Chapter Text
The man beside her slept soundly, but she was awake and restless.
Were they blue, or were they grey? It was sometimes hard to decide, but if she concentrated hard enough...
His eyes.
They were blue. Definitely blue. Stunningly so. But sometimes stormy, giving the illusion they were grey. When he let himself give in to his desire they’d been almost black. His pupils dilated and nearly obliterating the iris. She could see it as if she were still gazing into them, his fingers trailing softly along her throat. She could still feel the rush. No other touch had even been so thrilling.
His body.
Skin and bone. Muscle and sinew. Like any other, but like no other. The way he moved. Purposeful. Languid. Graceful. His broad shoulders. Trim waist. An unassuming but confident presence.
How often had she imagined them together? Her body entwined with his, his weight on her. Whenever she’d caught a glimpse of him in less than his usual armor it had left her wanting. Always wanting.
Wet from the surf, muscles gleaming.
Asleep in her bed.
It was a stolen moment, perhaps beneath her, but she didn’t regret it. His body was a work of art.
She continued her catalog.
His hands.
Those were clear in her mind, because she’d watched them. Often. Closely. The way he twisted his hat in them. The way they swallowed a teacup or delicate crystal champagne glass.
They were large and rugged. Elegant and beautiful. Wielding a gun with confidence. Skipping over the keys of the piano in her parlor.
Her own hand in his felt small and safe and settled. Home. His hands were home. On the small of her back, around her waist or, that glorious moment, wrapped around her head, pulling her close.
No other lips had ever brought that feeling. Complete abandon.
Joy.
Love.
She breathed deeply.
In.
Out.
This was agony, but she couldn’t stop. She had to keep going until she had the whole of him in her mind’s eye.
Where was she?
Eyes. Body. Hands.
His face.
This was often the hardest part. Not because she couldn’t remember, but because it was still so very clear. The line of his jaw. The set of his cheekbones. The endless tiny expressions that said so much. A minuscule curve of his lips, a tilt of his head. The lines around his eyes when he smiled, the slightly upturned nose.
She saw that face everywhere and nowhere. Pale imitations, haunting her wherever she went.
She’d taken off as soon as she’d gotten word. Unable to sit with it. To have to be herself among people who knew her. It was better to be anonymous. At least until it faded, but it was going on a year now. She’d tried and tried, but couldn’t outrun his memory.
She couldn’t because she didn’t really want to, hence this near nightly, torturous routine.
His face. Had she thought that the hardest part? She was fooling herself. The hardest part was yet to come. But she had to draw it forth.
His voice.
Miss Fisher. Phryne. Not always. Would you like me to improve on it?
More than anything.
Still.
Forever.
A small, anguished sound escaped her throat. Her bed partner stirred, his hand reaching out and settling on her hip. She waited a moment until his breathing returned to its deep, settled rhythm and shifted it off of her, gently, so as not to disturb him again.
Why did she do this to herself? She wondered.
He certainly wouldn’t begrudge it. In fact he’d probably think she should do it more often. He’d want her to be happy, but it was few and far between these days, because it didn’t make her happy.
It was rarely satisfying, but every once in awhile she still needed the touch of a man. The feel of hands on her skin, even if they were, and would always be, the wrong hands. Inadequate hands.
She wished she could hate him for that. For taking that from her. She could so rarely lose herself in the sensual pleasure of fucking anymore. Most of the time it only served to remind her of what she’d almost had.
It came over her then in a rush, and she fled the bed into the bath, making it just in time to retch her guts into the toilet. When she was done, she fell back against the wall. The tiles cold against her naked skin. She hugged her knees to her chest and quietly cried.
If not for the man in the next room she might have wailed, but that would be self-indulgent. After a few minutes she calmed herself and stood to rinse her face in the sink.
She studied her reflection in the mirror. She hardly recognized herself these days. Could barely remember the woman she had been.
Would he?
She’d never know.
She crept back into the bedroom, gathered up her things. She pulled her trousers on and her silk blouse. The undergarments she balled up, and stuffed into her bag. She waited until she was in the hall to put on her shoes, and slipped away into the night. It was time to move on. Again. As long as she kept moving, didn’t go home, it wasn’t really true.