just trying to survive

It’s a delicate balance you strike, as you step down the aisle that’s formed through the middle of the room, a crowd of strangers on each side of you. Your muscles are locked up tight, willing yourself not to visibly shiver, or trip, or look too stiff as you place one foot in front of the other. Looking weak is not an option, your mother’s voice reminds you, not in front of these people. 

Kryptonians. Your people, soon enough. 

It’s difficult to ignore their stares piercing through you, just as the cold does, observing every practiced, fluid movement you make. You’d hoped, in vain, that your groom might prefer a private ceremony, given the royal family had even permitted a few of your own relatives to attend — a highly unusual allowance. But the Kryptonians were communal by nature, and the tight-knit royal court would never pass up the opportunity to see their Prince wed.

At the end of the aisle, he stands tall, awaiting you. Watching you.

Kal-El, you remember, the name sounding foreign even in your mind.

The ceremonial robes he’s adorned with are a vibrant red, caped over the familiar blue and yellow military uniform of the Kryptonians, a stark reminder of why this ceremony is even taking place, and why it had to happen so quickly.

You’ve anticipated this day your whole life. You’re the last of your sisters to be married off. Your eldest sister left your home when you were just nine years of age, wed to the ruler of a kingdom across the sea in exchange for precious material resources, and no amount of wailing and pleading on your part would make her stay. The education you received as you grew only confirmed what you learned that day: that daughters of Kings had a duty to their country, to the good of their people, and your father had a duty to do whatever it takes to ensure the welfare of his kingdom. 

Or, more simply put: one day you would be wed, and you would not have very much choice in the matter. 

At least the purpose of your arrangement is more clear-cut, more urgent. An evident solution to an imminent problem, for both your realms. Krypton’s position as the supreme power on the continent grows more precarious with every day that the Thanagar Rebellion continues, and all the military might in the world can’t bring the Thanagarians to the negotiation table, if the past five years were anything to go by. It’s ironic, then, that Krypton’s beloved Warrior Prince was the one to realise your kingdom’s strategic value in ending the conflict, despite — or perhaps, especially because of — your people’s peaceful nature. Your father, the great Concilliator, has ended wars before, and clearly Prince Kal-El thinks he can do it again. 

For a price, of course. Your kingdom would forever be under Krypton’s protection, as the home of Prince Kal-El’s bride, and your people would never have to fear for their safety again. 

Even from across the grand hall, your groom is formidable. He towers above his people, broad-shouldered, chin held high like there’s already a crown on his head to balance. The sheer size of him is nothing like you could have imagined. When his eyes finally meet yours, azure and austere, you can only hope no one notices the gasp that leaves you.

You reach him too soon. Your measured, smooth steps forward have carried you down the aisle, and before you know it, he’s turned to face you fully, his eyes unreadable and distant, palm outstretched in offering. His hand in yours is the first warmth you’ve felt since you arrived. 

The priest, whose face is covered by a brilliant, glowing mask, steps forward from the altar, garnishing a stretch of red fabric, which he ties around your joined hands. He speaks, addressing you and your audience in a tongue incomprehensible to you, and to keep your eyes from glazing over as you listen, you sneak a glance at your poker-faced groom. 

Of all the stories you heard about the Warrior Prince of Krypton, none of them mentioned how blindingly handsome he is. The brutal strength you’ve heard tale of is undeniable, his arms thick with corded muscle that not even the fine fabric his uniform can disguise, his hand twice the size of yours; he could crush you, right here under the altar if he likes, just as he’s done to enemies on the battlefield. They say his presence alone can turn the tide of a battle lost. They don’t mention the dimples that appear on his cheeks as he gives the priest a polite smile, or that his voice is deep and stern, but not harsh. Steadying. The whole room holds their breath just to hear him speak. 

He catches your stare, turning his head to look at you. But then so does the priest, and everyone else in the room. Expectant. Your turn. 

Despite the hours you spent practicing the simple phrase — “I will stand firm in my vow to you” — you stumble, stuttering over the foreign feeling of their language on your tongue, your accent abysmal. You have to force yourself not to wince at your obvious mispronunciation, and ignore your governess’s voice in your head (“Disgraceful! Disrespectful!”). The Kryptonians, to their credit, do not laugh at your faltering, and if the Prince finds your mishap amusing, he doesn’t show it. He nods respectfully, his expression open as he repeats the phrase in a humiliatingly perfect accent.

The priest nods solemnly, accepting your vow exchange, then leads you both to a pillar in the middle of the altar. A carved steel chalice sits on top of it, filled with a clear liquid, and the Prince moves gently as he guides the hands you’ve tied together to pick it up. It’s a delicate maneuver, requiring your fingers to tangle together, the warmth from his palm radiating to yours, grounding you. 

He’s careful as he brings the chalice to your lips, tilting it slowly to clue you in, so you’re prepared to open your mouth and accept his offering. The liquid is pleasantly fruity, and he doesn’t force it down your throat like you might’ve expected him to, just a couple sips and then the chalice lowers. 

He thankfully doesn’t leave you guessing as to what the next step is, drawing the chalice up to his own lips, leisurely and subtle, so as to not give away his guidance (and your cluelessness). Your hand does not tremble as you tilt the chalice towards him, saving you the embarrassment of spilling it on his face. 

Your eyes can’t help but linger on the purse of his lips. The bob of his throat as he swallows. Your cheeks flush with heat as you realise just how beautiful you find him, and you’re glad to look away from him when the chalice is lowered back onto the pillar. The priest rambles on for a bit longer, looking between the two of you, before he seems to address the crowd, his voice rising to boom throughout the hall in declaration. The Prince uses your tied hands to tug you along, gently, to face him again. 

He takes a long moment to stare at you, his eyes no longer blank, but searching. Trying to communicate something you can’t understand. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and then he’s leaning in closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.

It’s not an unpleasant feeling. His lips are pillowy and soft, and only press to yours for a mercifully brief moment before pulling away, a mere brush of skin, before the hall bursts into cheers. The noblemen are too busy tossing flower petals into the air to notice the way you nearly jump out of your skin at the sudden cacophony, a rainbow of confetti falling around you. You mimic the wide smile the Prince wears at the celebration, covering up your shock quickly. 

He guides you, slowly, mindful of the difference in your height and of your hands still being tied together, down the steps to the altar and towards a door to the left, instead of back down the aisle like you expected.

You catch sight of your family then, a few rows back in the crowd. Your parents stand next to two of your brothers, the youngest of which has a watery smile on his young face, trying to hold back his tears. You will see him later this evening, at the reception dinner, and then never again. You send him a reassuring smile over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you.

You’re alone with the Prince now, tucked away in a small, circular room that’s no less ornate than the hall you’ve exited, the skylight ceiling bathing you both in fading sunlight. Tables line the walls, displaying a variety of canapes and hors d’oeuvres, sweets and cheeseboards and flutes of every beverage you could possibly conceive of. In the center of the room is a simple settee, decorated with plush pillows, large enough to fit two people. Your stomach drops at the sight of it.

This is the consummation room. 

“You’ll break your fast before dinner, privately. You’ll have your fill of amuse-gueules,” You recall your mother’s explanation. “And then, he’ll have his fill of you.” 

You can’t even bear to look at the Prince, your heartbeat quickening in your chest as you anticipate his bruising touch on you at any moment. The hand that isn’t bound to his clenches into a fist at your side, instinctually, dying to fight your way out, and it takes every inch of your willpower to loosen it. Your jaw goes tense, in the hopes that when he inevitably bends you over the furniture and forces himself into you, you can hold back your cries, for the sake of guests on the other side of the door. 

For your people, you remind yourself. For their peace. 

“Do you speak the common tongue?” 

Your head whips towards him, eyes wide. You didn’t expect much talking.

“Forgive me, I have not had the time I would’ve liked to learn your native ton-” He continues on. “I do. I speak- I understand you just fine. Your highness.” His title is tacked on at the end, your brain working too slowly to remember your etiquette. “My apologies, for my… less than impressive Kryptonian.” That makes him breathe out a laugh. Not polite, like before, during the ceremony, but genuine. He’s somehow even more handsome when he smiles like this, warm and sincere. 

“I’m told it’s a difficult tongue to master.” He reassures you, moving to untie the cloth that keeps your hand tied to his. “Are you thirsty? It’s best to save room for the feast, but a beverage might tide you over till then.” His concern for your wellbeing only alarms you further. Why is he drawing this out? Did he want to avoid you fainting during the act? Or perhaps prevent you from dropping a canape in shock, ruining the fine carpet?

You stand there, blinking at him in perplexity, even after he drops your hand and it flops back to your side, in a manner that could only be described as the opposite of graceful. But he’s not even looking at you, instead he’s striding across the room, grabbing a glass of fruit juice and planting himself down on the settee. 

When he notices that you’re still frozen in place — notices your fear — he softens, putting his hands out, palms facing up in surrender. “Please, sit. We’ll only have a few minutes to rest.” 

You move slowly, cautiously, plucking a glass of the same juice from the table and making your way to the center of the room to join him, never taking your eyes off his hands. 

You sit in disquieting silence, sipping sweet beverages and avoiding eye contact. He is your husband now, and you know you must obey him, but your body resists obedience with every ounce of strength it has. 

Which is not very much. 

You’d never been allowed very many culinary indulgences, but ever since the engagement was announced you were under very strict orders from your mother to “watch your figure!” while your brothers piled three different kinds of red meat and grain onto their plates, under the excuse of being "growing boys”, not men grown already. After long days of studying Kryptonian culture and dance classes and piano lessons — your brothers’ longsword training lessons in full view from the library window — you’d taken to falling into slumber during your evening baths, then being shaken awake by your ladies in waiting, alarm clear on their faces, telling you without words that you had taken far too long to wake up.

And yet, you still resisted submission to this man on the couch with you. Your face burned with shame. After so many years of contending with your fate, you thought this day might come a little easier to you, that eventually the satisfaction of being a perfect lady would set in with maturity and age and you would look forward to marrying the future King of the most powerful kingdom on the continent. But here, now, sitting and taking a breath right in the middle of the fanfare, the eye of the storm, you feel like your chest might be collapsing in on itself. 

“We can stay here as long as you’d like.” The Prince says gently from beside you. When you turn to him, he’s gazing at you knowingly, but not pitying.

“We cannot keep them waiting.” You reply, practiced. 

“They will wait for me.” He doesn’t sound haughty, just assured. Safe.

You nod, because words escape you then. You’ll take this little mercy, just before what will surely be the longest night of your life. 

Prince Kal-El never comes closer to you than the length of the couch. 

The food being delicious does little to assuage your nerves, lit afire by the cacophony of the dining hall as your wedding guests indulge in the reception feast. 

This portion of the celebration is the polar opposite of the ceremony, the torches along the wall and the mass of bodies dancing, eating, and bantering being more than enough to warm the freezing palace walls, though your hair still somehow remains standing on end. 

You stare out, a polite, practiced smile plastered onto your face in the hopes no one will notice the blank look in your eyes, as you try to reconcile the stories told about Kryptonians with the people in front of you. From your table at the crest of the dining hall, elevated on a stone platform, you have a full view of the banquet as it unfolds. The warlords and barbarians you read about bear little resemblance to the crowd in front of you, where everyone greets each other like old friends, singing songs that they all know the words to and knocking back hot ale and wine like it’s water. The same Lords that held their breath to hear their Prince speak his vows approach him like uncles now, clapping him heavily on the shoulder in congratulations, and he greets them with the same enthusiasm. His joy, you can tell, isn’t a farce; he loves these people like they’re his own family.

They are, it occurs to you. They’ve either seen him grow from a babe in his mother’s arms to the titan he is now, or grown right alongside him, and all of them — both the men and the women — have likely fought a battle or two with him. It’s a bond that’s incomprehensible to you, but it’s evident to anyone with functioning eyes. 

Despite the platters of food as wide as your husband’s shoulders and as high as your eye-level, you can only bring yourself to indulge in the bread rolls, warm and baked with herbs in the dough and perfectly buttered, and a bit of the poultry. After the first hour of you picking and plucking at the food on your plate, the Prince leaned close so you could hear him over the roar of the crowd and asked if the food was to your liking, and you nodded eagerly, flashing a smile so as to not worry him. He shot you a concerned look at first, but then one of his father’s generals approached your table and he was thankfully whisked away into conversation and congratulations, before you were forced to explain that your mother was watching you from her place just a few feet away. 

You excuse yourself easily to freshen up in the washroom, trailed by your new lady’s maid. You are a woman grown, a married woman, who still must be accompanied to the washroom, not even trusted to wash her own behind. 

Your mother waits for you in the hall when you’re finished, clearly intent on catching you in a moment alone, bringing you into a tight embrace, and despite the pit in your stomach that forms every time you see her, the scent of her arms around you will always be soothing to you. Sickeningly familiar. 

“Did it hurt terribly, my dearest?” She says, in your own language, so even the lady’s maid standing a few feet away can’t eavesdrop on your conversation.

“Did what hurt?” You say, confused. She pulls away, her hands coming to clutch your shoulders, looking at you in questioning.

“The consummation, dearest.”

“I-I didn’t- he didn’t-” You’re trying to get it across, but even you’re confused by the whole situation. The consummation was not exactly presented to you as optional, and yet, the Prince didn’t lay a hand on you, not until you stood and nodded to him silently, so he knew you were ready. And still, he did not take you, simply presented his arm for you to take and led you to the dining hall to make your grand re-entrance. 

Your mother is in disbelief, peppering you with questions about why and how and what exactly he said or did in your time alone together, but even you don’t have answers for her. His motives are a mystery to you. 

“Well, it is no matter. You must consummate tonight. Your marriage must be seen as legitimate, or the alliance between our kingdoms is null and void. Do you understand, my dear?” You nod, trying not to show the fear that clutches you at the thought, of consummation and of endangering your people. “You must not leave your marriage chambers unbedded.”

“Yes, mother. I understand. I won’t-” “Good!” She switches back to the common tongue, then. “Let’s not keep your husband waiting much longer, dear.” 

You’re guided back to your seat next to the Prince, just like you are guided everywhere. 

You can see your future in crystal clarity before you, being chaperoned from room to room, your skin plucked and your body penetrated till you die, hopefully before you’ll ever have to chaperone your own daughter. 

Your placating smile returns to your face for the next few hours, while the party rages on with no sign of stopping. It must be past midnight, but the Kryptonians seem to have boundless energy for a proper celebration, including your husband. His cheeks must be sore from hours of grinning, his stomach full as he’s cleared plate after plate, and yet he’s still jovial, conversing with his family and friends, knocking tankards together in salute with little regard to the ale that spills onto the floor and down sleeves as a result.

Eventually, he stands, taking your hand in his and moving to leave the table, causing groans to ring out around him. You descend the platform together and you trail after him as he slowly makes his way to the door, a long process, as he’s stopped every few feet by well-wishers, either bidding him a good night or cajoling him into staying a few more hours. He smiles widely at every one of them, hugs them tightly, but shakes his head at the invitations to stay, before thanking them for their attendance and moving on. It goes on like that till you reach the towering wooden doors that lead out of the hall, exiting with polite waves towards his people, and despite craning your neck in an attempt to see over the crowd, you cannot seem to find your family before the doors slam shut. 

Your ears ring even in the silence of the corridor, struggling to adjust as your husband leads you away from the dining hall, your steps echoing in tandem with his. Your heart pounds too hard and loud in your ears, and you have to force your breathing to regulate instead of hyperventilating; the corridors are far too echoey for your panic to go undetected, and the leisurely pace you’re taking leaves no excuse for your racing heart. 

You walk for what feels like an hour. These halls are long and winding, and the further you walk, arm in arm with your husband, the more terrified you are of ever having to find your way through this castle by yourself. It’ll take years, you’re sure, to learn the layout of your new home. You begin to wonder if your husband’s quarters — where you’re sure he’s leading you — is on the other side of the castle when you round a corner and find the entrance doors to the dining hall again, music and chatter still audible through thick wood. 

You look up at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. “Your highness, are we returning? Are we not-?”

“We will make it to our chambers eventually.” He explains, a lighthearted smile on his face. “We are simply… taking the scenic route.”

It hits you, then, that despite his humorous tone, he truly does want to delay the consummation, just as you do. That he is, in a way, a victim of circumstance as you are, marrying a stranger for the good of his people. That he might understand your reluctance better than most.

“Oh,” is all you can muster up for a response. “Alright.” “Unless you wish to retire?” “No!” You say too quickly. Improperly. Disrespectful!, your governess’s voice rings in your head again, as your cheeks heat and you refocus your gaze ahead. “I only mean, I wish to follow your lead, my husband.” He doesn’t respond, but he keeps his gaze on you, quiet and deep in thought. You walk in silence for a bit, past the dining hall entrance and around another corner, before he speaks again. 

“I want you to feel comfortable here.” He says, in that same comforting tone he used earlier, like he’s coaxing a feral animal out of its cage. 

“I will, your highness. You need not worry.” Your tone is measured, steady, confident, a voice you can recede into instinctually, before anyone senses your distress.

“Yes, but- I understand this isn’t- you did not choose this.” He stumbles over his words, sounding unsure for the first time since you’ve met him. You pointedly look away from him, eyes fixated on the walls, as if the intricate carvings on the bleached stone are the most interesting thing in the world, so he can’t see the way your eyes well up with tears at the acknowledgment that you are not here by your own volition. “Should you think of anything that will make you more comfortable, or give you some solace, or- anything. Anything you want, I will give it to you.” 

You switch your distracted stare from the walls to your skirt, your free hand coming to pick at the beading, clinking softly. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what he can give you that will make any of this better. No matter what, you cannot go back home. 

“Thank you.” It comes out as a whisper. Any louder, and he’d hear the tears that threaten to close your throat. 

He falls silent afterwards, thankfully. 

Your steps echo down more unfamiliar corridors, twisting and turning till you reach a courtyard on what must be the west side of the palace, judging by the sun’s setting rays beaming through the ornate glass ceiling, providing cover from the frequent snowfalls you’re told plague this kingdom. You’re a floor above it, and the Prince guides you to the railing to gaze down into this oasis in the middle of the palace, a spread of green amongst stone, flowering bushes and grass and a few trees, impossibly blooming. You don’t even notice the Prince slipping his arm from yours, allowing you to lean further over in amazement. 

“How?” You ask, looking back at him.

“Our groundskeepers work very hard.” He replies simply, like it’s not a marvel to have a thriving garden in the middle of winter. You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes you.

“This is- it’s incredible.” 

Your home was all rolling fields of grass and meadows of flowers, a rare patch of forest here and there. You’d come to accept you’d just have to get accustomed to Krypton’s snow-capped mountain peaks on the horizon, its climate far cooler than you’ve ever endured. As your eyes rove over the familiar sight of greenery, they land on a familiar sight, a bushel of red berries that you’d often eat in the mornings to break your fast. Your favourite, in fact. 

“I wasn’t aware that fragaria is native to Krypton, too.” You say it happily, knowing that at least you’ll have something familiar to eat tomorrow morning.

“It isn’t.” He responds. When you look back at him in confusion, he’s smiling fondly. At you. “When our engagement was announced, I asked for some flora native to your own kingdom to be planted.” 

You hate the way your eyes fill with tears again. You’ve done more crying today than you ever intended. But this time, they’re tears of gratitude. Of relief. 

“Thank you,” You say again. “Truly.”

“If you wish for anything else-” “I will tell you.” Your voice is truly sure this time. Genuine. Then, “Are the berries ripe yet?”

“I will have to inquire with Klinn-Il, he often tends to the fruit bushes.” You step away from the railing, slipping your arm around his again, resting your hand on his forearm as you continue on down the corridor. “If they are, they’ll be picked fresh for you on the morrow.”

“That would please me very much, your highness.” A genuine smile finally graces your face.

You walk at the same leisurely pace as before, but more comfortably. Pressed closer together, exchanging conversation rather than silently begging him not to say anything to you. He asks you questions, about your home, your family, and you tell him easily, seeing him nod intently, as if the life of the last-born daughter of a King was the most important matter in the world. You ask him your own questions in return. You learn that Krypton does get warmer, in the months opposite to your own kingdom’s summer, that he is close with his parents and has tea with his cousin, Kara, every chance he gets, though she’s quite the adventurer and is rarely home. You learn he is fond of cats, and of music. 

When you finally reach what must be the entrance to his chambers, you know each other just the slightest bit more. Not quite a stranger anymore, but your breath still stutters, the reality of what’s in store for the rest of the night slamming back into you like a kick to the chest. 

His room is not what you expected. The stained glass windows scatter mosaics of colours all around you, brilliant and shining in the sunset, illuminating the sitting area and warming the room. There’s a scattering of armchairs and settees, all in the colours of the House of El, surrounding the fireplace that’s already been lit for you. On the furthest wall from the entrance are double doors that lead to a private balcony, and to your left, a canopy bed. Every decoration is plush and extravagant, inviting. You try not to think about your own room back home, or how none of the colours are ones you’d pick out for yourself. This is the Prince’s room, and so you belong here, with the rest of his possessions. 

“Is it to your liking?” He asks.

“Yes.” You lie easily, but again, your body doesn’t cooperate. As he moves further into the room, you stay put in the entryway, as if remaining far from the bed will protect you from what’s to come. You both know the customs of his people. Even if he was kind enough to want to spare you, he could not risk the voiding of your marriage, not with the safety of your kingdoms on the line.

“Are you warm enough? I can add more firewood-” “No, I’m quite warm, your highness.” 

He looks back at you. Recognising your fear, again. You stand feet apart, both unsure, trepidatious. 

He stares down at the floor as he speaks to you, like he’s ashamed. “I will have to undress for bed.”

“As will I.” Your voice is distant.

“I will turn around while you undress.” 

“Your highness,” You shake your head. “It’s no use.” 

But he turns anyway. You hear the buttons of his coat pop open, slowly, like he wants to give you extra time. You sigh, knowing as well as he does that there’s no sense in prolonging the inevitable, but you comply with his wishes. You loosen the back of your gown clumsily, having to untie the laces by reaching back and fumbling around till the ties come undone, enough to slide the heavy fabric down and off, stepping out of your behemoth of a skirt. And then you’re left in your stays and chemise, grateful, at least, for the warmth of the room as you shed your few layers. 

When you dare to look across the room at your husband, you gasp quietly at the sight of his bare back. He’s somehow even broader, stronger with his clothing off, the expanse of his muscular shoulders, the dimples at the base of his back, right above- 

You avert your eyes again, trying to focus on removing your stays, but the laces start higher up on your back than the dress, hard to reach and even harder to untie, and there’s no lady’s maid here to help you. He must hear your frustrated whine as you twist and bend your arms to try and get ahold of the ties, because he asks if you need help, without even turning towards you, still keeping his promise not to look. 

You lock up at the question. Your cheeks are already heated from your frustration, but you can feel blood rushing to your face again at the prospect of him so close when you’re in such a state of undress, but you remember there’s no use. He will see much more of you, very soon. 

“Please.” You finally acquiesce, and only then does he turn, crossing the room as soon as you ask. 

You keep your eyes low, not wanting to scandalise yourself further with more glimpses of his body, and gasp at the feeling of his hands brushing against your back.

“Is this alright?” He asks, stilling.

“Yes. It’s fine, your highness.” You say, automatically, again. Powerless to deny him anything. 

He makes quick work of the knots, pulling the laces on your back loose till he can slip it over your head easily, then retreating from you. You frown, again, at his delays. Almost hoping he’d get it over with already.

When he reappears before you, he is clothed in a light tunic, loose and worn from frequent use, and similarly loose britches. He barely glances at you as he climbs into bed, burying himself under the thick duvet, as if truly readying himself for slumber. 

You stay put, in just your chemise, still lingering in the entryway like you could bolt out of the room. His gaze fixates on the ceiling.

“You may come to bed, if you wish.” He says. “Or sleep on the futon, or wherever else you desire. I will not interfere with your sleep.”

You step forward. Hesitant. Slow. Disbelieving. It takes you forever to approach the bed, and an embarrassing amount of effort to climb onto it, as it was clearly built with his size in mind. It’s expansive, much bigger than your own, and covered in more blankets and plush, goose-feathered pillows than you can count, the sheets like silk against your skin. There’s ample space between you and him, laying on opposite sides of the mattress.

“Your highness,” You start, once you’ve situated yourself comfortably on top of the bed. “Surely, you know that- that you must-”

“Sleep, my wife.” He says, exhaustion creeping into his voice, his eyes already shut. “Both of us must sleep. It’s been a long day, for us both.” 

You do not sleep. 

You sit there for a long while, unable to fall asleep as he does, studying him, watching his face go slack and his breathing deepen as he falls into his slumber. With him so still like this, unconscious to the world, you finally have the liberty of truly, openly staring at your new husband. 

He has been kind, against your every expectation. He has been considerate, and has never once shown you anger, even as you repeatedly displayed your fear in front of him, your fear of him. Your resistance hasn’t seemed to phase him. You remember again, staring at him like this, that he is incredibly handsome. The curls that had no doubt been slicked back this morning are falling onto his forehead, bringing a smile to your face, despite yourself. 

When you finally climb under the covers, settling into the mattress, with your eyes still on him, like at any moment he’ll transform into the husband you’d imagined you’d have, twice your age and unforgivingly brutal. But he remains the same, a peaceful expression on his face, quiet snores escaping him. 

You decide, then, to trust him for the night. And as you close your eyes, you allow yourself to wonder, for the first time, if you may have married a good man. 

clark had begun to lean into the slowness of being home, with a baby in his care now. he thinks, there's probably no greater reward than being a father.

but he'd have to admit, he missed being a husband. your husband. he thinks about how you looked earlier this evening, with your baby girl strapped to your chest.

makeup all done, with that pretty, mauve-y flush to your cheeks. work was mostly corporate, and this time you splayed a glittery sheer gloss over your lips — ones he'd very much like to kiss.

clark swallowed all those compliments down, and bid you a good night with a simple exchange. he thinks of you when he puts the baby down in the crib, cheeks rested on the hand-carved wood.

there was no chance for clark's genes to have come through in his little pride and joy's teeny features. in every way that mattered, clark wishes you were next to him now, admiring the child you brought to life.

he wished you were still his to call. but now you lived apart, and he couldn't bear to think of the papers that sat on his study to signify the end of your union together.

"guess mum's all out havin' fun huh?"

the galaxy toys above the bassinet twinkles softly, as he nudges his knuckles to the apples of the baby's cheeks, "look jus' like her…i'll be damned."

clark shifts, expression suddenly all serious as he whispers, "tell her not to replace me, could you? yeah?"

the corner of his lips rise when those little fingers sleepily curl around his knuckles, "mm. you're gonna grow up t'be daddy's girl. yeah you are."

bzzt!

he lifts his head at the noise he picks up from a distance. focusing his eyes to isolate the surroundings before zoning in on his device in the living room.

a call this late in the night? it could've only been you.

lavender curtains were nearly blown off the metal bar at the speed of clark's arrival, barely steadying himself by the couches, the call is picked up in less than a minute of its ring.

"hey. everything okay?" his hearts racing far too quickly, worried and conflicted, when a burst of giggles is heard on the other end.

"ooooohhhhh ya picked up! thas' a….whewwwww."

he frowns instantly at the audible slur to your voice, "of course i would've. are you okay?"

"f'course! very, super fantasticall-ally aaaaalright."

"you don't sound alright. where are you?"

"mmmmm i thinks about twenty steps north-east down korea-town. bubers like forty bucks so i thought WOW walkin's free so i'm walkin' to me apartment." you snort to yourself amused, "buber. haha. i means uber. spuper expensive."

clark takes your name in a stern tone, "listen to me. stay where you are. don't move."

"huh??"

there's nothing but the sound of intense wind, if that even was a sound after his reminder. "the heck! he hungup on me!" you twirl around, staggering right into the arms of a confused bouncer, from the club right next door. "sir, lookit. he hung up on me! what a doochbag. amirite? like sure i'm the ex an' he moved to a freakin' stable out back in buttcrack NOWHERE feeding cows carrots or whatever but still he could at least —…oh heeeeeeeeyyyy!"

"i'm so sorry about this," an extremely breathless clark's quickly prying you off the arms of the stranger, where the shorter man reluctantly hands you over.

"hold up. ma'am, do you know this…person?"

while clark was greatful at the man's sternness and hesitance on doing so, he's suddenly very aware of the fact that all he has on was a milk-stained shirt and fuzzy cartoon animal printed sweats.

"uh, oh gosh, she's my wife, i swear —" you're quick to hook your arms around clark's bicep, then guffaw, "yeeeeeps i'm his husband n' he's me wife."

he stares at the bouncer, tight-lipped when he deadpans, "…i'll take it from here. thank you."

clark doesn't immediately chide you, simply prying you off him to hold you in place, seemingly taking a quick scan of you before exhaling in relief. "need you to put your arms around me, okay? here."

"why??? where we goin'?"

you take his hand with a dazed, dopey expression, letting him scoop you up against his chest, "home. take this."

the circular device is plopped to your abdomen, and even though you register it a little late, you gush loudly at the baby monitor's screen lit up — with your child sleeping sound in her bassinet.

"awwwww she's sleepin'!"

clark hums at your immediate joy, attempting to dodge the excited jabs of the baby monitor to his cheek. "geez, ah — …mhm, she's sleeping. nice an' tight. we gotta get to her, yeah? hold on to me, flying's quicker."

"mmmmkay superman. up, up'nawayyy!"

"…"

the headache that followed you was unforgiving, with it being the very first sensation you felt from the second you'd stirred awake. "nn—urgh…"

it felt as though a weight pressed on top of you, restricting your every breath.

there was no way your one year old baby would've suddenly learned how to scale her crib, right?

"wh —..huh?"

what greeted you, was a larger than life domed ceiling, wooden beams supporting the structure, which was decidedly not the sight your penthouse would've provided.

recognition settles, followed by the decisive tug at your waist when you squirm to free yourself from whatever was on you. the voice that then coats your entire body was distinct, with a tired, gravelly tilt to it.

"mmh — get back t'sleep…please."

your face falls flush back onto the pillows, but this time, it's directly atop a firmer, larger heft of muscle. you lift your cheeks, noting how his arms remained tightly curled at the back of your waist, securing you on top of him.

oh geez, he was warm.

you must've called him earlier, you figured. with no hurry to get yourself off of him. you then rest your face on his shoulders, studying his every feature as you come out of sleep.

from this up close, his jaw was visibly stubbled with brown, a stark contrast to being clean shaven — brows tensed even in his sleep. gently, you run the tips of your fingers down his cheekbones, just as the early morning sunlight kisses his features.

clark begins to visibly relax at your touches, a low guttural hum signifying his slow rousing. "not listenin' even when you're sober." he mumbles, all groggy, blinking awake to see your curious face rested all squished up on his chest.

"how are you feeling?" his words drag, with the long, tired yawn he takes. you purr when his idle touch at the back of your hips turns to slow rubs, "like hell. is —"

"she's asleep," he continues, "…as her mum should be." clark's head tilts, as he props his head up, arm folded beneath.

"s'not like you to be drinking like that."

he doesn't have the heart to scold you, or tell you that you both needed some healthy distance. because even now, he was so in love with you. it's in the way he looks at you intently now, voice laden with concern, and with the way he's gently tucked a lock of your hair behind your ears.

you consider telling him it was a lapse. technically, none of your joys and celebration, especially with your job, was shareable to him.

but then you meet his gaze, earnest, and patient.

"it's not a big deal," you try, hiding the feverish joy in your words. "was given the…promotion at work. they're allowing me to work remotely."

your ex doesn't react the same way. it takes a moment for it to load in his mind, and you feel it first. the equally excited squeeze at your hips. "that is amazing."

like in idiot, your cheeks warm.

none of the words he says afterward, not his gushing of it being deserved and he was proud could erase the bloom in your chest. it overwhelms every emotion and discomfort, every one of your senses focusses on clark's affirmations.

it felt better than trying to drink it all away, this felt better.

you've clocked that he's stopped talking, the same as you, from the second your gaze drops to his mouth.

a peek of pink coats a slick sheen over his bottom lips, the flash of his canines taking a drag over the flesh. he's thinking the exact same thing you are, that much is evident.

you make the first move to nudge yourself upward, with him tugging you all the way to be able to press a chaste kiss onto his lips.

before you think to pull away, his hand threads the back of your head, tilting his to lock his lips with yours. you hum deeply and softly into him, with your hands fisted around the fabric by his hem.

clark turns you over swiftly, hiking you beneath his bigger body. you naturally, and instinctively begin to rub by his ribcage, to his forearms and biceps. muscles tensing everywhere you touch, leaving goose flesh in its wake.

he's practically giddy with the way you're exploring him, like nothing ever changed.

"move here."

you think you might've heard him wrong — through the hasty, breathy he takes inbetween. clark leans down to drag the gently curve of his nose by yours, kissing every square inch of your face.

"move to smallville." he repeats, pressing a peck to the corner of your lips, then beneath your jaw.

"wait — huh?"

you find it in you to nudge his shoulders back, blinking at him confusedly, with your cheeks flushed. "but…we're —"

"i know what we are." he interrupts, tongue pressed at the inside of his cheeks, as though that was answer enough to your concerns.

"comet likes it here. you get to have more time to yourself, space, an' stuff…" clark trails off, "think about it?"

a deep exhale drags out of you, and much to clark's pleasure, your hands rested at the base of his neck.

"i'll think about it."

the softness drags its way down to his chest. rested right above his racing heart. "but don't you think it's…gonna be hard?"

a low, mirthless laugh leaves him. 

"think i can handle hard."

It’s a delicate balance you strike, as you step down the aisle that’s formed through the middle of the room, a crowd of strangers on each side of you. Your muscles are locked up tight, willing yourself not to visibly shiver, or trip, or look too stiff as you place one foot in front of the other. Looking weak is not an option, your mother’s voice reminds you, not in front of these people. 

Kryptonians. Your people, soon enough. 

It’s difficult to ignore their stares piercing through you, just as the cold does, observing every practiced, fluid movement you make. You’d hoped, in vain, that your groom might prefer a private ceremony, given the royal family had even permitted a few of your own relatives to attend — a highly unusual allowance. But the Kryptonians were communal by nature, and the tight-knit royal court would never pass up the opportunity to see their Prince wed.

At the end of the aisle, he stands tall, awaiting you. Watching you.

Kal-El, you remember, the name sounding foreign even in your mind.

The ceremonial robes he’s adorned with are a vibrant red, caped over the familiar blue and yellow military uniform of the Kryptonians, a stark reminder of why this ceremony is even taking place, and why it had to happen so quickly.

You’ve anticipated this day your whole life. You’re the last of your sisters to be married off. Your eldest sister left your home when you were just nine years of age, wed to the ruler of a kingdom across the sea in exchange for precious material resources, and no amount of wailing and pleading on your part would make her stay. The education you received as you grew only confirmed what you learned that day: that daughters of Kings had a duty to their country, to the good of their people, and your father had a duty to do whatever it takes to ensure the welfare of his kingdom. 

Or, more simply put: one day you would be wed, and you would not have very much choice in the matter. 

At least the purpose of your arrangement is more clear-cut, more urgent. An evident solution to an imminent problem, for both your realms. Krypton’s position as the supreme power on the continent grows more precarious with every day that the Thanagar Rebellion continues, and all the military might in the world can’t bring the Thanagarians to the negotiation table, if the past five years were anything to go by. It’s ironic, then, that Krypton’s beloved Warrior Prince was the one to realise your kingdom’s strategic value in ending the conflict, despite — or perhaps, especially because of — your people’s peaceful nature. Your father, the great Concilliator, has ended wars before, and clearly Prince Kal-El thinks he can do it again. 

For a price, of course. Your kingdom would forever be under Krypton’s protection, as the home of Prince Kal-El’s bride, and your people would never have to fear for their safety again. 

Even from across the grand hall, your groom is formidable. He towers above his people, broad-shouldered, chin held high like there’s already a crown on his head to balance. The sheer size of him is nothing like you could have imagined. When his eyes finally meet yours, azure and austere, you can only hope no one notices the gasp that leaves you.

You reach him too soon. Your measured, smooth steps forward have carried you down the aisle, and before you know it, he’s turned to face you fully, his eyes unreadable and distant, palm outstretched in offering. His hand in yours is the first warmth you’ve felt since you arrived. 

The priest, whose face is covered by a brilliant, glowing mask, steps forward from the altar, garnishing a stretch of red fabric, which he ties around your joined hands. He speaks, addressing you and your audience in a tongue incomprehensible to you, and to keep your eyes from glazing over as you listen, you sneak a glance at your poker-faced groom. 

Of all the stories you heard about the Warrior Prince of Krypton, none of them mentioned how blindingly handsome he is. The brutal strength you’ve heard tale of is undeniable, his arms thick with corded muscle that not even the fine fabric his uniform can disguise, his hand twice the size of yours; he could crush you, right here under the altar if he likes, just as he’s done to enemies on the battlefield. They say his presence alone can turn the tide of a battle lost. They don’t mention the dimples that appear on his cheeks as he gives the priest a polite smile, or that his voice is deep and stern, but not harsh. Steadying. The whole room holds their breath just to hear him speak. 

He catches your stare, turning his head to look at you. But then so does the priest, and everyone else in the room. Expectant. Your turn. 

Despite the hours you spent practicing the simple phrase — “I will stand firm in my vow to you” — you stumble, stuttering over the foreign feeling of their language on your tongue, your accent abysmal. You have to force yourself not to wince at your obvious mispronunciation, and ignore your governess’s voice in your head (“Disgraceful! Disrespectful!”). The Kryptonians, to their credit, do not laugh at your faltering, and if the Prince finds your mishap amusing, he doesn’t show it. He nods respectfully, his expression open as he repeats the phrase in a humiliatingly perfect accent.

The priest nods solemnly, accepting your vow exchange, then leads you both to a pillar in the middle of the altar. A carved steel chalice sits on top of it, filled with a clear liquid, and the Prince moves gently as he guides the hands you’ve tied together to pick it up. It’s a delicate maneuver, requiring your fingers to tangle together, the warmth from his palm radiating to yours, grounding you. 

He’s careful as he brings the chalice to your lips, tilting it slowly to clue you in, so you’re prepared to open your mouth and accept his offering. The liquid is pleasantly fruity, and he doesn’t force it down your throat like you might’ve expected him to, just a couple sips and then the chalice lowers. 

He thankfully doesn’t leave you guessing as to what the next step is, drawing the chalice up to his own lips, leisurely and subtle, so as to not give away his guidance (and your cluelessness). Your hand does not tremble as you tilt the chalice towards him, saving you the embarrassment of spilling it on his face. 

Your eyes can’t help but linger on the purse of his lips. The bob of his throat as he swallows. Your cheeks flush with heat as you realise just how beautiful you find him, and you’re glad to look away from him when the chalice is lowered back onto the pillar. The priest rambles on for a bit longer, looking between the two of you, before he seems to address the crowd, his voice rising to boom throughout the hall in declaration. The Prince uses your tied hands to tug you along, gently, to face him again. 

He takes a long moment to stare at you, his eyes no longer blank, but searching. Trying to communicate something you can’t understand. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and then he’s leaning in closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.

It’s not an unpleasant feeling. His lips are pillowy and soft, and only press to yours for a mercifully brief moment before pulling away, a mere brush of skin, before the hall bursts into cheers. The noblemen are too busy tossing flower petals into the air to notice the way you nearly jump out of your skin at the sudden cacophony, a rainbow of confetti falling around you. You mimic the wide smile the Prince wears at the celebration, covering up your shock quickly. 

He guides you, slowly, mindful of the difference in your height and of your hands still being tied together, down the steps to the altar and towards a door to the left, instead of back down the aisle like you expected.

You catch sight of your family then, a few rows back in the crowd. Your parents stand next to two of your brothers, the youngest of which has a watery smile on his young face, trying to hold back his tears. You will see him later this evening, at the reception dinner, and then never again. You send him a reassuring smile over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you.

You’re alone with the Prince now, tucked away in a small, circular room that’s no less ornate than the hall you’ve exited, the skylight ceiling bathing you both in fading sunlight. Tables line the walls, displaying a variety of canapes and hors d’oeuvres, sweets and cheeseboards and flutes of every beverage you could possibly conceive of. In the center of the room is a simple settee, decorated with plush pillows, large enough to fit two people. Your stomach drops at the sight of it.

This is the consummation room. 

“You’ll break your fast before dinner, privately. You’ll have your fill of amuse-gueules,” You recall your mother’s explanation. “And then, he’ll have his fill of you.” 

You can’t even bear to look at the Prince, your heartbeat quickening in your chest as you anticipate his bruising touch on you at any moment. The hand that isn’t bound to his clenches into a fist at your side, instinctually, dying to fight your way out, and it takes every inch of your willpower to loosen it. Your jaw goes tense, in the hopes that when he inevitably bends you over the furniture and forces himself into you, you can hold back your cries, for the sake of guests on the other side of the door. 

For your people, you remind yourself. For their peace. 

“Do you speak the common tongue?” 

Your head whips towards him, eyes wide. You didn’t expect much talking.

“Forgive me, I have not had the time I would’ve liked to learn your native ton-” He continues on. “I do. I speak- I understand you just fine. Your highness.” His title is tacked on at the end, your brain working too slowly to remember your etiquette. “My apologies, for my… less than impressive Kryptonian.” That makes him breathe out a laugh. Not polite, like before, during the ceremony, but genuine. He’s somehow even more handsome when he smiles like this, warm and sincere. 

“I’m told it’s a difficult tongue to master.” He reassures you, moving to untie the cloth that keeps your hand tied to his. “Are you thirsty? It’s best to save room for the feast, but a beverage might tide you over till then.” His concern for your wellbeing only alarms you further. Why is he drawing this out? Did he want to avoid you fainting during the act? Or perhaps prevent you from dropping a canape in shock, ruining the fine carpet?

You stand there, blinking at him in perplexity, even after he drops your hand and it flops back to your side, in a manner that could only be described as the opposite of graceful. But he’s not even looking at you, instead he’s striding across the room, grabbing a glass of fruit juice and planting himself down on the settee. 

When he notices that you’re still frozen in place — notices your fear — he softens, putting his hands out, palms facing up in surrender. “Please, sit. We’ll only have a few minutes to rest.” 

You move slowly, cautiously, plucking a glass of the same juice from the table and making your way to the center of the room to join him, never taking your eyes off his hands. 

You sit in disquieting silence, sipping sweet beverages and avoiding eye contact. He is your husband now, and you know you must obey him, but your body resists obedience with every ounce of strength it has. 

Which is not very much. 

You’d never been allowed very many culinary indulgences, but ever since the engagement was announced you were under very strict orders from your mother to “watch your figure!” while your brothers piled three different kinds of red meat and grain onto their plates, under the excuse of being "growing boys”, not men grown already. After long days of studying Kryptonian culture and dance classes and piano lessons — your brothers’ longsword training lessons in full view from the library window — you’d taken to falling into slumber during your evening baths, then being shaken awake by your ladies in waiting, alarm clear on their faces, telling you without words that you had taken far too long to wake up.

And yet, you still resisted submission to this man on the couch with you. Your face burned with shame. After so many years of contending with your fate, you thought this day might come a little easier to you, that eventually the satisfaction of being a perfect lady would set in with maturity and age and you would look forward to marrying the future King of the most powerful kingdom on the continent. But here, now, sitting and taking a breath right in the middle of the fanfare, the eye of the storm, you feel like your chest might be collapsing in on itself. 

“We can stay here as long as you’d like.” The Prince says gently from beside you. When you turn to him, he’s gazing at you knowingly, but not pitying.

“We cannot keep them waiting.” You reply, practiced. 

“They will wait for me.” He doesn’t sound haughty, just assured. Safe.

You nod, because words escape you then. You’ll take this little mercy, just before what will surely be the longest night of your life. 

Prince Kal-El never comes closer to you than the length of the couch. 

The food being delicious does little to assuage your nerves, lit afire by the cacophony of the dining hall as your wedding guests indulge in the reception feast. 

This portion of the celebration is the polar opposite of the ceremony, the torches along the wall and the mass of bodies dancing, eating, and bantering being more than enough to warm the freezing palace walls, though your hair still somehow remains standing on end. 

You stare out, a polite, practiced smile plastered onto your face in the hopes no one will notice the blank look in your eyes, as you try to reconcile the stories told about Kryptonians with the people in front of you. From your table at the crest of the dining hall, elevated on a stone platform, you have a full view of the banquet as it unfolds. The warlords and barbarians you read about bear little resemblance to the crowd in front of you, where everyone greets each other like old friends, singing songs that they all know the words to and knocking back hot ale and wine like it’s water. The same Lords that held their breath to hear their Prince speak his vows approach him like uncles now, clapping him heavily on the shoulder in congratulations, and he greets them with the same enthusiasm. His joy, you can tell, isn’t a farce; he loves these people like they’re his own family.

They are, it occurs to you. They’ve either seen him grow from a babe in his mother’s arms to the titan he is now, or grown right alongside him, and all of them — both the men and the women — have likely fought a battle or two with him. It’s a bond that’s incomprehensible to you, but it’s evident to anyone with functioning eyes. 

Despite the platters of food as wide as your husband’s shoulders and as high as your eye-level, you can only bring yourself to indulge in the bread rolls, warm and baked with herbs in the dough and perfectly buttered, and a bit of the poultry. After the first hour of you picking and plucking at the food on your plate, the Prince leaned close so you could hear him over the roar of the crowd and asked if the food was to your liking, and you nodded eagerly, flashing a smile so as to not worry him. He shot you a concerned look at first, but then one of his father’s generals approached your table and he was thankfully whisked away into conversation and congratulations, before you were forced to explain that your mother was watching you from her place just a few feet away. 

You excuse yourself easily to freshen up in the washroom, trailed by your new lady’s maid. You are a woman grown, a married woman, who still must be accompanied to the washroom, not even trusted to wash her own behind. 

Your mother waits for you in the hall when you’re finished, clearly intent on catching you in a moment alone, bringing you into a tight embrace, and despite the pit in your stomach that forms every time you see her, the scent of her arms around you will always be soothing to you. Sickeningly familiar. 

“Did it hurt terribly, my dearest?” She says, in your own language, so even the lady’s maid standing a few feet away can’t eavesdrop on your conversation.

“Did what hurt?” You say, confused. She pulls away, her hands coming to clutch your shoulders, looking at you in questioning.

“The consummation, dearest.”

“I-I didn’t- he didn’t-” You’re trying to get it across, but even you’re confused by the whole situation. The consummation was not exactly presented to you as optional, and yet, the Prince didn’t lay a hand on you, not until you stood and nodded to him silently, so he knew you were ready. And still, he did not take you, simply presented his arm for you to take and led you to the dining hall to make your grand re-entrance. 

Your mother is in disbelief, peppering you with questions about why and how and what exactly he said or did in your time alone together, but even you don’t have answers for her. His motives are a mystery to you. 

“Well, it is no matter. You must consummate tonight. Your marriage must be seen as legitimate, or the alliance between our kingdoms is null and void. Do you understand, my dear?” You nod, trying not to show the fear that clutches you at the thought, of consummation and of endangering your people. “You must not leave your marriage chambers unbedded.”

“Yes, mother. I understand. I won’t-” “Good!” She switches back to the common tongue, then. “Let’s not keep your husband waiting much longer, dear.” 

You’re guided back to your seat next to the Prince, just like you are guided everywhere. 

You can see your future in crystal clarity before you, being chaperoned from room to room, your skin plucked and your body penetrated till you die, hopefully before you’ll ever have to chaperone your own daughter. 

Your placating smile returns to your face for the next few hours, while the party rages on with no sign of stopping. It must be past midnight, but the Kryptonians seem to have boundless energy for a proper celebration, including your husband. His cheeks must be sore from hours of grinning, his stomach full as he’s cleared plate after plate, and yet he’s still jovial, conversing with his family and friends, knocking tankards together in salute with little regard to the ale that spills onto the floor and down sleeves as a result.

Eventually, he stands, taking your hand in his and moving to leave the table, causing groans to ring out around him. You descend the platform together and you trail after him as he slowly makes his way to the door, a long process, as he’s stopped every few feet by well-wishers, either bidding him a good night or cajoling him into staying a few more hours. He smiles widely at every one of them, hugs them tightly, but shakes his head at the invitations to stay, before thanking them for their attendance and moving on. It goes on like that till you reach the towering wooden doors that lead out of the hall, exiting with polite waves towards his people, and despite craning your neck in an attempt to see over the crowd, you cannot seem to find your family before the doors slam shut. 

Your ears ring even in the silence of the corridor, struggling to adjust as your husband leads you away from the dining hall, your steps echoing in tandem with his. Your heart pounds too hard and loud in your ears, and you have to force your breathing to regulate instead of hyperventilating; the corridors are far too echoey for your panic to go undetected, and the leisurely pace you’re taking leaves no excuse for your racing heart. 

You walk for what feels like an hour. These halls are long and winding, and the further you walk, arm in arm with your husband, the more terrified you are of ever having to find your way through this castle by yourself. It’ll take years, you’re sure, to learn the layout of your new home. You begin to wonder if your husband’s quarters — where you’re sure he’s leading you — is on the other side of the castle when you round a corner and find the entrance doors to the dining hall again, music and chatter still audible through thick wood. 

You look up at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. “Your highness, are we returning? Are we not-?”

“We will make it to our chambers eventually.” He explains, a lighthearted smile on his face. “We are simply… taking the scenic route.”

It hits you, then, that despite his humorous tone, he truly does want to delay the consummation, just as you do. That he is, in a way, a victim of circumstance as you are, marrying a stranger for the good of his people. That he might understand your reluctance better than most.

“Oh,” is all you can muster up for a response. “Alright.” “Unless you wish to retire?” “No!” You say too quickly. Improperly. Disrespectful!, your governess’s voice rings in your head again, as your cheeks heat and you refocus your gaze ahead. “I only mean, I wish to follow your lead, my husband.” He doesn’t respond, but he keeps his gaze on you, quiet and deep in thought. You walk in silence for a bit, past the dining hall entrance and around another corner, before he speaks again. 

“I want you to feel comfortable here.” He says, in that same comforting tone he used earlier, like he’s coaxing a feral animal out of its cage. 

“I will, your highness. You need not worry.” Your tone is measured, steady, confident, a voice you can recede into instinctually, before anyone senses your distress.

“Yes, but- I understand this isn’t- you did not choose this.” He stumbles over his words, sounding unsure for the first time since you’ve met him. You pointedly look away from him, eyes fixated on the walls, as if the intricate carvings on the bleached stone are the most interesting thing in the world, so he can’t see the way your eyes well up with tears at the acknowledgment that you are not here by your own volition. “Should you think of anything that will make you more comfortable, or give you some solace, or- anything. Anything you want, I will give it to you.” 

You switch your distracted stare from the walls to your skirt, your free hand coming to pick at the beading, clinking softly. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what he can give you that will make any of this better. No matter what, you cannot go back home. 

“Thank you.” It comes out as a whisper. Any louder, and he’d hear the tears that threaten to close your throat. 

He falls silent afterwards, thankfully. 

Your steps echo down more unfamiliar corridors, twisting and turning till you reach a courtyard on what must be the west side of the palace, judging by the sun’s setting rays beaming through the ornate glass ceiling, providing cover from the frequent snowfalls you’re told plague this kingdom. You’re a floor above it, and the Prince guides you to the railing to gaze down into this oasis in the middle of the palace, a spread of green amongst stone, flowering bushes and grass and a few trees, impossibly blooming. You don’t even notice the Prince slipping his arm from yours, allowing you to lean further over in amazement. 

“How?” You ask, looking back at him.

“Our groundskeepers work very hard.” He replies simply, like it’s not a marvel to have a thriving garden in the middle of winter. You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes you.

“This is- it’s incredible.” 

Your home was all rolling fields of grass and meadows of flowers, a rare patch of forest here and there. You’d come to accept you’d just have to get accustomed to Krypton’s snow-capped mountain peaks on the horizon, its climate far cooler than you’ve ever endured. As your eyes rove over the familiar sight of greenery, they land on a familiar sight, a bushel of red berries that you’d often eat in the mornings to break your fast. Your favourite, in fact. 

“I wasn’t aware that fragaria is native to Krypton, too.” You say it happily, knowing that at least you’ll have something familiar to eat tomorrow morning.

“It isn’t.” He responds. When you look back at him in confusion, he’s smiling fondly. At you. “When our engagement was announced, I asked for some flora native to your own kingdom to be planted.” 

You hate the way your eyes fill with tears again. You’ve done more crying today than you ever intended. But this time, they’re tears of gratitude. Of relief. 

“Thank you,” You say again. “Truly.”

“If you wish for anything else-” “I will tell you.” Your voice is truly sure this time. Genuine. Then, “Are the berries ripe yet?”

“I will have to inquire with Klinn-Il, he often tends to the fruit bushes.” You step away from the railing, slipping your arm around his again, resting your hand on his forearm as you continue on down the corridor. “If they are, they’ll be picked fresh for you on the morrow.”

“That would please me very much, your highness.” A genuine smile finally graces your face.

You walk at the same leisurely pace as before, but more comfortably. Pressed closer together, exchanging conversation rather than silently begging him not to say anything to you. He asks you questions, about your home, your family, and you tell him easily, seeing him nod intently, as if the life of the last-born daughter of a King was the most important matter in the world. You ask him your own questions in return. You learn that Krypton does get warmer, in the months opposite to your own kingdom’s summer, that he is close with his parents and has tea with his cousin, Kara, every chance he gets, though she’s quite the adventurer and is rarely home. You learn he is fond of cats, and of music. 

When you finally reach what must be the entrance to his chambers, you know each other just the slightest bit more. Not quite a stranger anymore, but your breath still stutters, the reality of what’s in store for the rest of the night slamming back into you like a kick to the chest. 

His room is not what you expected. The stained glass windows scatter mosaics of colours all around you, brilliant and shining in the sunset, illuminating the sitting area and warming the room. There’s a scattering of armchairs and settees, all in the colours of the House of El, surrounding the fireplace that’s already been lit for you. On the furthest wall from the entrance are double doors that lead to a private balcony, and to your left, a canopy bed. Every decoration is plush and extravagant, inviting. You try not to think about your own room back home, or how none of the colours are ones you’d pick out for yourself. This is the Prince’s room, and so you belong here, with the rest of his possessions. 

“Is it to your liking?” He asks.

“Yes.” You lie easily, but again, your body doesn’t cooperate. As he moves further into the room, you stay put in the entryway, as if remaining far from the bed will protect you from what’s to come. You both know the customs of his people. Even if he was kind enough to want to spare you, he could not risk the voiding of your marriage, not with the safety of your kingdoms on the line.

“Are you warm enough? I can add more firewood-” “No, I’m quite warm, your highness.” 

He looks back at you. Recognising your fear, again. You stand feet apart, both unsure, trepidatious. 

He stares down at the floor as he speaks to you, like he’s ashamed. “I will have to undress for bed.”

“As will I.” Your voice is distant.

“I will turn around while you undress.” 

“Your highness,” You shake your head. “It’s no use.” 

But he turns anyway. You hear the buttons of his coat pop open, slowly, like he wants to give you extra time. You sigh, knowing as well as he does that there’s no sense in prolonging the inevitable, but you comply with his wishes. You loosen the back of your gown clumsily, having to untie the laces by reaching back and fumbling around till the ties come undone, enough to slide the heavy fabric down and off, stepping out of your behemoth of a skirt. And then you’re left in your stays and chemise, grateful, at least, for the warmth of the room as you shed your few layers. 

When you dare to look across the room at your husband, you gasp quietly at the sight of his bare back. He’s somehow even broader, stronger with his clothing off, the expanse of his muscular shoulders, the dimples at the base of his back, right above- 

You avert your eyes again, trying to focus on removing your stays, but the laces start higher up on your back than the dress, hard to reach and even harder to untie, and there’s no lady’s maid here to help you. He must hear your frustrated whine as you twist and bend your arms to try and get ahold of the ties, because he asks if you need help, without even turning towards you, still keeping his promise not to look. 

You lock up at the question. Your cheeks are already heated from your frustration, but you can feel blood rushing to your face again at the prospect of him so close when you’re in such a state of undress, but you remember there’s no use. He will see much more of you, very soon. 

“Please.” You finally acquiesce, and only then does he turn, crossing the room as soon as you ask. 

You keep your eyes low, not wanting to scandalise yourself further with more glimpses of his body, and gasp at the feeling of his hands brushing against your back.

“Is this alright?” He asks, stilling.

“Yes. It’s fine, your highness.” You say, automatically, again. Powerless to deny him anything. 

He makes quick work of the knots, pulling the laces on your back loose till he can slip it over your head easily, then retreating from you. You frown, again, at his delays. Almost hoping he’d get it over with already.

When he reappears before you, he is clothed in a light tunic, loose and worn from frequent use, and similarly loose britches. He barely glances at you as he climbs into bed, burying himself under the thick duvet, as if truly readying himself for slumber. 

You stay put, in just your chemise, still lingering in the entryway like you could bolt out of the room. His gaze fixates on the ceiling.

“You may come to bed, if you wish.” He says. “Or sleep on the futon, or wherever else you desire. I will not interfere with your sleep.”

You step forward. Hesitant. Slow. Disbelieving. It takes you forever to approach the bed, and an embarrassing amount of effort to climb onto it, as it was clearly built with his size in mind. It’s expansive, much bigger than your own, and covered in more blankets and plush, goose-feathered pillows than you can count, the sheets like silk against your skin. There’s ample space between you and him, laying on opposite sides of the mattress.

“Your highness,” You start, once you’ve situated yourself comfortably on top of the bed. “Surely, you know that- that you must-”

“Sleep, my wife.” He says, exhaustion creeping into his voice, his eyes already shut. “Both of us must sleep. It’s been a long day, for us both.” 

You do not sleep. 

You sit there for a long while, unable to fall asleep as he does, studying him, watching his face go slack and his breathing deepen as he falls into his slumber. With him so still like this, unconscious to the world, you finally have the liberty of truly, openly staring at your new husband. 

He has been kind, against your every expectation. He has been considerate, and has never once shown you anger, even as you repeatedly displayed your fear in front of him, your fear of him. Your resistance hasn’t seemed to phase him. You remember again, staring at him like this, that he is incredibly handsome. The curls that had no doubt been slicked back this morning are falling onto his forehead, bringing a smile to your face, despite yourself. 

When you finally climb under the covers, settling into the mattress, with your eyes still on him, like at any moment he’ll transform into the husband you’d imagined you’d have, twice your age and unforgivingly brutal. But he remains the same, a peaceful expression on his face, quiet snores escaping him. 

You decide, then, to trust him for the night. And as you close your eyes, you allow yourself to wonder, for the first time, if you may have married a good man. 

Banned from the lab.

For self destructive behaviour?

Sure, you often pushed yourself hard but the safety guidelines were embedded into your bones since you held your first welding gun. Truthfully you can't believe how they could’ve even come to that conclusion— you were always on time for your checkups too! Something had to be wrong, this had to be a mistake.

It’s only later than afternoon that you finally get discharged, although very reluctantly from your constant coughing. Thankfully you were supplied with an inhaler to manage it, and you tuck it into the pocket of your clothes as you change out of the hospital gown. Just as you secure your belt, you notice how loose it sits in its usual notch, your loss of mass confusing you.

Before you can question it, a knock sounds at the door, startling you. “It’s the Captain.”

Immediately you still. If your sudden ban had agitated you so much, there was no way he wouldn’t be just as furious. It was like all of the memories of the past months had crashed down, and it didn't help that the thoughts had lingered in your dreams all night. But.. you knew you werent self destructive. He knew that too. If anyone was to help you contest this ban— he could!

You move forward to open the door, teeth gritting as your entire body straightens up, preparing to argue your case. “Captain—”

“How are you doing?”

His question immediately catches you off guard, making you hesitate before stepping back and letting him into the room. “Well..” You begin, but hesitate. If there’s one thing you’ve learnt through all of this, its that only the mission matters and not any personal problems. And it’s better you don't anger him with fluffy details. “You probably heard I'm banned from the lab, but i think there’s been a mistake, i’ve never one intened to harm—-”

“That’s enough, I already agreed to their decision. It’ll do you some good.”

You blink, surprised but he just steps forward, hand settling on your shoulder. “You really need to take a break— we never intended for you to harm yourself like that.”

——————-

“Hey, you’re alive!” Soap exclaims as you line up and grab your tray. You barely get a second before his hand slaps your back, sending you into a fit of coughs..

“Wha— the — he—ll?” You wheeze each syllable out. The chemicals had left you still suffering from a shortness of breath, making you gasp desperately as you rummage in your pocket for the inhaler they prescribed. His face falls as you pump air into your lungs with far too much force. Though the pressure in your chest finally settles, leaving you with a deep frown..

“I didn’t mean tae—” He begins, reaching out but you just shrug him off, too annoyed by his careless actions. “Ah’m sorry. Just glad to have ye back again, Price said he found you.. errr.. passed out or somethin”

So first he had the audacity to hit you and then he admits he didn't even care enough to know what happened?

You blink away the anger bubbling in your chest, not wanting to have yet another fit in this very busy hall.

What the hell is up with you anyway? Just snap out of these rebellious thoughts already— he didn't mean to harm you.

“Yeah, well, I'm okay now.” You mutter back, afraid to say more else you really do bark at him. Damnit you were so tired.

“Well, that’s good eh? So im thinking for my next weapon-“

“I’m not allowed in the labs for a month, don't even bother.” You knew you were being harsh, assuming that his only concern was his next weapon and not your wellbeing. Surely you’re villainising him again— stop that.

“Really?” He seems surprised and it only serves to anger you more.

“Yes, really.”

He falls quiet as you serve the rest of your food, seemingly at a loss for words now. It’s only when you finally grab your water bottle does he get it for you, placing it on your tray.

“But you can still draw up plans, right?”

You’ve never wanted to punch a colleague more in your life but of course, you can't. So you grit your teeth, and force a smile. “I suppose, if I'm not too ill to move that is.” And with that, you leave him standing, walking off and out the mess. However, despite your heart screaming that it was a win in your books, you couldn't help the heavy weight on your chest. Why did you have to be so rude to him? He just wanted your expertise— if anything it should be considered a compliment.

The food doesn't even interest you anymore, and you barely have most of it before throwing it out.

——

The next day doesn't fare any better for you. You’re overwhelmed with coughing fits even in the shower and it didn’t help that your entire body ached. Something about damage to the nerves in your hands and feet, apparently. You couldn't listen to the nurses much over the whirring oxygen machines.

“You alive..?” The short knock at your door has you agitated, the pounding headache that’s been eating at you all morning only throbbing harder.

“Barely..” You mumble beneath your breath, slowly padding over to the door before weakly opening it to meet Gaz.

“You know you shouldn't hole yourself up here doing work all day— it’s good to take breaks.”

“Actually I haven't done anything today..” You hate that you have to fight off the urge to mention the harsh symptoms you’ve dealt with for the entire morning. After all, only focus on the mission, that’s it.

“Oh—? Are you on medical leave? I know you’re banned from the labs but..”

You’re half tempted to close the door right in his face at this point but something tells you that would be a very bad idea. It’s just so ironic, that he only knows the facts connected to your job but not the medical symptoms they caused—

You have to shake your head to snap yourself out of it, giving him an awkward shrug instead. “No, technically I'm not on leave.”

“Oh.. so why aren't you working?”

You honestly wish you could make him feel the pain throbbing through your body at this very moment, but you can't because that’d probably make you guilty of assault. You force another smile, swallowing firmly. “The chemicals I work with have left me with bad shortness of breath and nerve damage. Maybe tomorrow I can write up your plans, Kyle.”

You watch as his face slowly drops, but it doesn't make you feel any more satisfied.

“Oh- I didn't know.. Did you not follow the safety protocols?”

That was your last straw, and honestly you felt way too close to your legs giving out right now so you just do what you do best, shrugging. “Probably.” Agreeing with his words are easier than contesting them, and soon enough you get to slump back into bed again and pass out.

——-

Two weeks have passed since then, mainly because you’ve been avoiding them like the plague this entire time. But it’s also good for you too, finally able to settle your mind from the months of stress you’ve been put through. You sleep more hours, finally do the things you’ve been putting off, and you’re starting to find love in your work again. Besides, having a break from them has given you time to sort out your feelings and the mismanaged anger you always seemed to have towards them. They were soldiers with a job! You couldn't expect them to chase after you.

You stop by the mess hall at a later time today, and since you already ate with them that morning you don't really mind doing the same now.

“Hi.” You grin as you take a seat at the end, Gaz shuffling up for you. “How’d your training session with the lower ranks go?” Of course, you grin, only focusing on his day because you’ve learnt now not to talk about yours.

“Went quite well, actually. Got a good bunch for once.” He replies, scooping a final spoonful into his mouth whilst you grab your first.

You hadn't been eating in the mess that much recently, mostly from being too weak in your first few days off. Now you couldn't help but salivate at the food sitting there, no matter how crappy it could be sometimes.

That means you end up eating a little too quickly— the dessert actually looks good today, and this was one of the few serotonin boosters in your life.

“Arent you going to slow down?” Ghost comments, sitting opposite, and his eyes narrowed on your plate. Immediately you pause, giving him a sheepish smile as you swallow down the last bite you shoved in.

“Sorry, ‘m pretty hungry today.” You chuckle, because you’ve all had your moments, especially how they usually scoff their food down after a hard mission.

“From what, eh? Yer not even working right now.”

You turn to see Soap snort at his own words, after practically licking his own plate clean. He pats Gaz who snickers too, leaning back in his chair and locking his eyes onto you as well. “He’s right, you know. Like- we’re actively doing physical work all day, and then paperwork on top of that.”

“I guess- i’m still a bit ill and—“

“Dont you just sit in your room for most of the day?” Ghost adds, tilting his head in your direction, especially when your fork reaches for the dessert next.

It’s so embarrassing, your stomach feels queasy as you feel the burn of all of your eyes on you. They’re staring— judging— your choices. They don't even think you deserve to eat, and hell, they’re right, aren't they? You haven't been doing any work so they’re not actually wrong. They keep on looking at you expectantly though, like you have an answer for why you’re hungry despite the fact you don't deserve it.

The worst part was that Price wasn't even here to defend you right now. He would, right? Surely. You were told he was the one that brought you to the infirmary in the first place, so he definitely would say something.

“Oh.. I guess so.” You say awkwardly, eyes darting downwards as Soap laughs before reaching over to snag your dessert plate.

“Here, i’ll do ye a favour? Ye don't want it, do ya?” All you can do is shake your head slowly, watching as he scoffs it down without a second thought, continuing a conversation with Ghost like they hadn't just humiliated you.

—-----------------------------------------------

“Captain..”

You slip into his office, the nerves in your fingers tingling but not as queasy as the ones in your stomach. It’s been two days since, and not only has their behaviour worsened but your increasing annoyance has only come back full force again. The guilt is only hitting you full force, especially as you draw closer to snapping. All you want is to be good.

“Hm? What brings you here?” He looks up from where he’s sat at his desk, a box of cigars peeking out one of his drawers as you get closer.

“Your soldiers, that’s what.” You huff, trying to make it seem more like a joke than anything. It’ll lessen the blow but not the churning feeling in your gut.

“Those muppets? If they’re trying to convince you to go back into the labs, you’re still banned.”

“I know, i know.” You slump into the small chair to the side, limbs crumpling almost immediately. This was almost the same as the first time you made a successful weapon.

It was so long ago now, but you remember them finding you immediately after the mission was over, Soap practically squeezing your half awake body so tight as he rambled over how well it worked. From then on, you were asked a million things all the time, even from other Lieutenants and as much as you loved to see your work thrive, it was exhausting. So you had found yourself escaping into the Captain’s office, just like you were now. Except that time he let you talk about whatever, and he also conversed back with you, until you even came over to help him with organising the more menial paperwork and the clock starting flashing midnight.

“What did they do?” His voice snaps you out of the memory, and you sit up a little more, one hand rubbing your neck.

“Feels like none of them even acknowledge i’m sick.” It came out way more bluntly than you intended, but even as you glance up, his eyes dont meet yours.

“Cant expect them to know everything about you.”

You let out a laugh at his words, assuming he’s being sarcastic; he had to be.

“I mean it’s hardly more than the bare minimum. They remember whenever i say i’m working on something they want but not that i passed out two weeks ago?”

“Everyone passes out— they’ve had more broken bones than you can count.” His nonchalance on the matter has you furrowing your brows until you sit up properly so you can watch him.

“I passed out because of prolonged exposure to chemicals, pretty sure that’s not as simple as a broken bone.”

“Well what would ya like then, huh? You want em to deliver your food and rub your back?” He huffs and leans back in his chair for a moment, fingers pinching his brow as you just look at him in confusion. You were supposed to come to your Captain for help, but he looked like you just told him that you had plans to revolutionise.

“I’m just saying.. they keep demanding things of me that I can't give. I’ve been able to make the prototypes on a good day, but even then sometimes i lose my breath just from small things and —“

“Are you here just to complain?”

Taken aback, you just stare at him blankly, before slowly standing. “What..?”

“Look, kid. This is the military, yeah?” He says it so condescendingly it makes your brows start to narrow, especially by how his eyes pierce into yours. “We’ve all worked through injuries and tough times before. Torture sometimes too. Your incident caused a lot of trouble, you know? We’re lucky I convinced them you were self destructive.”

“You.. told them that?“ It suddenly clicks in your head, why the nurses watched you like you would snap, why the psych eval had taken much longer and was far more intrusive than ever. You had no idea why you had been attending therapy sessions regularly either. “I’m not— you know that. Why would you blame it on that?”

“I cant afford a bloody inspection right now, kid. We have lives to deal with, missions to plan. It wasnt even hard to argu you breached the safety requirements.”

“You’re the one who made me push past the safety guidelines— you and the others demanded that of me!”

“I lied for everyone's sake. Your job would be hardly affected by that kind of claim unlike the others.”

“No— this was never about me, was it? It’s always you- Soap, Gaz— always you all!.”

He lets out a long sigh, eyes closing for a long second before he stands, right before you with his arms crossed. “Like i said— this is the military, not your university. We’re here to get the job done, and if you cant handle a bit of roughing up, then maybe this isnt for you.”

“Are you.. asking me to quit?” After everything you’ve done, all the weapons that helped them through every mission. Every prototype, every plan.

“You’re either in or you're out— I want no more of this nonsense and complaining.” He huffs, turning around to place the files in another cabinet. It’s obvious he clearly expects you to stay in; it was more of a rhetorical question. He knows you’ll never actually leave.

“Fine.. then I’m out.”

“Good now—- what?” He turns, watching your hand tremble as you grip onto your access card. “Stop your games, you’ve got work to do too you know.”

“I quit, Captain Price.” You say, knowing it’s the right decision. You’re terrified of just quitting everything right here and right now. But you’re also angry, and frustrated, and most of all, betrayed. By yourself for not realising sooner, by the taskforce for treating you like a tool and by him for expecting you to follow his every whim.

The card clatters as you drop it on his table, leaving you with your id so you can still sign the official resignation and then leave through the general access doors.

You step back before he can say more, letting the door swing behind you as the tears well in your eyelids.

———————

i wanted more angst hehe

no more kofi links this months, if you liked my content and fics and would like to support please consider donating to a charity! Whether its to palestine, sudan, congo, the uyghurs in China or even supporting the civilians hurt in Iran, please do what you can. Even if you dont have any money to give, think about clothes you can donate to your local womens/homeless shelter or other items you dont use anymore. please support your local communities even if it means getting your coffee from a local spot rather than a usual and please remember to be kind to yourself first and foremost. Thank you all for your support on the last chapter!

Taglist:

It all started around four months ago. You had an experimental device quite literally blow up in your face, but you still learnt some pretty valuable data from it regardless. Of course, you could just write it down and go on with your day, but you were excited! This could turn into something really useful— a real game changer.

The only problem was, there was no one else in your team since specialists like you were so sparse. Well.. the sergeants were always nice to you. You’re sure Soap would love to hear about an explosive device anyway.

“That’s crazy”

Well, it was a rather dry response compared to the ten texts you had sent over, but you suppose it could be worse. Maybe he was just waiting for you to finish?”

“Sounds good 👍 “

Huh.. he sure did text like your dad. You put your phone down, a little disheartened by the lack of energy. Still, he could just be busy.. or a bad texter.. well it’s fine. Not a big deal. You’re an adult, and you still have more work to do— you can totally just tell him in person instead!

“So then when i tested it, it didn't even react badly at all! There was a little bit of fumes, but hardly near last time.” It’s been a whole week since, and you just couldn't hold it in today, telling him all about it. Besides, it’s lunch time, and he collected you from your lab so it must be fine. “So.. uh, any progress on the stuff we asked you to make a while back?”

You tilt your head, confused by his words. “The new breaching device? I mean, I sent that through a while ago. That’s not my fault if the testing and safety team haven't approved it yet though.”

“It is approved.” Price pops out of nowhere, almost making you jump before he pats his hand on your shoulder and grabs the last cake. Sneaky. “They’ll be arriving in time for our next op, Soap.”

You just grin, happy now that it’s gone through as you come and sit with them. As you eat, you start to realise he didn't really react to your story at all, just waiting until he could ask the question. Still, you refused to believe it was on purpose. He must’ve just been worried about the op

So you try Kyle next. It’s been a while, and they just returned from said op a week ago, so you figure it’s been enough time now.

“Hey Kyle, what do you think of these plans? I'm kind of worried it’ll react oddly with the metals, so there’s also this option. And I could just scrap it all together and make this instead.”

He doesn't reply initially, even if you can see his little icon is online, so you wait in your lab, lips turned down in a frown. It’s only twenty whole minutes later when your phone suddenly dings, making you rush over to check. “Sounds good.”

Huh?

He hadn't even answered the question you asked, not even in the slightest. Maybe he replied specifically to a plan you sent? Nope, not even. Just those two words. You let out a long sigh, glancing back at the prototype and just deciding to go ahead. Maybe he was in a rush but wanted to just give you an answer to your first question.

—-------------------

You cough harshly as you grab a water bottle from the rec room fridge, face scrunching up at the sharp wrack of it against your chest. Damnit, maybe these new concepts weren't a good idea in the slightest.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ghost comes up beside you, grabbing a water bottle for himself and making you frown at his gruff tone. Then again, he’s always been like that, so what can you really expect?

“Probably just some strong chemical I used.” You shrug, almost struggling to open the cap. “I’ll probably have to spend tomorrow doing paperwork instead..”

“No can do, we need more units of the prototype you put through the other week.” Price says from the armchair near the tv, stacks of paperwork on the coffee table.

“But..”

“The mission is next week and we have hardly any time to waste.”

Ghost only shrugs, sipping his own bottle of water down anyway. “Don’t know what the problem is, it is your job. You’ve got the weekend to rest up anyway.”

—------------

The longer you work on the units, the less time you spend outside of your lab. Even when you do somehow build the hope up to message one of them again, the best you get is a reaction in the chat, or an emoji. Other times they directly ignore whatever you had talked about, switching the conversation to something else. Plus, the one time you had gotten out and asked Soap if he wanted to go on a walk, he had barely let you get a word in.

“Price.. You got a minute?” This is the worst you’ve felt in forever. You’re not sure if it's spending all day getting hand cramps that has you, or spending all week worrying over if you really are just really annoying.

“Got one for you. Go on.”

Your palms are sweaty, and you wipe them against your jeans, suddenly really nervous about all this. It’s not like you haven't had good conversations with him before, and he’s never been explicitly rude either. Still, you can't help but wait for the inevitable.

“So? What is it?” He glances up at you, his pen on the papers he’s looking over and you just sit there on the couch, tongue falling still as you stare back at him.

“I..”

Do you start telling him a story? Maybe about how you feel? Or a rant? Do you tell him about the new weaponry because as a captain he’d want better right? Or do you tell him about the current project because he’d want an update?

What is the right thing to say?

“I’m a bit busy, you know.” He gestures to the papers and then glances back over you, who still sits there like your switch just wont turn on no matter how hard you try.

“I.. was just wondering if you wanted a cup of tea.” You eventually mumble, even if the words sound utterly wrong strung together and you’re closer to nonsense than speaking normally.

“Yeah, could do with one. Thanks.” He instantly shifts his attention back to his work and you swallow, stepping back and out of his office.

Then a few days later, they left, off for the mission for two whole weeks and you were on your own again. So here you are now, others asking if you’re okay and taking advantage of your ‘free time’ since they assumed, when the taskforce was gone, you had no work.

You come back to your lab, only leaving because you needed to grab a package you ordered– it’s been days since you’ve actually left your lab. You’re getting real sick of people asking for everything under the sun, or just straight up giving you odd looks when you even come near them anymore. In fact you’re starting to get really sick of everyone. With a long sigh, you stare at the message lighting up your phone. Really? You had to find out from some random soldier that they’re returning back today? They were supposed to be your team– weren’t you hired for their taskforce?

Feeling petty, you turn on do not disturb, although a small part of you knows that no notifications will even come through anyway. Instead, you let your eyes flicker to the broken parts sitting on your table, the chemicals littered across the lab. How did you come to dread the one thing you loved so much?

As you let your head rest on your scratched palms, you turn the music on your headphones louder– hoping to drown out the silence following you for days. You’re so sick of this.

—----------------

A whole day has passed since they got back from the mission and Price hasn't seen you once— you even missed the debrief session that discussed how well your devices work and how to implement them moving forward.

For some reason you’ve been spending more and more time in your lab— not that he’s bothered to ask why though. He always just boiled it down to too much work. They all had too much; it’s just life.

“Got the report but no one responded from the lab. Figured they’re not in there, Cap.” Gaz says, having just tried to deliver the documents to you but to no avail.

“Have you tried their room?” He huffs, wondering why Gaz was being so pedantic at all. Obviously if you werent in one place you must be the other.

“Yes sir, looks like it hasnt even been touched for a week though.”

“Fine. I’ll handle it.” He takes the report and tucks it with his pile as he dismisses Gaz, carrying in with more pressing matters.

It’s only that evening that he remembers, finding it again when he was looking for another document. Well, he fancied a cup of tea anyway, so he might aswell just deliver it on the way.

“Oi— Dont tell me you have those damn headphones again.”

There’s no response when he knocked, and so he groans, deciding to put the master key to good use and open the door. Immediately he’s hit with the strong fumes from mixed chemicals, so bad he has to pull up his shirt to cover his mouth. “What the..”

In the midst of it all you lay on your desk, passed out and arms limp at your sides, like the dead bodies he’d find out there in the field. “What did I say about falling asleep in here?” He grumbles, walking over to nudge your shoulder. You were a light sleeper anyways, he knew from the tiredness that lingered some mornings. Except.. you didn't even twitch.

He nudges you again, harder, before yanking your head up by your hood just to watch your head loll like a doll would. Your face is pale, like life has been sucked out and when his hand finds a weak pulse that’s when he realises something is very wrong.

——-

Pt2

yayyy angst

Pinterest Board

Parts:

The Life We Could Have Lived pt. 1

The Life We Could Have Lived pt. 2

Crash

Was it Worth it?

Night Out