damian x anya, post-strix, post everything tbh. your bittersweet angst
The word peace secured, secrets unveiled. At last.
Anya is looking at the boy man that used to haunt her dreams (well, let's be honest, Strix related nightmares at first). His hand is in his pocket, and he's contemplating giving her the ring.
Really, deeply contemplating it, pictures of their quiet dinners mirroing the cold lonely evenings of his childhood, neutrally absent expressions of his parents' faces.
Endless romantic and mundane opportunities already passed, each one a bittersweet relief that ends up not demanding a definitive answer from her. She's so bad with definitives.
His mind is an Ode to Dissapointment. The horror of it, the inevitability. He strives to never fail spurred on by decades of judging shadows, with only chunks of metal to fill the absences.
The victory - she - they - have been. Something just for him. Someplace where he wasn't a second priority. So what if it has come to be because of his criminal of a father.
All the tears she cried and laughs she laughed weren't owed to that man. No, they were merited on his own. And he cherishes each teardrop and smile as the prizes they are.
So no, Damian doesn't fail. Not at this.
Anya puts her palm on his forearm, a small and warm interruption.
"Damian, you know I can still read your thoughts? Full offence, they look daunting."
Damian scowls. Then frowns. Swallows.
Then..... sobs.
The ringbox stays where it has been for the last however many weeks, unopened.
Anya thinks—well, she knows, in the way she always knows—that she understands why he won’t ask.
If he asks, she would have the chance to say no. And no is a response Damian has never been good at accepting.
Which isn’t to say Anya would refuse, of course.
She can’t deny the possibility.
That Damian loves her? This Anya has never doubted.
That Damian loves what she—her existence, her experience—signifies for him? This Anya also knows.
She’s the girl who fell for him when all he was, all he had to be, all he could be was himself, right? And there’s something idyllic, certainly, in that storybook affection. And there’s something destined, certainly, in the presumed happy ending.
And there’s something painful, too, in the knowledge that she’s not unlike a prize, a trophy, a promise he can look toward as reminder that he was worth something to someone after all. Or maybe despite it all.
Oh, how does the saying go again? She is a woman, therefore may be wooed; she is a woman, therefore may be won; she is Anya, therefore must be loved.
Anya isn’t unhappy. Damian still makes her laugh, still knows her in a way second to none—or perhaps second to only one, depending on which of her shadows are being exposed to the searing light. That Damian ever forgave her for Operation Strix was nothing short of a miracle itself, evidence—essence?—of love divine that she would be a fool, surely, to throw away. To refuse.
Anya has spent so long saying yes to everyone. And maybe...
Maybe yes to herself must be no to someone else.
To someone she holds, now and always and forever, so dear.
But Damian doesn’t ask. Therefore Anya doesn’t say.
She smiles, squeezes his forearm, embraces him through his tears, and wonders how much longer either of them can live—can love—like this.