He’s staring at you, and you are staring at your hands on the table.
“You have to stop manipulating me, John. Honestly, it’s so easy, so I really don’t see what’s your pleasure in it.” He makes a noise as if he is going to say something. You lift your hand in a begging gesture. “Let me finish, please. I get it, this relationship is an aggro, for you especially.” You look him in the eyes, they are reserved and cold. “Everything is wrong, and it started wrong, and we seem to bugger it up every step on the way. And if I am not pregnant…” You’re momentarily surprised you can actually say it. “This relationship probably won’t last.” He clenches his jaw.
You sigh. “John, you are probably right. You’re usually right. I will probably run. You make me very miserable most of the time.” The kettle starts whistling, and he turns his back to you. He takes it off the stove but doesn’t turn back to you. “It’s like it’s constantly trying to fall apart, but we keep on trying, you know?” He grabs a mug and pours you tea. Milk and honey, the way you like it. He’s twirling the spoon in it, and he’s silent.
“I didn’t know you were miserable…” His voice is gruff.
“I am not! Sorry, I said it that way…” You shake your head. “It came out wrong. What I meant I make myself miserable because of you. It’s just sometimes it is so fucking good, and then it is back to that…” He puts the mug in front of you, but doesn’t lift his eyes. “My thoughts are bit buggered right now, sorry… What I’m trying to say…”
“Is that we don’t work and you are breaking up with me,” he snaps, but then closes his eyes. “Sorry, please go on…”
“I’m not breaking up with you.” You take a sip. “I’m just saying that we need to try something else. Since this is not working.” His eyes fly open, and he looks at you in surprise.
“Like what?” You shrug.
“We can get married like you proposed and see how that goes.”
He’s staring at you. This befuddled look, mouth slightly open and eyes wide is actually quite fetching on him. Maybe, you should endeavour to achieve it more often.
The tea is bloody delicious. You’re sipping it nonchalantly.
“You just said I make you miserable,” he draws out in an uncertain tone.
“Isn’t it a prerequisite for any marriage?” You look at him over the rim of the mug. He seems to be finally catching up with you. He tilts his head, and his eyes blaze up.
“You are actually not kidding…” You shrug again and put the mug down.
“That’s how I see it. You can’t let me into your life, I get it. It’s all bloody organized, and the Kandinski, and the Ming dynasty vase in your study…”
He chuckles. “It’s a replica.”
“Whatevs, John!” You exaggerate your pikey accent, and he chuckles louder. “And I can’t seem to relax and actually enjoy the massive benefits of being with you.” You suggestively lift a brow. He starts walking around the table.
“So maybe, we should just start from a scratch, build a new life together, none of your old habits, none of my insecurity…” You turn on the chair so that he has better access to your body. “Tabula rasa and shite.”
He picks you up under your arms and pulls you into him.
“I love it when you speak dead languages to me.” His murmur rumbles deep in his chest, and you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Aut caesar, aut nihil, John. What is it going to be?” He smiles and presses his lips to yours.
You bite his bottom lip, he starts carrying you to the bedroom, kissing your jaw.
“I want it to be my official title from now on. Caesar Wren… Has a nice ring to it.” He throws you on the bed and presses his fist to his chest.
“Ave, caesar, morituri te salutant!”
You think about all the puns you can produce right now about ‘the little death’ but he jerks off his shirt, and you mouth goes dry. Puns will have to wait. For quite a while.
You wake up from excruciating pain in your abdomen. You sit up and feel blood pooling between your thighs. He’s sprawled on the bed near you, on his stomach, half of his large naked body hanging off the edge of the bed. He was very, very tired when he fell asleep.
“John…” Your voice is strangled. You try shaking his shoulder. “John…” Another wave of pain slashes across your middle, and you whimper.
He slowly stirs out of sleep and opens his eyes. He sees your face and sit up jerkingly. The sheet under you is soaked. His eyes widen in terror. There’s so much blood… He rolls off the bed and grabs his jeans from the floor.
You’re yelling at each other in the car.
“I am not letting your mate examine my vagina! And besides, if we go to that hospital everyone will know…”
“Shut up, Wren,” he hisses and turns right across two lanes. “Graham is the best gyno in the country!..”
“If you carry me through…” You hiss from another painful cramp. “If you carry me through the emergency rooms in that hospital, all my classmates and professors will know! It’s in the same bloody building!”
He clenches his teeth and growls, “Not the priority right now, Wren…”
“I’m obviously bleeding from my vagina, and you are obviously just out of bed! Take me to the back door!”
“It’ll take longer…”
If he bloody kills you both in a car crash right now, it will take even longer!
“I’m not letting Graham Dwalinson touch my cunt!”
“You’re losing my child right now! I don’t care what you think!”
He’s yelling, and slams his hand into the wheel, and you shut up.
They give you some shot, and everything is very fuzzy. Through the glass door, you see John and Dwalinson talking outside your room. The git is as scary as it gets. You had a short seminar with him last year, after all fetal brain is your topic. He’s giant, larger than John, massive arms. If you didn’t know that he is the God of Lady Parts in this hemisphere, you wouldn’t let him anywhere near your nether regions.
The door opens quietly, and they come in. You hate hospitals. Mostly, for the white. So much white… Your thoughts are disarrayed.
“Hello, Miss Leary.” Even his voice is arse scary.
He looks at you, and the eyes are surprisingly soft.
“We need to talk about your diagnosis. Do you want Dr Thorington to leave?” You look at John. He looks pale but he seems better than in the car. He tied his hair, and his shirt is tucked in.
“He can stay.”
Turns out you weren’t pregnant. It is endometriosis. Your cervix went bonkers and is currently trying to kill you. Well, that’s an exaggeration, but you are in trouble. You listen, nod, but at some point you phase out. Funny, you really haven’t felt anything different yesterday, and you shagged like five times, and couple of those position were really deeply penetrating. Shouldn’t there be pain during intercourse?
“Wren?” John’s voice shakes you out of your stupour. You blink.
“Sorry, I blanked out here for a sec. What were you saying?”
Dwalinson smirks. “We are keeping you here till the evening, but if everything goes smoothly, you won’t need a surgery. I’m prescribing you a course of hormones, and you need bed rest for a few days.” You nod.
He screws his eyes at John, and they seem to be having some sort of a silent dialogue. It actually looks fucking impressive. It’s like they actually exchange lines. A twitch of an eyebrow, movements of eyes, John’s lips slightly press together, Dwalinson widens his eyes for a bit.
“Can I participate in this conversation as well? I have a feeling you are talking about my private parts.” You are sleepy and weak, but you still won’t be ignored. Dwalinson looks at you, and you see mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Bed rest, pills, and no intercourse for a while.”
“Don’t worry, doc.” He stopped being scary some time around he was silently telling John to keep it in his pants. “After this Crimson Niagara, don’t think I’ll feel like it soon.”
He bursts into booming laughter.
On his way out of his room, he slams his palm into John’s back.
“Well done for once, Thorington.” John shakes his head good-naturedly. You feel all nice and fuzzy inside. You got the approval of the best mate. Would you look at that!..
John sits on the edge of your bed, and you stretch your hand towards him. His large hands envelop your fingers, and then you feel his lips on your knuckles. Your eyes are closing. He’s gently stroking your hair.
“Are you upset?” you ask, still fighting the sleep. He kisses your temple.
“I’m just worried about you.” His voice is soft and loving. You have about two seconds before the drug knocks you out completely.
“Did you want it to be?..”
His face is blurry. He presses his lips to yours.
“Get better, and we will make another one.”
Or maybe you are already dreaming.