Work Text:
Alejandro had barely any energy to climb the stairs to his home, simply standing at the first one, staring at the front door, willing his feet to move, but lead seemed to seep into his boots. The faces of his men and women played through his head, the shocked expressions on their faces as the bullets had ripped through them, the glaze of their vision as they hit the ground and bled out. Las Almas, the City of Souls, more like the City of Crimson. Their sons and daughters’ blood flooded the streets of it.
How many more had to die until people realized evil wouldn’t leave unless they fought back?
How many funerals did Alejandro have to attend until he couldn’t do it anymore?
How many mothers and fathers would he frown at as they broke down in tears, slamming their hands against his chest, begging, Why, why, why?
How many—
The front door opened, and he blinked, staring into the eyes of his concerned wife. “Alejandro?” she called, stepping out in a house-robe. “You’ve been out here for a while…are you coming in or do I need to bring a sleeping bag?”
Alejandro tried for a smile but could only grimace as he lifted his backpack and walked up the steps to her. “Lo siento, alma mía, estoy cansada. Ha sido un día largo.”
She frowned, taking his face in her hands as he stood before her; he let out a long sigh through his nose and she gently brushed her thumbs over the scruff of his cheeks. “I’m sorry, mi amor,” she murmured. “Dinner’s on the table.”
“I’m not hungry,” he replied lowly.
“You need to eat something. Even if it’s just a few bites.” She pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him, and took his bag. “Eat. I’ll come get you in a few minutes.” She disappeared up the stairs and he silently wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
Her food was always flavorful, heart in every bite, but Alejandro tasted nothing as he ate, robotic like he was whenever he was in boot camp and just trying to get something down for the energy and not the taste. It hurt inside him to think about his wife’s food like this, the love and affection she put into each meal, and his tastebuds wouldn’t react to the spices in it. Still, he obeyed her words and forced it down until the plate was clean.
“Ale?” she called from upstairs. “Done?”
“I am,” he replied to her.
“Ven aquí, mi amor.”
He grunted as he climbed the steps. They’d have to get a new house soon, something without stairs. He wasn’t a young man anymore. As he entered the bedroom, she pointed to the bench at the end of their bed. “Siéntate.”
He obeyed and she walked over, kneeling down at his feet. “Mi alma, what are you—”
Quietly, she unlaced his boots and pulled them off his feet, setting them behind her before she pulled off his socks and stood, taking his hands. “Levántate por mí.”
His silence matched hers as she unzipped his jacket and shoved it off, tugging his shirt up and over his head to lay beside it on the floor; nimble fingers undid his belt and pants, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. There was no inherent sexual desire in her eyes, voice, or stance, but Alejandro couldn’t help but cover himself with his hands and clear his throat, embarrassed, as if she hadn’t ever seen him naked before.
Her fingers touched his chest, at the cross that lay against his amber skin. Alejandro wasn’t a very religious man. He put his faith in things he could feel, hear, and see. There wasn’t a lot of room for believing in a God when you watched the people you cared about die in front of you. But somewhere on his own, Alejandro had his faith. Not a religious man, but he saw God in his people. In his wife.
She looked up at him. “Come with me,” she murmured, taking his hand as she led him into their bathroom, and Alejandro was hit with the overwhelming, but so, so calming scent of lilies and gardenias. He felt his heart in his throat as he saw the shadows dancing off the crimson candles lit up around the bathroom, the steam rising from the water in the tub. She brought him to the edge and gently put a hand at his lower back, urging him in.
He stepped over and sank into the hot water, a groan escaping him as he laid back and stared up at the ceiling. Carefully, she picked up a small jug and dipped it into the scented water, filling it to the brim. Lifting it, she said, “Lean your head up, mi amor.”
Obeying, he shut his eyes as the warmth cascaded over him and down his face, neck, and chest. Her fingers eased through his damp hair, rubbing something into it and she hummed quietly. Alejandro leaned into her touch as she washed his hair, nails gently scratching his scalp. More water cascaded over him, and he eventually sat back against the edge of the tub, his eyes shut, afraid that if he opened them, the tears wouldn’t stop.
“You don’t have to explain what happened today,” she calmed, running a soapy rag across his chest and shoulders. “I’ve no doubt it’s something you don’t feel like talking about right now. Maybe not for a while.” Her hands dipped below the water, running the washcloth over his skin. “Alejandro, you know I am so proud of you, don’t you?”
His jaw clenched so tightly; his teeth ached under the strain.
He wouldn’t cry.
He was too old to cry.
“You fight so hard for your people and your land. To save this city even if it takes all your life.” She washed up and down his legs. “People talk about me when they see me. Under their breaths. ‘Poor woman,’ they say. ‘Married to the Colonel. She must be so lonely and sad.’” Her hands stilled for a moment, but soon kept going. “I’m not though. I’m proud to be your wife. Proud that my husband fights for something so strongly, so heartily in his beliefs. Enough that there is an army willing to fight and die for him because they trust in him as I do.”
She pulled her hands from beneath the surface of the water, wringing out the rag before she set it aside and took his face in her hands. “Alejandro, mírame, mi amor.”
He shook his head. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Mi alma, no puedo.”
“Tu corazón ya es mío, mi amor. Tus lágrimas son mías para sostener lo mismo.”
A bullet felt like it had pierced his heart as he opened his eyes and looked at her, face torn in agony, eyes red-rimmed. “Yo fallé, mi alma.”
“You have failed no one, Alejandro.”
“Murieron. A quién más pueden culpar sino a mí?” his voice was full of loathing, and such a sadness.
She breathed deeply. “You blame the people who killed them. But you do not blame yourself.” Before he could argue, she added, “Alejandro, every soldier who follows you knows that life tomorrow is not promised. To die for a calling you strongly believe in, is an honor.” She pressed her pointer to his chest. “These men and women died to save Las Almas. They gave their lives knowing their souls are carried on. They died honorably. Murieron heroes.”
He let out a shuttering breath. “I still feel like a failure.”
“Maybe so. But it does go on. And you know you have too as well.”
She stood from the edge of the tub and grabbed a towel, holding out her hand for him to take; when he did, she helped him stand on the mat and gently toweled him off, paying careful attention to his face. “Go get in bed,” she whispered. “I’ll join you soon.”
Alejandro nodded and walked from the door, crawling into the soft and cool sheets. He buried his face in the pillow, knowing sleep wouldn’t come, but he could relax. The tension began to ease after a few minutes, only doing more so when the lights shut off and he felt her weight dip into the bed beside him. He rolled over, laying on her stomach and she flicked the bedside lamp on, giving a soft glow across the room. One hand carded in his hair, the other lightly scratched between his shoulders.
“Alejandro, mi amor, I need you to know something.”
“Qué es, alma mía?”
She paused and he looked up at her in the soft light; her eyes shown with a solemnity. “No matter what ever happens. Now, tomorrow, months or years from now, I am always proud of you. I always love you.” She cupped his face and said, “And you never have and never will fail me.”
Alejandro’s eyes filled with tears, but this time he didn’t look away, he let them fall down his cheeks, brushed away by her thumbs as she continued to profess more and more love to him.
The lead in his shoes had long since left him, the souls of his soldiers never would, he would always remember them, always think about them when he went out to war, he would carry their memory with him.
But this home, this bed, this woman, his wife, would be the one place he refused to let anything keep him prisoner.