Saying Yes: Part 5

by Siarade

 


See disclaimers in part one

Warnings for adult content and situations

And thanks to Lynxie, who's just a queen and deserves something shiny for all her invaluable help. :)


At three a.m., Domino succumbed to a mild case of jet lag - she bitched that she was getting soft and the whole thing had her pissed off - and fell asleep on the sofa. The living room faced the unobstructed ocean, and Nate knew that if she stayed where she was, by 6:00 the sun would rise right on her closed eyes and she'd fly awake, pissed as hell. So he dared, and knew he risked his life doing it, to move her into the bedroom.

Temptation sat in his heart like a coiled snake, ready to snap into prevent defense just in case she woke up. It would be just a mild telepathic sedative, really - but he'd already witnessed enough weakness and cowardice in himself this day, and didn't want to give in again. So he slid an arm under her knees, gently touching through the link: it crackled oddly, with some strange sort of interference that made him frown. On the surface, it didn't seem at all changed, but a conscious touch brought up static, and swirling with difference. It felt odd. But she was asleep.

He kept a feather-light pressure on her mind, just keeping track in case she woke - and eased his left arm beneath her back. The fabric of her tank top moved against her skin - she sighed and turned her head - he let out the breath he was holding.

Dimly, he wondered why he just didn't TK her into the bed - she would hardly move, would remain completely unjostled and was therefore much less likely to wake up at all. He thought it even as he carefully settled her weight against his chest. The link flared dimly, and he froze - her cheek was pressed right against his heart, and he could hear it echo in _his_ ears; it must sound like gunshots to her.

The static rippled, a thought of hers swelling up like a wave in the ocean, but somehow, behind glass, muffled in a way he couldn't explain. He retracted, and the din smoothed out again. She shifted and made a displeased grunt, but he wanted to carry her anyway, and concentrated on walking carefully. .

Walking made him notice, in the silence of the beachhouse, just how tiny her hands were. She was taller than most - even though she could look short next to him or say, Jimmy, she was still above average. Muscles in her legs and arms had definition even when relaxed; and her chest... he remembered a vivid stray thought of Sam's, from years ago when they'd all gone out to dinner and Dom wore something downright dangerous. *Damn*, the boy had projected unconsciously. Nathan had almost laughed as Sam's mind overflowed just trying to sort out whether he was blushing for the dirty language, the dirty thought, or just because it was Dom, whom he couldn't break the habit of calling "Ma'am."

But her hands. Her hands were thin-boned, slender and graceful and small. The knuckles were scarred with years of hard use; it was still hard to imagine them wrapped around a gun, when they were calm like this.

Domino was larger than life, but her hands were small. Delicate. Petite. Short, blunt fingernails that had probably never seen the right end of a nailfile and would scoff at the notion of a cuticle treatment. All over glazed with jagged lines, old scrapes and wounds. Too many to count.

He blinked, trying to imagine her life as anything other than what it was - trying to see her in any other profession. There was nothing, not a thing other than what she was, holding a gun and able.

A warm ocean breeze trailed in, making the curtains lap at the windowsill. The bedspread was like a forest of blue, green and peach, and instead of just setting her down, he crawled onto the bed himself, so as he lay her down he could lay beside her, the blankets cool and soft and smelling like fabric softener. The sun was starting to rise. Domino curled onto her side and put a hand out; she made a fist around a handful of his sleeve.

He wanted someone to ask him why he had taken her on vacation, so he would have to come up with a reasonable answer. What did he want to take her away from? From stress, from reality? Hell, he could have taken her to a movie if he wanted that. He could have given her a back massage, or eaten maple syrup off her knees, or anything. That wasn't it.

Was it just....three days since he'd seen through those gray eyes, twelve year-old eyes? The pure, unflinching, near emotionless desire to see someone dead - not someone, _Dom_. Something with sharp edges expanded in his throat, and when he swallowed it just grew larger, until it cut into the insides of his ribcage. The blink and sudden rush of knowledge that came with looking through that kid's eyes; holding her, her head straight, eyes fighting fiercely to stay open, the cords of her throat turned into iron as she fought dying and tried to look in his eyes; as that fight ebbed out of her, his grip growing tighter around her, as she lay sprawled in the sand. Her head falling back, those cords going slack under the caramel-toned skin...brown hair...eyes closed...

Aliya.

Domino's hand loosened and let go of him, so instead of touching him it was before him, palm down on the bedspread.

His chest shook as he let out the breath; falling onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling, still trying to swallow without pain. It would pass. It had to pass. The curtain still lapped at the windowsill; the sun had risen higher. The ringing in his ears had to stop sometime, and he waited it out, holding all the muscles in his body tight.

Dom turned her head a little, and through the fall of her hair he could see the scarline a ways behind her ear, the pale mark.

His head started to thunder; he knew he was projecting, he knew that every psi in the South Pacific was probably picking him up, like an errant radio broadcast.

I'm sorry. Oath, Dom, I'm so sorry.

Sorry has no meaning. Usually, when he said sorry, he meant he wouldn't do it again. But he couldn't keep from doing this. His stomach turned like a Catherine's wheel, and he had to get off the bed before he woke her up, so he stiffly headed for the bathroom. In front of the toilet, he crouched on the balls of his feet and prayed to not throw up.

More than anything, he wanted to make them understand; to understand himself, to believe that he wasn't betraying someone every time he breathed. Aliya, most and first: for still being alive when she had been dead for so long. Dom, for never being enough, for not loving her first and not letting her take up all of his heart - and of course, Aliya again, for having wished that, having wished against loving her.

It was hard work; his elbows on his knees and his knuckles holding up his forehead, trying not to throw up. Hoping, still, that he wouldn't wake her up.

It froze him with a sense of panic, a sense that he was cheating, that those dead gray eyes were just proving to him how terrified he was. He couldn't keep it from coming, his weakness was letting it overwhelm him; how could he ever explain to Aliya? She'd forgive him...she would probably tell him it was nothing that needed forgiveness. She was too generous to want him alone...but how could he explain that he was afraid to die?

"Oath."

Squeezing his eyes shut and choking, swallowing back the vomit; he fell forward on his knees, clamping an arm across his gut as if he was holding himself together that way, keeping himself from being physically ripped to pieces.

Hold on forever, right?

Have your cake and eat it too.

For the first time in a thousand lifetimes, he was afraid to die. And he could never forgive himself for that...for not wanting to always be with her, for not looking forward to an eternity with her when it meant he lost Dom.

Much, much later, he was sitting on the floor in pretty much the same spot, sweating, his head leaning against the wall.

Weakness. Again. He made himself stand up, just to prove that he could; he forced himself to walk out of the bathroom and look at Dom, and not look away, and then climb back beside her.

He put his head on the pillow and faced her. Her black eye seemed suddenly obvious, even though he hadn't much noticed it in 20 years. But something, maybe the light or the colors, brought it out. He liked that she never bothered to cover it anymore, unless she was undercover. The skin was unlike a birthmark, without the mild puffiness: it was perfectly aligned with the milkwhite skin around it. Funny how it seemed to miss her nose, going from the inside corner of her eye to her eyebrow, and down along the rim of her orbital socket. He didn't believe it was a birthmark, at least not a natural one; melanin didn't produce such a color. It was coal black, absent of earthtones, unchanging in any light. Very rarely had he put much effort into wondering about her past, about her real name or her childhood, but when he had, he wondered how she was raised, who had hurt her so badly, and if maybe the mark was a genetic tattoo. But he wondered idly, without really caring about the answers. Except that she _had_ been hurt; and then, only to know who, so he could hurt the bastard back. But not about the mark.

Her hand was still reached out, so he touched it, slipped his fingers beneath hers and held it loosely.

It would pass. It had to. She would wake up sometime.


Part 6

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