PAINTED LADIES | AFTERNOON
Gods, everything had to really fucking hurt, didn't it?
He resisted the urge to shove plates and the table away, far too weak to do so, no matter the fiery heat that burned in his broken chest. Teeth worried at the knots of sinew thread at his lower lip and his eyes narrowed, blue hues following Charity's hands to her lap instead of staring at the food, "I wasn't accusing you of anything. This was a good choice. You made a good choice. The Painted Ladies really are safer than everyone believes in Uptown. It's full of good people—I don't care where home is. It's not like I can just uproot us to Brayde County. There's nothing there I want to go back to. Brunnhold? The Harbor? The Northern Tors? No—"
Rhys shifted in his seat, frowning in pain. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. Laying down hurt. This conversation hurt. Really. Everything. He distracted himself with food, needing to do anything other than continue to dwell in the same sensations,
"—easy as in not dangerous?" She laughed and he cautioned a smile, far too aware that there was hurt between them, too.
Unassuaged. Unhealed.
He deserved her resentment.
He'd betrayed her trust. He'd broken the one safe thing the two of them had: each other.
"It's just a bit of sweat and time and probably way more money, getting this place back to something more livable. Nothing we both don't have, in comparison, and it's not like it doesn't have potential. Cleaning and fixing a place like this is easy in comparison to everything else going on around us, honestly." He didn't know her thoughts on the matter, had no idea of her own similar conclusions. He hadn't thought about her thoughts on much of anything for what felt like a lifetime crushed within a handful of days, to be honest, and yet here he was, far too aware of her heart and her mind to not express similar unspoken feelings about some run-down house far enough from Uptown to keep them sane. For now.
Was it home? Could it be home? Could they hide here forever? Could they pretend to build a life here, a wick in galdor clothing and his beautiful wife? Could they keep Damen and his wolves from their trail? Could he ever really keep them safe enough to say they were a real family?
Not that he could even think of what that word meant. He was hardly a husband as it was. He'd hardly had any example of parenting, and, though Charity had some brief time with her mother, neither of them had any solid foundation when it came to such things as children. And if this broken body he currently existed in was just a promise of consequences to come, there was no real safety he could offer the woman he'd made his wife, let alone any lives they'd want to share with their own.
How deeply he felt the aches of his missteps.
Wincing, he sighed, shaking his head at her stern words with unexpected vehemence, "No. I won't. I don't want to—I—it's not just about you. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. I don't know anymore. It's my choice. This is manageable. The pain. Mostly. It'll be alright. We can manage—" Rhys was perhaps telling himself in an attempt to believe the words, having suffered through it all this long already that he'd decided he could continue to endure the rest of his recovery, even if the escape of some sort of pain relief sounded so tempting in this moment. He'd escaped enough. Besides, he wanted to remember.
He needed to remember.
"I want to feel it."
His finely carved jaw clenched out of reflex, the tall blond forgetting in his emotion all the bruising and broken bits of his face. The subtle movement was a sharp wave of hurt and he hissed, shutting his eyes and curling his good hand into a fist on the table next to his plate. Knuckles white, it was clear he barely refrained from banging the heel of his firmly closed palm against the worn wooden surface, blue eyes fluttering open again, "I want the reminder. I don't want to forget. This is on me, Charity."