Deserving of More

Chapter 20: Earned

Our eyes met, and I burst into tears. I found myself wrapped in a warm embrace. Familiar fingers gently in my hair.

"It's all right, sweetheart." The term of endearment only made me sob. He held me tighter and I felt my cheekbone against his clavicle as my tears seeped into his shirt. "It's all right," he repeated, giving me a squeeze for emphasis.

I was not happy with myself. Falling for Grace's lies. The debacle of cowardice that was his birthday. Needing a break. I thought I was better and stronger than all of it. Of course, I also thought that I could be perfect. For him. Never make a mistake of any kind. That I could somehow earn the love he just freely gave me no matter what I did or how I screwed up or failed.

And now here I was, sobbing pathetically all over him. I was supposed to be strong and brave and all those other things people say to reassure me but that I never let sink in.

I yanked my head away from his shoulder and did my best to gather myself.

"Oh my Gods. I'm so sorry," I sniffled, trying to wipe away my obnoxious tears.

"For what?" he asked, his arms still around me.

"For being such an awful mess."

He gave me a look of disapproval.

"You're not an awful mess," he slid a hand to my face and tilted it upwards, so I was looking at him. "You're a beautiful mess."

"Don't do that," I spat, futilely trying to turn away from him, "You know how I feel about that word." He sighed.

"You think it doesn't apply to you."

"It doesn't." He sighed again, deeper.

"You are beautiful," his tone was stern, "Like art." I raised my eyebrows in sheer incredulousness. He rolled his eyes. "Art is subjective," he continued, "Not everyone appreciates every form or piece of it in existence. Some people can't even define what it is. So, you are beautiful. Even if *you* don't think so. Someone does."

My cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"And I am *not* mad at you," he iterated, "It's another one of those things I really wanted to tell you. But it had to be fleshed out on its own. You didn't do anything wrong."

I'm fairly certain I looked at him as though he'd grown a second head.

"How can you say that to me?" I asked, genuinely curious, "I fell for some very serious lies. About you. And I dragged a lot of other people into it with me."

"But it was those other people who dug out the truth," he countered, "And, they went along with what you believed because of who you are. They respect you. And they understand that you were targeted, for whatever her reasons were. She is the one to blame here, not you. Everyone sees that. Except for you. I wish you wouldn't blame yourself."

"But I do," I told him plainly, "I was the stupid one who got sucked in."

"But think about how good she had to be to be able to do that," he said, raising his eyebrows at me, "To be able to manipulate *you*. You believed what she said because she was giving you something you desperately wanted. For me to have had that kind of love." I blinked at him wordlessly. "And all of this is rooted in your love and loyalty to me. How could I be angry at you for that?" I couldn't look at him as he continued to speak. "None of what happened was with any malicious intent from you." He tipped my chin upwards, so I had to face him. "All those soldiers at your back? They know that. It's why they keep backing you up. It's why they still respect you. I think some of them may even respect you more." He paused, a smile spreading over his face. "I know I do."

My mind couldn't bear that, and I immediately started to cry.

"Please. Don't do that," I begged, trying to stop my sniffling.

"You damn well know better than that," he said with a shake of his head, "I always get my way."

We both laughed, and it ended my needless stream of tears. I exhaled in relief.

"While I have you here," he said, a sparkle in his eyes, "I also want to tell you how proud I am of you."

I shook my head furiously as if I could deflect his words.

"No," I protested.

"Yes!" he countered. "You're going for a degree while you're in your 30s. And killing it, by the way. Getting good grades. While you're still focused on being a soldier. And The Resistance. And you're re-learning German on the side. And you're working on pieces of writing. For yourself and for me. All while dealing with demons and plague symptoms. It's kind of fucking incredible."

I crinkled my face at him. I heard what he said, but the words would not make sense to me.

"I know," he sighed, "You don't think it's remarkable. Or enough." I shrugged. "I assure you- it's enough.'

"I suppose," I conceded with another shrug.

"In fact," he began, giving me a look that reminded me of a father on a sitcom, "I want you to take a day for yourself." I shook my head. "Yes," he confirmed, "You're ahead in classwork and everything else can just wait. One day. I don't even care what you do. Sleep. See a movie. Eat junk food all day. Drink champagne in a bubble bath. Buy unnecessary crap online. Whatever you need to take care of yourself. You have definitely earned it."

I started to protest, feeling as though I didn't have the time to spare. I thought better of it instantly and stopped myself.

"One day," he reiterated, "One. If I have to make that an order, I will, Lieutenant."

"No need, Your Majesty," I sighed in defeat. He chuckled. "I should probably wake up from this nap and decide what I'm going to do for that one day."

"Ok," he nodded with a huge grin, "Seeyou soon."