Fiona inhaled slowly and let out a shuddered breath.

"You think I'm stupid," she said and shook her head in disbelief. "I must have been properly out of it, all these years, if you somehow think that I'll believe a single word you're saying right now."

His eyes widened.

"Have I been that gormless? That– gullible?" she exclaimed. "You've just pretty much told me you're planning to sell my pub and take all the money, and then you threatened to lock me up in a mental institution– and now you're smiling and trying to– what?! Charm me? Have you been doing it all these years? Have I just not seen it? God, what an idiot!" She pressed her fingers over her mouth. "What an idiot I have been," she muttered.

"Fee," he started.

"I hate when you call me that," she interrupted. "And I have told you that. Many times, to think of it. And I don't eat chocolate."

"What?" he scoffed. "What are you about?"

"I don't eat sweets. Never liked them. And you brought me chocolates."

"Fee– Fiona, you're obsessing," he said in a purposefully calm tone. "Remember, Dr. Cullen told you about it. You have triggers, from your childhood. They're irrational, and I know they seem real to you, but–"

"They are real!" she cried out. "My feelings are real! And my thoughts are real! I don't eat chocolate, and you've been married to me for twelve years, and you still brought them!"

Nate gave out a long sigh.

"Look at what you're saying, Fiona. We're supposed to be discussing our marriage, and you're stuck on some stupid chocolates."

Fiona's breaths came out in sharp pants, and then she pressed her hand to her forehead.

"How about you calm down, heh, babe?" he said.

And suddenly, from his mild tone - like talking to a sick fussy child - she felt livid.

"How about you fuck off?" she hissed. "You know what? Maybe I am crazy, I wouldn't know. But at least I'm not using other people, brainwashing them, and twisting everything around! How does it make you feel?" she asked, and somehow she was now advancing at him, while he took a step backwards. "You've been arsing up my mind for years, you've been controlling and manipulating me! You're still trying to do it! Does it make you feel strong and important and powerful? Because you're not!" she screamed. "You're small, and weak, and scared! A real man would never–"

The slap burnt, and felt like when she fell on her face on the rink, and it was deafening, and shocking - and so painful! She gasped - her throat was clenched, and no air went in - and pressed her hands over her cheek. When her palm touched her skin, it hurt again, almost more, and she cried out.

She saw his eyes, widened and mad, his pupils dilated. There was some noise and movement in the room, but she still couldn't take a breath - and the next second he was on the floor, his right arm twisted behind his back. Will's left hand held its wrist firmly, while he was pressing his left knee into Nate's spine. It must hurt. There's a dip. Nate jerked and swore raspily. The cane was in Will's right hand, crushing Nate's neck at the back.

"Are you alright?" Will barked at her, and she frantically nodded. "Alright, you–" He turned to Nate, and she saw Holyoake's bared teeth, in a stark contrast to the dark beard.

She rushed ahead and grabbed his upper arm.

"Please, please, please," she begged loudly. "Stop!" He looked up at her, his eyes burning. "Please, don't!" She kept grasping at him - his arms, his shoulders, and then even cupped his face. "Let him go, please!"

He narrowed his eyes at her - she noticed how slowly and evenly his chest rose, and how muscles bulged under the tee - and then he moved off Nate. Will pulled himself up on his feet, using the armrest of the sofa, in one swift fluid motion. Like a panther.

Fiona threw her body against him and pressed her face into his chest.

"Don't, please, don't..." She caught his wrists, and she felt his whole body jolt. "Please, Will, don't. Don't do this to yourself. He's not worth it..."

"Sick fuck!" Nate rasped from the floor, and started slowly rising, wobbly and shaking.

"Out!" she screamed at him, whipping her face to him. "Get out!"

"You bitch!" he hissed - and Holyoake moved against Fiona, as much as making her feet slide on the floor towards Nate.

"No!" she cried out and pressed her palms in his chest.

He breathed out noisily, like a large animal, with a snort added into his exhale - and then his face set in his usual cold expression.

"Leave," he said to Nate. "And thank her you can walk away on your own."

Nate looked him over, muttering, "What are you– Sick fuck–"

"Leave, Nate," Fiona said. "Just go, please."

He shifted his red-rimmed eyes at her. His lips twisted. He probably had an insult or a threat for her, but then he threw a cowardly look at the man behind her, and stumbled out of the room. She heard the front door bang.

"Oh god," she breathed out and covered her face. The cheek flashed with pain. And then she dropped her hands and turned to Holyoake. "Are you alright?" she asked and gingerly touched his upper arm.

"Am I–" He choked on his words and shook his head. He picked up her chin with his curled index finger and studied her face. "Arsehole."

"Will–"

"If you apologise for getting me involved in this, I'll–" he gritted through his teeth, and then paused.

Suddenly a sob burst out of her, and she stepped back and twirled away from him, hiding her face.

"Fiona..." His tone was uncertain.

She covered her mouth with her hand and ran out of the room. In the bathroom she splashed cold water on her face. The cheek was bright red and seemed to be swelling. There was a darker bruise on her cheekbone that would probably turn purple later, around the already angry red mark. Sick rose, she heaved - but managed to take it under control, after swallowing several times, and then breathing with an open mouth.

He knocked at the door, and she sighed.

"I got you ice. Do you want me to leave it by the door?" he asked softly.

"You can come in," she said.

He slowly opened the door. There was a towel in his hand, with a bag of frozen peas in it. He stretched his hand, and she took the compress and carefully pressed it to her face. He looked her over, frowning.

"Do you want me to leave?"

She shook her head and sat down on the edge of the tub. He stopped a few steps away from her.

"Can you drink?" he asked. She gave him a confused look. "You said you don't drink," he said. "Is it intolerance? Because if not, I suggest you have some. You're in shock."

She nodded.

"I can. I just– I just get drunk easily," she muttered.

"That's a good thing at the moment," he said. "What do you need?" he asked.

"I– I don't know–" she said in a lost voice, and tears started running down her cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"I can stay here. Or leave. Get you a drink. Or we can go together, you can go to bed, and I'll get you a drink."

This, Fiona, is the military precision. Look at this concise, well-organised list. Fiona snorted and pressed her palm over her mouth again. And look at him. He's concerned. This is Will Holyoake being concerned. Poor Fiona. Her hubber just smacked her a tad. Happens to most stroppy wives, really. Why is he reacting to it like that? Another snort escaped her.

"Fiona," he said.

"Yes?" she asked - and giggled. And then she sobbed. And then she laughed again.

Have you finally lost the plot? Just like your Mum.

He came up to her and lowered himself in front of her awkwardly, on his left knee, his bad leg outstretched and half-bent. His eyes were now level with hers. She saw his large hand on his knee - the long fingers, the black hair on the back of his palm - but he didn't touch her.

"It's alright, love, it's just the shock," he said softly. "You just let yourself cry, alright? C'mon, just tell me what you need."

She made a distressed noise in her throat. She wanted him to touch her - and she didn't. Her cheek hurt - and she felt dirty. Marked. Broken.

"I'd like a drink," she whispered. "And I want to go to– bed."

He nodded.

"Do you need help?" he asked.

She shook her head and got up. He did as well, awkwardly, grabbing to the sink, and helping himself with the cane. She suddenly remembered - and she thought she hadn't actually seen it - how he'd leaped at Nate. His whole body taut and purposeful. Not a second of hesitation. No unnecessary movements.

She walked slowly up the stairs after his 'I'll be right there,' and she climbed into the bed. It was still rumpled - they had sex in it four times last night - and the duvet was thrown aside from when she'd bounced out of the bed two hours ago. Feels like a lifetime.

She heard the stairs creak, and he walked into the bedroom, two glasses and a bottle of Scotch in his left hand.

"Do you mind if I join you?"