(no subject)
Title: Life With Her
Author:
ebb_11
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bill/Fleur
Words: 439
Warnings: Sexual Content, angst, hurt/comfort
Author's Note (if any): A random drabble I wrote on one of those occassions when inspiration strikes.
It wasn’t easy to live with her. She would have these fits where she would yell and scream and cry and break things, followed by a few hours of smoking by herself, then a few hours of wild sex. She would lose herself, unleashing torrents of insults that had no validity. She would claim to leave me, pack a few bags, then break the nearest vase, or run into the ocean fully naked near the middle of the night, screaming that she couldn’t take life with me anymore.
Then she would come back and shove me against a wall and we would have the hottest sex I will ever experience.
Cigarettes calm her, so I always keep a few packs around. She got a little better after Victoire was born, but she still had her days.
I once came home from work late, exhausted. I threw my hat and cloak against an armchair and started looking for a Butterbeer. Suddenly Fleur burst in, screaming in an incomprehensible mess of French and English, her face turning red when she refused to breathe. Victoire, who was a few weeks old at the time, started crying from her crib. When Fleur wouldn’t return to our daughter, I picked her up and started cradling her tiny, warm body.
Fleur broke out in tears. She collapsed into the rocking chair in Victoire’s room and sobbed uncontrollably. I put Victoire down, though she was still crying, and tried to soothe my wife. She exclaimed something vulgar in French and slapped me across the face, after which she stormed into our bedroom. I picked Victoire back up and began rocking her to sleep, hoping desperately that Fleur would snap out of it soon, that she would return to the calm, loving, beautiful woman I fell in love with. She wreaked havoc on my nerves with these fits of rage. I was sometimes afraid she would hurt our daughter.
On the other hand, I knew she couldn’t control it. We never spoke about it, and nobody ever knew, but I realized that it wasn’t her fault. I think she was depressed and badly in need of an outlet. Sometimes, she couldn’t even remember what she had done. The next morning, after a long round of sweaty, hard sex, Fleur noticed the red handprint she had left against my cheek.
“Did I do zat?” she whispered as she caressed my cheek with the same fingers that had hit it.
I took her hand in mine and kissed it. “Forget it,” I responded.
Fleur looked at me sadly. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be.”
What else could I say?