Chapter Text
Anya held her husband’s suit jacket close as it draped over her shoulders, the smooth material offering only a slim amount of warmth to her cold, shivering self.
It was late, nearly midnight. She was in a long black limousine, the bright city lights piercing through the shaded windows. It hurt her eyes, but she refused to close them. She was too embarrassed to do much else than stare at her lap, trying to avoid the gaze of the man who sat next to her: her husband, Damian Desmond.
She had made a terrible mistake that night. One of which may have gotten him killed; or at the very least, killed his reputation. Anya would like to argue that it wasn’t her fault, that she couldn’t have known better. But that would be a lie. The truth is that she gambled, and her dice were rotten.
“…Are you feeling alright?” Damian asked, his voice husky from the evening.
Anya didn’t answer, instead, she shifted her weight to face away from him. Hopefully he’d just drop it and let Anya be somber.
A sigh came from behind her, one of which was heavy; annoyed, but empathetic. “If you wish to be like that, then fine.”
The conversation dropped like that, leaving only the soft rumble of the limousine’s speed against the pavement fill their ears. Anya wanted to cry, but she kept it in, hoping her sniffles and whimpers were kept low enough to where her partner could not hear. She was just… so embarrassed. She had never missed a target before, not after she had been titled an official spy through WISE. It was the full moon, her subconscious tried to tell her, but she knew that wasn’t it. Spies don’t typically have supernatural abilities, and they’re able to complete their assignments. If Anya wasn’t able to complete hers, there was nothing to blame it on but herself and her capabilities. She wanted to be a spy as talented as her father. But, as it turns out, she was never even close. She simply had telepathy.
A sob escaped her lips, one of which its decibels were too high to ignore. She felt a warm hand rest on her shoulder, making the woman shiver at its touch; at its contrast to her own, fridged self.
“Anya,” Damian spoke again, his worry coating her name, dripping like honey. “You can talk to me.”
Her breathing hitched, but she continued to look away, her fingers digging into her sides as she cried, her tears tasting of salt on her tongue. “I’m—!” she gasped, the words getting caught in her cries. “P-pathetic…!”
“Anya,” Damian spoke again, quietly. He gently turned her around to face him, grasping her jaw in his warm, soft hands, the roundness of her cheeks resting perfectly in his palms. “Please, don’t say such things about yourself.”
“I-it’s true…!” She sobbed, her eyes squeezed shut as her tears spilled out. “I’m sorry, Damian!! I’m so, so, so sorry!”
Damian shushed her gently, wrapping one hand around her shoulder blades to bring her close, the other, to rest atop her pink, curly locks, soothing her head with soft pets. Her tears seeped into his expensive silk button-down, dampening his chest. But he continued to comfort her, nevertheless.
He was upset, that was true. Anya’s mistake had nearly ended his political career. Without her mind reading capabilities, that of which were captured by the moon for the night, resting amongst the stars, she was unable to decipher who the assassin was—the assassin of whom was sent there to kill Damian.
She had caught him before he caught her husband, but it was terribly close. She had to bump into him to throw off his aim, saving Damian’s life, but ending another’s. The Treasurer of Ostania, a man of whom will be deeply missed.
It was clumsy; it was dangerous. She could’ve been killed herself, or she could’ve been too late to counter, bumping into him only after Damian was already shot in a critical area. The assassin could have had automatic on, and murdered dozens of more individuals, taking their lives in a blink of an eye. It was luck that helped them survive that night, Tyche sparing the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Desmond.
Damian was upset with her. How could he not be? But most importantly, and above all, he wanted to make sure that she was calm, collected, and if the heavens allowed, happy. All he wanted was her happiness. When he spoke his vows to her on their wedding day, she may have seen them as simple words spoken to confirm their untold alliance; but Damian saw them as law. He would love and cherish her, even after parted by Thanatos himself. He would protect her from all of that was within his abilities, and attempt all else out of his reach, even if to do so would bring him pain.
“I’m sorry,” Anya finally whispered against his chest. He could feel her lashes fluttering against his damp shirt, atop his sternum.
“Cease your apologies,” he insisted, his voice soft as a feather. “You are well, and I am well. That is all we should be concerned with at the moment, okay?”
A sigh came from her lips, cooling his tear-stained chest. She stayed there, her breaths coming out synchronically as he held her. He continued to stroke her hair, allowing the moment to envelope them. Perhaps they were just friends, perhaps they were just lovers. The line seemed to blur from time to time, this period being no different. However, neither pondered such thoughts. They simply enjoyed this time, resting in each other’s embrace.
“What are you thinking about?” Anya quietly asked, a question that was frequent during Purnima, when she couldn’t reach into his mind and answer her queries herself.
“Many things,” Damian answered, as he often did. He was a wonderer. He liked to develop his thoughts, and on more than one occasion, those thoughts overlapped, creating a maze of unfinished ideas, waiting for their turn in the spotlight of his cerebellum. “My tasks of tomorrow, and the list I must begin to develop tonight, that takes into account the tragedies that claimed our evening.
“Our biweekly tea with my mother, of which is tomorrow, as our luck finds it. A speech I must begin writing that acknowledges the decision Ostania has made to cut funding to education, putting the money towards military instead. A speech I must write much sooner than that, acknowledging the assassination that took Gary Manuel’s life instead of mine.
“A meeting I have with my political advisors tomorrow afternoon in regard to my reelection as a senator, and… oh, breakfast tomorrow, of course.” He ended his list with a smile, his fingers twirling along the length of a curl in his wife’s hair. “I’m thinking cereal, perhaps?”
Anya hummed, taking in the list of responsibilities he was contemplating, knowing it was only a few of the many that resided on it, and knowing that because of her mistake, it only made such a list even lengthier.
She decided not to linger on that knowledge, though. Her eyes were dry, and her cheeks were sticky. She would much rather not repeat the actions that made them so in the first place.
“I like cereal.” She said, her pleasure at the simple meal obvious in her tone.
“I know you do.” Damian smiled, leaning back from his wife to see her face, his eyes softening when he saw their beauty no longer dulled with sorrow, but alive with contentment; perhaps not overjoyed, no, but they were satisfied.
All Damian needed that night was satisfaction. For now, it would be all he requested.
The two felt the limousine stop, shortly after which, the door closest to Anya was opened by their personal driver.
“Thank you, Micheal.” Anya spoke as she stepped out of the automobile, accepting his hand as he helped her to her feet. Damian followed her shortly after.
They walked up to their manor, a small separation between the two—one of which was comfortable, friendly. Their doorman, Franklin, welcomed them inside, of whom Anya also thanked. They walked together, side by side, making their way to their bedroom on weary feet.
Tonight, they would rest. At a distance, yes, but together, nonetheless.