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For the first time that she could remember, everything in her life was perfect.
She was alive. Her father was alive.
She had a husband, a good husband from a good family. Her own family were delighted, proud, and extremely shocked. She had a friend, albeit an unconventional one, in Mushu.
The night that Shang had proclaimed her unfit for the rage of war had lit a fire inside her. Her innate fear of success had been supressed by an even greater fear of failure and its consequences. She had fought with everything she had to stay with her troop, to keep them alive, to stay alive herself.
She had succeeded in everything that had ever been asked of her, and had an inappropriate adventure her future grandchildren would never believe along the way.
So everything in her life was perfect. It was.
She just really, really hated perfection. It gave her important things to lose, and abundant free time to worry about losing them in.
So much free time.
Shang was away from home so often, these days. She had expected it; he was a career soldier, after all, not a conscript. But she hadn’t given any thought to what that would mean for her, or for their relationship.
She hadn’t given any thought to a lot of things, and now, there she was, spending a significant percentage of every day changing in and out of clothes she hated in an effort to impress people whose opinions she cared little for. She knew her duty, and she cared deeply for Shang. She owed him her life, although of course, he didn’t see it that way. One life debt did not cancel out another, just bound people more closely together. And so she would do everything in her power to be the woman she had been groomed to be her whole life. A girl worth fighting for. A woman worth coming home to.
A girl who dressed appropriately, and spoke appropriately. A girl who remembered people’s names, and worried about flower arrangements and meal preparation.
For the first time that she could remember, she was doing everything right.
Perfection was boring. Boring, and highly stressful.
Every day, she longed to get on Kahn’s back and ride away from it all. There was nothing new in that, though. All of her life she had wanted to escape, to do the interesting thing instead of the right one.
It would all have been worth it, though, if it had made Shang happy. He wasn’t happy, though.
Every time he returned, he seemed a little more distant from her.
It made sense, of course. As much as she occasionally resented his leaving on new adventures without her, it was a hard life he was leaving their comfortable home for.
Thinking that there was a deeper reason, that that reason might be her, was silly and paranoid. She was doing everything right, she really was.
And yet, maybe that was a part of the problem. He had chosen her over thousands of other girls whose parents’ would have welcomed him as a suitor. He had liked her better when she was Ping. He had liked her better during that first year they were married, when she was still making a mess of everything.
Paranoid and silly, perhaps. Maybe also true.
And she was so very tired of doing the right thing. It was time to do the wrong thing again.
Shang looked furious. Shocked, a little embarrassed, but mostly furious. And underneath that, something else, something she hadn’t seen directed toward her in far too long. She had missed that look while he was gone.
It wasn’t that she was dressed inappropriately for an annual feast with the Emperor, even one held in her honour. She was dressed exactly as befitted her station in life; or at least that of a man of equal standing.
The Emperor looked both proud and amused, while also maintaining the air of someone who was completely unaware of any strangeness in the room. Everyone else seemed to be trying to follow his lead, although with considerably less success.
As soon as the feast was over, Shang walked out of the room without a word or a glance in her direction. She followed instantly, aware that this mood was more dangerous than his initial rage.
He was going to kill her, and it was going to be worth it.
The instant they were alone, he had her pressed against the nearest wall, wrists pinned above her head. She was trying to look repentant, but she could feel the corners of her mouth curving up into a mischievous smile.
For a moment, she could see the anger coming back, and then he laughed, long and hard, and she could feel the vibration of it thrumming through both of their bodies.
“You’re impossible.” She could feel his breath on her lips.
“I know.”
“It’s why I love you.”
“I know. I love you too.”
He kissed her, lightly, affectionately.
She had needed this too long to settle for affectionate. She would pull him deeper into the kiss but her hands were still trapped against the wall above her. She bit his lip, ground her hips against his.
She had needed this. They had both needed this.
“You’re bored.”
“Yes.”
“You need something to occupy you while I’m away.”
“Yes.”
Raised up on just one elbow, and completely naked, he still managed to look both intimidating and suspicious at her acquiescence. He had no need to be. They both knew he was right, and she was feeling far too warm and glow-y to argue for the sake of arguing.
“I’m going to talk to the Emperor about offering you a place on his Council again.”
“…yes?”
“Yes. And you’re going to agree. I don’t have time to be worrying about what fresh mischief you’re getting up to next time I’m away.” He was trying to look stern, but ruined the effect by leaning down to kiss her again.
“You’re going to agree?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re never going to do this again.”
“…”
“Are you?”
“No, of course not.”
He pretended to believe her. What else could he do? If he thought she was going to do it again, he would have to do something to stop her, and where would be the satisfaction in that?