrayed his anguish, even as his voice remained fierce. ‘I was loyal to Camila. That doesn't mean I betrayed you.’
‘Tony could've died. Would she have been worth that? Or do you only care when they’re little six-year-old girls?’ And even as she said it, as she released the venom that singed her innards, she would’ve felt shame.
He would’ve let her go, moved away, winded by the blow. She would’ve lamented the loss.
‘That’s what you think of me,’ and it wouldn’t have been a question.
‘James—’
‘No wonder you thought I was the mole.’
He would’ve turned away, returned to his place by the balustrade, overlooking the pool.
‘I wasn't trying to hurt you. No matter what you believe, I wasn't. I thought I had proved that to you when I came back.’
Teresa would've moved closer, touched him—a placating hand on his naked arm. Despite everything, that truth rung clearer than the toll of a bell. Even before his return in Malta, she had been sure of that. Sure that it hadn’t all been a lie. It couldn't have been. Pardoning his deception, even then, she had offered an alliance, a partnership. Tracker be damned—she hadn't wanted to fight, not with him.
‘James, I’m sorry. I didn't mean that.’
Wary now, penitent too, James would've looked at Teresa, looked in Teresa’s eyes, seen a reflection of himself. Neither good nor bad. At their most clamorous, they would’ve felt an accord, an understanding, reinforced by their yells and shouts.
‘You told me you had difficulty trusting people, and I respect that. I do. But you questioned everything, Teresa. Every kiss, every night we had together, every morning you woke up next to me . . .’
‘Look, we've both made mistakes.’
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘But if you can’t forgive me for mine—you know, maybe we’re just kidding ourselves.’
‘I do forgive you.’ And she realised she did, even if she never understood his reasons. Teresa had walked through James’s cave, could navigate through it with a recognition that needed no light, familiar with every contour, aware of every crack. She believed in his goodness, always had. She also believed in his love.
‘But can you forgive me?’
Maybe he would’ve kissed her then, like he had before he left, when he had said goodbye. Or maybe he would've allowed her to kiss him. Perhaps they would’ve gone back to Teresa’s room, or James’s, and buried each other in apologies. With all the bad blood between them cauterised, they could've finally healed, scar tissue binding them closer than before.
And then maybe, maybe he would’ve stayed.
She wondered, staring at a skyline that looked so much like another, if James, wherever he was, had forgiven her.