Work Text:
Night.
The house was quiet, an unsettling change after the hours of chaos before. Yes, distantly, she could hear the muffled beats of heels on carpeted hall as her wayward sister paraded back and forth; but her wayward mother had fallen asleep in her chair hours earlier with a drink clutched in one hand and her recovered bonds in the other, and her two daughters, each equally wayward in their own silly ways, had surely retreated to their own corners of the house. The wayward maid was nowhere to be seen, and probably for the better, she thought to herself.
The snow swallowed every other sound; the storm had relented, but still the white hills around their family home were gracious and silent.
So strange, to be in these rooms. Her suitcases lined the wall across from her bed, a bed which her husband, now deceased, had not occupied in more years than she could recall. She had planned to leave, and when everything had changed, she had vowed to stay.
And perhaps she would. There were many aspects to consider, and it brought a strange contentment to her weary mind to sit and weigh every option carefully. Marcello was dead, and the house was hers to do what she wished; the will was intact, and they were provided for. Her daughters wished to stay; certainly she would want Susanna close by, and Susanna the same for her, as the birth of the child neared. Silly Agostina would simply have to be dealt with, as ever, but perhaps that newfound kinship with their surprisingly versatile maid would temper her. Maybe she'd even find a man, imagine that. And of course Maria would stay.
That was every matter sorted out, sorted out quite nicely. Every matter indeed-- but the aching in her leg begged otherwise.
Veronica. That infernal woman. Somehow, the revelation that not once, but twice, they'd fallen for the same men was the most infuriating realization of the entire day. It was like staring at herself in the mirror, like lashing out and being met with the sting of shattered glass and the taste of her own blood.
Her own blood on her lips… that was what it had been, the then-unnamable tang that hung between the two pairs of red lips pressed together in the foyer that afternoon. Veronica had broken skin in their fight, her gleaming white teeth tearing perfect holes into her favorite stockings and leaving a perfect half-circle of red marks on the back of her calf.
She reached down now, tracing the marks, which stung at the gentle touch. What of Veronica? Her enemy, her mirror, her temptress. She had not yet left after Marcello's body had been taken away, when they had all stood together in the snow.
Suddenly, the silence was overwhelming, and she felt small and cold and alone. The darkness and quiet of the house seemed to surround her totally-- even the rhythmic thump-thump of Agostina's strutting had fallen silent-- and she shivered despite the fireplace. Feeling much like one of her own daughters, and entirely not like a widow or even a woman, she pulled her legs onto the bed and folded them as close to her chest as she could.
For as long as she could remember she had wanted to leave this house, with its faded wallpapers and her stupid husband. Now that she had every reason to, it seemed daunting.
She pulled a long, velvet robe around herself; the weight was comforting, but did little to ward off the chill.
Three raps on the door startled her, her blood running like ice in her veins. She pulled the red robe tighter around herself and approached without opening the door, wishing stupidly for the Ming vase to protect herself. It was not her daughters, for they would have called her mama and entered; nor was it Agostina, who was less of knocker and more of a fan of pounding while pleading or complaining breathlessly just outside of the capabilities of human hearing. Maria had no reason to bother her this late at night, and had in all likeliness retired to her own quarters; she considered, for a delirious moment, that it could have been her own mother, suddenly lucid and able to walk. But no, old Rachele was certainly sound asleep after several glasses of sherry and a very long day. There was only one answer, then.
Margherita opened the door, and there she was, still in her glorious purple. Before Veronica could even say a word she was ushered into the room and the door shut.
The two women eyed each other in the low red light of the fire, searching for any flicker of emotion that would lend the upper hand. After a moment of silence, Margherita returned to her spot on the bed, while Veronica took it upon herself to sit in a particularly luxurious armchair near the fire, crossing her legs with great deliberacy and turning just enough to keep her gaze on Margherita.
Though Veronica was cast in shadow, the intensity of her eyes could be felt without doubt as she watched; Margherita could feel her eyes burning as they searched her for answered to questions that had not yet been asked.
Veronica shifted slightly, reaching for her clutch; Margherita watched intently, the pistol from earlier not entirely forgotten, and yet she was more curious than fearful.
Instead, Veronica merely pulled out her long cigarette and a metallic lighter. She lit the cigarette, tool a slow draw, exhaled. "Mind if I smoke?" she asked. She looked back to Margherita with the same smouldering intensity as the end of her cigarette, and Margherita could merely shake her head.
Veronica gave a little smile, halfway between a conspiratory smirk and the look a cat gives a mouse. "How rude of me," she added. "I should offer you a light. Come."
"You know, I usually don't smoke," Margherita deferred, already with cigarettes in hand. The woman always managed to unnerve her, although on this occasion, the dizziness in her head at Veronica's words was much more pleasant than she would have liked to admit.
As Margherita knelt, Veronica flicked her lighter a hand's distance away, forcing her to move closer.
"You smoked today," Veronica noted. She smelled like violet perfume and her delicate cigarettes, plus something more, spicy and bitter, like the subtle taste of campari lingering in one's mouth.
"Today is hardly a usual day," Margherita replied dryly, taking a draw from her cigarette and leaning back onto her heels.
She'd assumed they would smoke in silence, yet Veronica continued to surprise. Leaning forward, once more closing the gap between them, she said, sotto voce, "I could smell it on you earlier." She lingered long enough for Margherita to feel the heat of her breath on her cheek, feeling the brush of her hair against her skin. She shivered and looked up, and Veronica pulled away with a grin that could only be described as victorious.
That sent a wave of heat coursing through her veins. Desire, perhaps, but also something darker. This woman thought she could commandeer any situation, thought she could match into Margherita’s own rooms and still be in charge. She might had charmed her husband and Mr. Giannutri, but Margherita was not so easily bewitched. She pulled away, retreating temporarily into the darkness and shadow away from the fire. She was in control. Marcello or no Marcello, this was her house and her family, and Veronica could not simply pretend otherwise.
She took another draw from her cigarette, steadied herself. Stared at the fire until a sudden thought came to mind, and she indulged herself, allowing a slight chuckle. It had the intended effect-- even without looking up she could feel the intensity of Veronica's gaze focus and tighten on her.
"What?" she asked.
Margherita gave a wry smile. "Just thinking."
Veronica rose; her face was fully in shadow now, but her hair remained silhouetted in firelight, a reddish halo around her head. Her footsteps were soft and delicate, yet felt amplified in the otherwise-silent room. "Thinking about what?"
Margherita, too, rose, leaving the women standing nearly face-to-face. Again she indulged herself, reaching out and burying her hand in Veronica's golden waves, burnished amber by the fire. Her touch was strong but not forceful, and yet Veronica froze, her neck arched slightly and her breath quickening.
"Your hair," Margherita whispered. Even in the low light, she could see Veronica's eyes widen, her gaze growing almost ravenous. "Earlier," she continued with a smile, leaning closer without releasing her hand, "when we were... interrupted the others wouldn't have known we were fighting..." She relaxed enough to drop her cigarette into a mug of cold coffee thankfully within reach of her bedside. Her hand now free, she traced a fingernail down Veronica's cheek. "Your hair was so mussed, darling, and your lips so red. I can only imagine what they thought we were up to, with them just steps away..."
Veronica blushed, and Margherita released her, triumphant. She stumbled backwards, thrown off-balance suddenly; catching herself, she looked up at Margherita with the ferocity of a predator, crouched and waiting for the attack. Again, they paused, each waiting for the other's next move; it was as if every sense was heightened, and Margherita could feel every breath, every beat of her heart, every moment ticking between them.
Oh, she wanted this. She wanted this woman to want her, wanted to be wanted in return.
She offered a shaking hand to Veronica, who pulled herself up and nearly back into Margherita's arms.
"Tell me something," Veronica hissed. "Tell me something, Margherita."
Margherita turned slightly, putting herself between Veronica and the fire; with another step forward, the back of Veronica's knees were against the high frame of her bed. Her hand reached out for the bedpost to steady herself.
"What do you want to know?" Margherita responded slowly. She took Veronica's face in her hands once more. Something within her ached to touch, to kiss, to tug with her teeth at every bit of exposed skin, the smooth neck and delicate wrist, the strong jaw and high cheekbones.
"You said you wanted to know what it was like to kiss me. So tell me."
They were touching now, breasts pressing against breasts. Her hand drifted down, running a finger over the perfect red lips before her. She hesitated-- there was a touch of swelling on the left side of Veronica's face. A reminder of what had brought them to this point, it seemed. She ran her fingertips gently over the mark, and Veronica's breath stuttered, not with pain but with something else. Regret, perhaps. Guilt, maybe. Or something else.
"Tell you what?" she sighed, drawing out the moment. It was delightful torment-- she could feel her heart racing, and there was an impossible heat building between her legs.
Veronica squirmed slightly, and it was all Margherita could do to not gloat with delight, knowing that the other woman was just as affected.
"Tell me what it was like to kiss me, you stupid woman," she spat, but there was no edge to her voice, only want.
She could bear it no longer; she smiled, openly, greedily.
"I could taste blood," she answered in a low voice. Veronica's eyes closed. "I smelled your cigarettes, and your perfume. Like violets." Her hand began to wander, one holding Veronica's face, the other exploring her back, the decadent fabric of her blouse, the heat of her skin just below. "My body hurt, my leg stinging, my arms aching from our blows." Her hand slipped under Veronica's shirt and the woman gasped, her free hand finding Margherita's arm. Not pulling away, no, nor did she stop her, instead caressing the soft skin on the underside her wrist and trailing up her arm. "But when I kissed you, it all went away. The pain."
It was true, and it was too much. The show of vulnerability was the end for her power play: she'd lost control, but it didn't matter any longer. "I wanted more," she breathed, bringing her forehead close to Veronica's until it pressed, warm and solid, against her own. "I wanted to hold you. I wanted to keep kissing you. I wanted to... devour you."
At that, Veronica's eyes snapped open. "Damn you," she whispered, and her hands came up to grab Margherita's face, pulling her into a searing kiss.
Saints.
Every thought seemed to leave her mind besides Veronica. The warmth of her skin, the softly perfumed smell of her cosmetics, the softness of her lips.
Kissing her husband had been a chore, really. A task to be completed on the list of things a good housewife must do. Kissing Giannutri was a distraction more than anything-- she can still remember the sloppy, wet lips on her neck and cleavage. Once, mid-tryst, she’d mentally compared them to slimy, damp earthworms crawling across her heated skin, which was disconcerting to say the least.
Kissing Veronica was different. Even from that first hesitant kiss she’d known everything was different. Her lips were soft, firm, warm. Her body seemed to fit against Margherita’s own much better than any man’s, and though she hadn’t yet been so daring, her waist was so dainty, her hips made as if they were meant to be held. Remembering now how she’d straddled the other woman during their earlier fight brought a heat to her body, but not from rage.
She allowed her hands to wander, to grab, to pull at the curves and edges of Veronica’s body. It spoke of her need, the sheer physical want of the encounter, but also a possessiveness that surprised herself. When Veronica opened her mouth, it was Margherita who surged forward, pushing her tongue into the other woman’s mouth, biting, sucking, taking. To her delight, this earned a soft, earnest gasp from Veronica, who wound her hands further into Margherita’s hair and pulled her, closer, closer.
It was heady, it was fast, it was nearly too much for her to keep standing. And though she and Veronica were nearly equal in height, she wanted to feel how she’d never felt with a man: in control.
She pulled away from the kiss, noting with satisfaction that Veronica’s perfect red lipstick has been ruined, her golden hair mussed.
She gave a gentle push on the shoulders, but Veronica did not relent, instead giving her a daring smile.
“Lay down. Now,” Margherita hissed.
Instead, Veronica wrapped her hand around the curve of Margherita’s hip, swinging her forward just as she stepped to the side, effectively swapping their places. In the dizzying disorientation of the moment, she took control, pushing Margherita down on the bed and straddling her as best as her narrow skirt allowed, even as it was already pushed obscenely high around her hips.
Margherita could only stare, chest heaving, fully pinned by the solid weight of Veronica, looking down at her. It was the most turned-on she’d been in, perhaps, her entire life.
“It’s not so easy,” Veronica said coyly. She leaned over, weight shifting, her legs coming to grip Margherita’s thighs and hips for support. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, falling like a veil around them. “You have to be willing to fight for it.”
She struggled halfheartedly for a moment while Veronica watched, pleased. She sat up, tossing her hair back, taking a moment to run her hands appreciatively over Margherita’s sides and breasts before leaning down again.
This, then, was what Veronica must have felt when Margherita had kissed her earlier. Her mouth fell open without a second thought, and Margherita allowed herself to be possessed, plundered, claimed by Veronica’s lips, teeth, and tongue. Even if she had wanted to fight there was no earthly way to; Veronica was everywhere at once, holding her in one place in time and space with her hands, her teeth, and her body.
So it was not about control, then. She had let men touch her like this, and never had it felt so purely erotic.
“You’re beautiful,” Veronica whispered in her ear suddenly, her breath heated. “Your husband was a damn fool.”
The words were enough to startle her out of the moment, and with a push, she’d thrown Veronica off-balance, sending them tumbling to the side. Just as they had that afternoon, they fought for dominance, but there was no malice or anger behind it now, only playful desire.
They found a balance somewhere in the middle, Margherita on her stomach with her leg thrown haphazardly over Veronica, pinning her back face up on the bed. As fatigue set in, the intense physicality seemed to melt away, leaving only lingering, lazy kisses. it was new, and strange; not just the woman in her bed, or the aching, longing tension in her body, but the act itself. The-- the kissing, just for the pleasure of it, just to be close to another, just to share in the act of kissing someone.
It was the answer to that deep but unnamable emotion which had first prompted her to ask Veronica for a kiss.
This was what she had wanted, for all those years. To be wanted, to be held, to be kissed in the tender, feminine way Veronica was kissing her now, delicate butterflies all over her face, dragging her teeth over the curves of her neck, never enough to hurt, just enough to tease, kissing her so deeply she felt she might never breathe again.
She had been so unhappy here. With that stuffy husband and frugal mother and neurotic sister, trapped like a rat in a beautiful cage. Even her affair had not been an escape; it was her husband’s damn business partner, and the nearest warm, available body.
She wanted to run, to get on a train and buy a one-way ticket to anywhere but here. She’d come so damn close, only for her husband to interrupt her in his own stupid way, the one time she’d tried to take control of her own life.
Now she had the chance; Veronica offered something different. Passion. Escape. Change.
Some process in her mind was occurring, and she could not name it nor stop it. This was her one opportunity, wasn’t it. Her once chance to escape. Otherwise she would wither and die in this stupid, stuffy, hateful house, full of her husband and the past. But she couldn’t do it alone. Not now that she had had a taste of what life could be like.
She realized she’d grown absolutely still, save her shallow breaths, and Veronica had paused as a result.
Without thinking, she turned her head away, resting her cheek on the beadwork of the elaborate bedspread, and stared at the fireplace. It had burned down; time had passed. She breathed shallowly and tried not to cry.
“What is it?” Veronica asked, somewhere behind her. Margherita did not look up, her eyes clinging to the burning embers of the fire, but felt as the other woman’s hand touched her head softly, her fingers running through the short waves.
“Margherita?” Veronica asked again. “Look at me.” There was a tenderness that surprised her. How remarkable this woman was, a femme fatal and a bleeding heart wrapped in one. She wanted to know more, to uncover all of her layers, to have every aspect of Veronica lain out before her and fully known, fully uncovered, fully embraced.
Margherita turned her head. Veronica’s face was close, their foreheads nearly touching. Dappled light and shadow from the dying fire dripped over her delicate features like honey. Her eyes were dark but focused, perhaps even concerned.
She studied Margherita intently for a moment, taking her face in her hand, not to caress, but to inspect. After a moment, she relented, and there was something sympathetic in her eyes.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, I see.”
“What?” Margherita asked, relinquishing fully. No matter how hard she tried, this woman would always disarm her.
“You’ve got that leaving look about you, darling. I can see it in your eyes.”
Heat ran though her body once more, but it was almost shameful. How easily this woman could pick her apart, understand her every though.
It was too much, all too much. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut as tears began to blur her vision.
The bed moved-- she felt herself being pulled clumsily into an embrace. “Come here,” Veronica whispered in her ear. “It’s alright.”
Opening her eyes, she pushed back momentarily before relenting and relaxing fully into the other woman’s arms; Veronica shifted so they were situated relatively upright, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I need to get away from here,” Margherita whispered pitifully. “I have to get away.”
“I know,” Veronica murmured. “We’re so similar, you and I,” she added, almost as an thought to herself.
"Take me to Paris with you," she whispered, her voice taking on a blurred edge as a cry seemed to seize her throat. "Take me to Paris, et tout le monde. Take me away from here."
She surrendered. Curling into Veronica’s sweet embrace, she buried her face in the curve of the other woman’s neck. Violets and cigarettes and campari. She allowed the tears to fall. For herself, for her family, for her years of frustration and loneliness, and yes, even for her husband. She was nearly old. It was far too late for her to start over on her pathetic, wasted life.
“Margherita,” Veronica said after a moment, gently commanding her attention. “The girls will need their mother, your mother will need her daughter, and I... I would like a companion. Perhaps to travel, but perhaps just to keep my company. To sit by the window and share a drink with. Many nights I’ve come home to a cold and empty house. Peace and loneliness...” She gestured slightly with her hand. “They might seem the same, but they’re not.”
Margherita blinked. “Why? Why me? If I leave, you could have the house. You can have any man you desire, anything you desire. Why... waste all that?”
“What I desire, darling,” Veronica answered, her voice low and husky, “is you.”
Margherita gave a low, shuddering sigh that seemed to run though her entire body.
“I was not cut out for marriage,” Veronica repeated. “I have run and run from one failed affair to another. And you have suffered the opposite injustice, tied to a man who could never give you enough. Destiny has brought me here, to you. Must we ignore its call?”
“Destiny?” Margherita asked disdainfully. “More like the whims of a fourteen year old child and her scheming father.” She sighed, and the two women fell silent.
Oh, how she wanted to resist. How she wanted to push away, just as she’d spent the past twenty-five years of her life. Pride and dignity kept her from surrender, but God, how she wanted to give in, to accept all that Veronica offered. Companionship, understanding. Perhaps something even more.
Veronica stroked her leg softly. “You don’t have to answer right now. Just think about it.”
Rather than responding, Margherita caught her hand and squeezed it gently. “There’s one more matter to consider.”
Veronica arched an eyebrow. “That being?”
“Well, as of this morning, I had considered you more than capable of murder. And I’m well aware you felt the same towards me.”
Veronica’s face shifted, becoming calculating, but she did not refute Margherita’s words.
“Perhaps,” she continued, “we can combine our talents to approach an item of... shared interest.”
She watched Veronica’s face closely, and knew the moment that the realization hit.
“Mr. Giannutri,” she said.
“Mr. Giannutri,” Margherita confirmed primly.
Veronica’s face twisted into a dark, glittering smile. “It’s one thing to cheat on one’s husband, especially if one’s husband is cheating on you. It’s one thing to be a woman with many lovers and liaisons across the continent. But to love two woman at the same time? Incorrigable.”
Margherita leaned in. “Exactly,” she breathed.
Veronica’s eyes fluttered closed, and their mouths met for a brief, messy kiss. “You’re a wicked, wicked woman, Margherita,” she said.
Already, she found her hands roaming, skimming the warm, sensitive skin under the cut of Veronica’s blouse. One hand on Veronica’s shoulder, the other on the bare skin at the small of her back, Margherita guided them back down onto the bed. “Oh, my Veronica. I can’t wait to show you just how wicked I can be.”
Veronica laughed with absolute delight and leaned in to kiss the curve of Margherita’s neck, using her teeth just enough to make Margherita squirm and sigh under her attentions.
Veronica’s hands made quick work of her sweater and found the zipper to her blouse. “Darling,” she said, “there’s nothing in the world that I want more than to be utterly wicked with you.”
the end!