Chapter Text
Domestic - adj. [of relating to the running of a home or to family relations]
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She wakes up to the constant reminder of gunfire in her ears – the ringing of a distant bomb in the background, and a chorus of screams the next. It’s dark in the room, dreadfully so, and she lays still in the bed for a few moments. Rough cotton sheets scratchy and uncomfortable against her skin. She feels as if they are threatening to trap her, but she does not relinquish her sanctuary. Dreamless sleeps the only things keeping her sane. That, and the motionless woman besides her. The wife of a fake marriage and an even more fake life.
She stares at her expressionless features, studying the curve of a smooth jaw and the furrow of her eyebrows in the filtered moonlight, until restlessness overtakes her. Careful to not disturb her sleeping partner, she ditches the warmth for the cool air, slipping out from under the covers and leaning over the side of the mattress.
Head in her pale hands, and burned out eyes of jagged green staring numbly at the stump of a leg. Below the knee, and nonexistent. Sometimes, she swears she can still feel it; resting just below a cauterized appendage instead of a deteriorated wreck of bones somewhere long gone in a war-torn wasteland.
A lump in her throat forms, but she disperses it with a shuddering gasp for air. Leaning forward, and grabbing at her replacement prosthesis she keeps tucked away between the nightstand and the bed. Strapping it on with nimble fingers, she wearily stands and directs herself towards the bathroom. Limp barely noticeable, but apparent.
Harsh reminders she despises.
Snapping the small, single fluorescent light on, she is greeted by the minimalist sight of a toilet and a washbasin with a fake golden faucet. Glimpsing up, she peers into a mirror, and at the person who gazes back. All tired eyes and rumpled blonde hair. Sleep lines etched into the cheekbones of a somewhat gaunt face.
The woman staring back is not her; wrought with anxiety and appearing as if she had not slept in days. In the background, a form moves, ruffling the covers and catching her abrupt attention. She looks past the reflection, and spies her restless companion. A faint frown captures her narrow features.
Where did everything go wrong?
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She’s expected to be a wife – a fake one with a knowledge for taking care of a household – but all she knows is at least five ways to kill a man. With a common butter knife. She’s supposed to know the difference between a pot and a pan, and not the distinct contrast between a Nagant M1895 and an American M1911.
The haunting fortes of phantasm dog fights and a barrage of bullets. When she thinks about it, she can feel the scar between her shoulder blades; and she freezes. Smells the nauseating scent of leaking petroleum and charred flesh. Not the aroma of burnt protein and grinding coffee beans. She does not recognize the mess in the frying pan before it is too late and throws it away before a smoke alarm is set off.
An accident that ruins the breakfast she is making. Peridot will no doubt be unfazed by the incident. She never expects too much out of Lapis in regards to her cooking. Living off ensnared wildlife and rationed provisions ruined any chances she had at developing culinary skills.
A Russian spy with Georgian ties.
She had never expected to be “married” in her lifetime anyway. But it is that or the cold bars of yet another prison, and she is not going back again.
Sucking in a shaky breath, she grabs for a pair of eggs and sloppily cracks them open. This time – determined to get it right.