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Angelina watched John from the hotel room desk, through the slit of the semi-open bathroom door as he put his shirt on. The scar, a permanent reminder of where he'd been shot, fully visible to her for a moment. Hardly a day ago, already healed over. Was a miracle he hadn't questioned how, not that the excitement of yesterday had giving him any time to think.
And now they were going off to get married. She'd finished her preparation already, knowing her father would be there. Knowing his plan. Of course she knew. She was journalist after all. And her father was an idiot at best.
"How do I look?" John asked as he walked over to her.
"Fix your hair John," she teased. "We're getting married, are we not?"
"That we are, Angel," he agreed quickly. He kissed her hand before returning to the bathroom, Angelina smiled.
Angel. A silly nickname born from an intense moment. So, so ironic. In more ways than one.
"And what's my name?"
"Agh… Heavenly … Angel."
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
It shouldn't have meant anything. He'd just been shot, loosing blood, probably didn't even know what he was saying for half of it.
But maybe he did know. Maybe she'd let too much show in her panic when he was first shot. When she was helping him. Would explain why he never questioned how fast his wound seemed to heal overnight. Why he asked her to pull the bullet from his side.
Then again, her father had a child with an angel, and never managed to figure that out. Let alone what was passed down to their daughter.
Angelina looked over at her soon-to-be husband again, watching him fight with a comb in his hair as he stared hard at the mirror in front of him.
John was much smarter than her father. That bar was in hell, but regardless. John wasn't stupid. But what well educated man would believe his fiancee to be part angel?
He returned once again, doing a small spin as he let Angelina judge his appearance.
"For someone who was recently shot, you don't look half bad," she remarked as she lit her cigarette.
"For someone who recently carried a bleeding man across France, so do you," he retorted with that stupid grin of his she was growing to love. He leans against the desk, beside her chair, gladly accepting the second cigarette in her hand.
"You really think your father will be there?"
"Of course he will. He thinks we know nothing about his plan. If Mrs Daltrey intends to betray him like I believe, he'll be there for damage control," Angelina explained very matter-of-factly. "Or to gloat. Either way, doesn't matter. We know everything. And he clueless."
John slid his arm around her, kissing her cheek.
"You're brilliant, Angel."
"I know," Angelina said with a smile, pulling John slightly closer and kissing his cheek in return.
She'd tell him. When they were done with her father and Mrs Daltrey and the constant running and hiding. Once everything went to plan, which it would. When it was just the two of them.
Even if he'd pieced it together, she'd give him confirmation. Because, somehow, after only a day with him, she trusted him more than she'd ever trusted anyone else. And he deserved to know.
"Ready, Angel?"
"Suppose I am."