Once they’d stored the artifacts, washed the grime off each other, tended to Layla’s cuts, and finally eaten, Marc made it two valiant sips into his beer before nodding off on the couch. A celebratory toast to a job gone right was a long-standing tradition of theirs, but this time, Layla had to agree. Rubbing exhaustion from her own eyes, she took Marc in, determined to at least make the most of this rare opportunity to study him in bright daylight before she, too, succumbed to the sleep deprivation. He always hated when she stared, but if post-raid jetlag was good for one thing...
It’s to show my husband in the least flattering light possible, clearly, she thought with a weak smile.
He seemed so haggard, so... worn away. A little more beaten down every day, she sometimes thought. Layla didn’t like it. He wasn’t supposed to look that much older than her. Especially when she was the one who’d scraped her leg wide open tumbling down a rocky incline, while Marc had worn his healing suit for most of this venture.
Rolling her head back against the top of the couch, Layla let her eyes close. Oh, who was she kidding. The harder Marc tried to deny it, the clearer it became that the suit – the mission, the unbeliever’s holy calling, the blood on his hands, the looming dread of Ammit’s cult, the old bird’s insatiability, all of it – was to blame. A life like theirs was just too much for one man to handle. And despite Layla’s presence in his life, in their marriage, Marc, in peak Marc Spector fashion, was ever determined to keep as much of his burden to himself as superhumanly possible.
She wrestled her eyes back open a slit and thought at him: Ass.
But her ass. Her perfectly toned, lawfully wedded ass and everything. Hers to have, to hold, to squeeze, to spank or peg, to damn well play bongo drums on until the whole bed shook with his poorly concealed laughter if the mood should so happen to strike her.
Groggily she took the beer bottle from his slack hand and set it on the table next to her own, equally full. It jolted Marc awake. His gaze found hers with as much ‘I’ve just seen a ghost’ it was possible to get across with a pair of eyes you could barely keep open, and Layla thought, Yeah, you scare the shit out of me too, sometimes.
His mission scared the shit out of her sometimes. But – and the worst part was that it didn’t even feel egotistical to wonder anymore – if it wasn’t for her, her efforts, her needs, even her life’s calling, what else would he leave for himself except his mission? The work they did together and the adventures they went on had always been a cornerstone of their relationship, but it had never been the only thing she’d wanted herself, or her marriage, to be. And neither had Marc. Not really.
Layla still knew that with absolute certainty. But maybe Marc needed reminding.
"Where..." he croaked.
"Right here. With me."
She took his face in both hands and kissed him with as much drowsy intent as she could muster. Marc slackened beneath her. His mouth opened to her tongue. And when Layla pulled away, scooted back until she was wedged snugly into the crook of the arm of the couch, and urged him to lay down, he let her topple him despite his mumbled protests. His arms came around her nearest thigh. Like a cat, he arched his back and stretched his legs before curling up, compact and comfortable, and nestling his face into her lap.
She’d bother worrying about the wet spot his still-damp hair would leave when he made the criminal mistake of taking his head away and letting it get cold, not a moment sooner. For now, she curled the fingers of one hand around his where they peeked up from between her legs, and ran the other down his cheek until sleep made it too hard.
"Love you," Layla sighed.
"More’an life itself," Marc replied, barely articulating anymore.
And they slept.