Snippets of an affair ~ First tomorrow

[zahraowens]

Title: Snippets of an affair (24/?) ~ First tomorrow Author: zahra_owens Beta: The one and only Namárië Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 3099 Warnings: Major angst Disclaimer: Persons and events described here may, on the surface, seem familiar, but I don't have a clue what I'm talking about. Author's note: The POV may change throughout the story, so the 'I' from this chapter may not be the 'I' from the previous chapter.

INDEX / PREVIOUS

How did I get here?

I sit on a hard bench in a cold cell and I can't stop shivering. They took my belt and my shoelaces and my wallet, but left me to sit here in my blood-soaked clothes.

I was so looking forward to you coming to pick me up at the restaurant. Chef had set aside some leftover desserts for us to celebrate the fact that we'd received some good news from our solicitor, which I'd told him about, and the fact we were having sex again, which of course, was our own little secret.

Now all of those plans have dissolved into thin air. They'll most likely accuse me of murder, but I can't feel remorse. He was my demon and yours and I can feel nothing but relief to know he'll never haunt us again. He was scum, no better than any other common sex offender or paedophile; incorrigible and highly dangerous.

I feel cut off, hidden away from the rest of the world. They won't let me speak to anyone. I want to talk to you and tell you you're safe now, that he can't get to you, that he can't 'finish the job' like he said he would, but they won't let me.

This is the story of my life. Just when things look up, something happens to make it even worse than it was before. I chuckle and the sound reverberates off the walls, so I laugh out loud - the maniacal laugh of a lunatic. This must be what it's like in a psychiatric ward. Cold, empty cells and inmates laughing at their own misery.

Suddenly I hear the locking system on the door move and the door opens. I look up as they call my name.

"They've brought us clean clothes for you. Do you wish to shower?" the stern voice of the custody sergeant bellows.

"Who brought them? Can I see him? Please?" I implore, ignoring the question for now.

"Sorry, Sir. No visitors until you've seen your lawyer," the man answers, his face impassive.

"What time is it?" I ask, realising the persistent, yet dimmed lights in the holding cell have robbed me of any sense of time.

"Six AM, Sir."

I'm stunned at how much time has passed, knowing I haven't slept. As I recall, I didn't sleep much the night before either, so it's surprising that I'm still able to get up easily. "I'll have that shower then," I tell the custody sergeant, who nods at me and shows me the way.

On the way over to the shower block, I catch my reflection in a window and see the full extent of the dried blood on my once white shirt and black suit. There's no way we'll ever get the stains out, and I wouldn't want to wear it again anyway. Suddenly the feeling of his blood against my skin is too much and I can't wait until I can get the clothes off. The sergeant obviously sees my unease, because he gives me a stern look, so I try to stay as calm as possible, afraid that if I give him a hard time, he'll tell me to go back to the holding cell.

The shower itself is very much like the holding cell, very white, very clean and with no loose parts or movable items. I'm barely inside the small cubicle when I hear the man shout "You get three minutes of water, I suggest you don't waste them!" On a shelf I see a bunch of loosely folded, familiar looking clothes that have obviously been searched and a towel and wash cloth. A soap dispenser is built into the wall and fixed with screws. There's also a clear plastic bag that I use to put my dirty clothes in. I'm still undressing when the water starts spurting out of the shower head and I speed up, remembering the sergeant's warning. The water isn't overly warm, but it nevertheless feels good to wash the dried blood from my skin. I'm still rinsing the soap out of my hair when the water suddenly stops. I guess this will have to do.

I dry off and get dressed quickly, afraid that the door will open before I'm done. When I slip the t-shirt over my head I suddenly smell you and I realise you've worn this before bringing it, just so I could feel like you were close to me. It hits me harder than I expect and I wipe the tears off my face as soon as I hear the door click open.

Once I'm back in the holding cell, I crawl into a corner and bury my face in the t-shirt. It's good to feel clean and warm and feeling your presence makes me calm enough to finally fall asleep.

****

I wake when I hear the door open again and I'm told to follow the sergeant, a different one now, to another room. I scratch my head both to loosen up my now dried curls and to help me wake up fully. I'm a little sore from falling down with a dead man on top of me, but I feel fine otherwise and I'm quite apprehensive because I don't know what to expect. I'm silently hoping that you'll be allowed to visit me, but my hope is soon thwarted when I walk into a room almost as stark and clinical as my holding cell. The man standing in it isn't you, it's our solicitor, who has found an unexpected opening in his agenda now he doesn't have a rape trial to prepare for any more.

He makes it clear to me that we're being watched, but that what I say to him can't be used as evidence in court.

I have nothing to hide. I killed him. It is what it is. I tell my counsel what happened; it's been spooking around my mind all night, so I have the events fairly well in order.

I tell him how my ex-lover came into the restaurant and how I walked out to greet him, thinking it was you. How he'd mocked you, telling me he couldn't believe I would exchange him for a weakling. I explained how I'd defended you and then how I'd told him to leave, but he produced a knife, the same knife with the intricately carved handle he'd used the night he hurt you. It was hard to explain how I'd wrestled the knife away from him, sustaining only superficial cuts to my hands, but I knew by now there was no reasoning with him, that he’d carve me just the way he was threatening if I didn’t stop the knife.

"So he fell onto his own knife?"

"I was holding it, pointing it towards him to prevent him from coming any closer."

"But he launched himself at you and the knife was between you and him and that's how it ended up in his gut?"

"I pushed it into him. I just wanted to stop him."

"The sous chef corroborates your story, that your assailant launched himself at you and that he fell onto his own knife."

"He didn't. I stabbed him. And then my hand felt all warm and I saw his face..."

"He ran and pushed you against the wall. Then he fell on his knife. Tell the police that. It's what happened."

I'm numb. Is that really what happened? I didn't kill him, it was only a stupid accident?

I need to tell my story again, to the police, to another lawyer. No matter how many times I run over it in my head, I can't feel anything. No happiness, no remorse, no relief, no fear. Nothing. The only thing I know is that I miss you. I want you to come see me and tell me everything will be okay. I want to tell you that if they convict me, you should move on, live your own life.

In between the interviews, I'm brought back to the cell. Everything around me is either dark or well lit and there are no windows, so I lose all sense of time. I don't know if it's day or night, don't know if one day or three have passed, before yet another custody sergeant comes to get me. I prepare my story in my head, sure that I'll be questioned again and that my words will be twisted and turned until I no longer recognise them, but I don't care any more. It is what it is.

I'm brought to another room this time, not the interrogation room and when I walk in I see a lot of people. There are two of the staff sergeants and our solicitor and the other lawyer I spoke to and two men I don't recall seeing before and then there's you.

You're smiling and you nod at me and for the longest period of time - seconds? minutes? heartbeats? - I can't move. All the men look relaxed and happy, but why? Why are they smiling? Why are you smiling?

You come closer and then you wrap your arms around me and whisper in my ear, "It's okay, I'm going to take you home."

I pull back, not out of your arms, but far enough so I can look at your face and gauge whether you're telling me the truth.

You nod. "It's over."

I can't speak, but as always you can read me like a book.

"You're free to go. The charges have been dropped."

It doesn't sink in for the longest time, but then you hug me again and suddenly I realise what you mean. They're not going to throw me in jail and throw away the key? "Is there going to be a hearing?" I ask you, still trying to get it all straight in my head.

"No," you answer. "No hearing. Not enough evidence to charge you, apparently."

I look around and see both lawyers nod in unison. They agree. No charges.

"I can go home?"

You nod fervently, smiling at me and this time I can't help myself. I don't care who else is in the room, I just have to kiss you and you let me. I don't want to let go of you. I'm never letting you go again.

"Can I breathe again now?" you ask quietly, chuckling when I release my death grip.

There's paperwork to be signed and I'm given back the property they confiscated when they brought me here, but eventually we're taken to a cab. I can't help opening the window and breathing in the air. It's city smog and nothing like the crisp, fresh air of the seaside, but it's never smelled this good. I'm giddy and happy and I see the amusement in your face, but also the incredible calm you exude and this finally helps me relax too. By the time we arrive home, I’m incredibly tired and I feel myself drifting off to sleep while you're in the kitchen fixing lunch.

When I wake up, I'm in our bedroom, tucked neatly under the covers, but fully clothed. "Did you carry me?" I wonder out loud.

You run your fingers through my hair and kiss my forehead. "No, you walked, but you were so tired, I didn't have the heart to undress you."

I'm enamoured by the way you kept a vigil, sitting next to me on the bed reading your book while I slept. Could it be that you missed me? "You can undress me now, if you like?" I suggest teasingly, pulling the covers off me.

"I should get up and make us some dinner," you answer, not even looking away from your book, but I know you're teasing me right back, because you're trying to prevent the corners of your mouth from curling up. "Why don't you take a nice, hot shower first?"

I shake my head. "Take it with me?" I ask, fully realising how needy I sound. "Then afterwards, I'll help you cook."

I expect you to tell me to grow up, but instead, your face turns all soft and you nod. "Okay."

Maybe you're just as needy as I am?

Showering with you has always been one of the things I enjoy about being a couple. It's very intimate and I love soaping you up while feeling your hands all over me as well. We invariable end up making love, wasting a good deal of water in the process, but neither of us care. Tonight there's no penetration. We simply rub up against each other, kissing and hugging all the time and if it wasn't for the fact that I know exactly how you come, I would have missed your orgasm entirely, since there’s nothing of the frantic thrusting and shuddering that usually accompanies it and your seed easily mixes with the soap suds. I know it was no less amazing though, because I too feel the ease and comfort of a relaxed release, where there’s no rush, simply a total acceptance on both sides.

You still twitch when I'm drying you and we stand in the misty bathroom holding each other for a long while, until finally my stomach growls.

I join you in the kitchen as you're making my comfort food and we eat on the couch in the living room, close together.

It isn't until later, when we're lying on the sofa, spooning in front of the crackling fire, that I feel the need to talk.

"I killed a man," I whisper. When the full impact of my words hit me, I almost hope you haven't heard me.

"I know," you say, equally quietly, squeezing me tightly into your arms. "But it was self-defence. Everyone agreed."

"Yeah, but was it, really? I wanted him dead, Love. When I saw his knife, all I could think of was that I wanted to skewer him on it."

"You wanted him dead?"

I nod. "It was the only way we'd ever get him off our backs. I knew even if we'd be able to get him convicted of rape, it would only be worse when he was finally released."

"I know," you agree. "I admit I started looking into moving away from here, to South America or Australia and just disappearing."

I must look very much in a panic when I turn around to face you, because you immediately reassure me. "Not without you, of course, this was before you got arrested."

Turning around completely so I can hug you back, I rest my head on your chest, just underneath your chin. "So what happened when I was in police custody?"

You inhale deeply. "A lot. I called our solicitor, who admitted that he was out of his depth. Murder charges apparently go before the Crown Prosecutor's court and that requires someone else to represent you, but anyway, he said he'd help us. I told him about the threats and he asked the police about the statement we'd given about them and I showed him the pictures I'd taken of you after he'd hurt you. Our solicitor kept saying that this evidence wouldn't stand up in court, but then two things happened. They found the earlier reports you'd filed with the police, when you were still living with him…"

I nod, not entirely happy, because I've never told you there was more. You seem okay about the omission, though.

"They were filed without charges, but together with the pictures and the last report, they shed a different light on the 'upstanding and responsible citizen' your pilot claimed to be."

"He's not 'my' pilot," I object quietly.

"Yeah, I know," you say, squeezing me tight again. "Still, they didn't think it was enough to get you off, but then something else happened. When someone is murdered and there are no next of kin, the police visit the residence of the victim, to secure it and make sure there are no pets still inside or something like that. Well, they did find a pet, of some sort." Your face is serious, even though your words sound funny.

"They found a kid, nineteen years old, naked and strapped to the bed."

"Oh my god!"

You nod. "Apparently he was terrified, even after the police told him that flyboy was dead. They ended up taking him to the morgue so he could see for himself, and only then did he start talking. His story was so close to yours that they finally started believing your evidence."

"Yes, but whether or not he deserved to die shouldn't matter. I killed him - how can they let me get away with murder?"

"The Crown Prosecutor found that you were sufficiently scared for your life to call it self-defence. The kid was carved up pretty badly. He told the police that every time flyboy taunted him, he said things like 'give me a reason to cut you', and then when the kid did something wrong, he did cut him."

I shiver at what you tell me. "He wasn't like that with me. He didn't physically hurt me or cut me, but I admit I've seen him do it to others, strangers, kids we picked up from the street. I just always thought he wouldn't hurt me, at least not as long as I didn't leave him."

"He raped you, Angel. And apparently his DNA was all over the kid too. Our solicitor told me that all the evidence indicated he was spiralling out of control, so your fear of being killed by him was justified."

"Is that why don't I feel remorse? I killed a man, took another life. Shouldn’t I feel guilty?"

"Maybe your relief cancels it out? I know I was relieved when they told me he was dead. Of course I was worried about you, too - I didn't want you to end up in jail because of this, but I was relieved!"

I kiss you, needing to feel that relief, hoping I can feel anything at all. I do feel your love, so I cling to that. "So how far did you get with your investigation around us leaving this place?"

"Do you want to? Leave for a few weeks, or maybe months?"

I nod.

"I could suggest a few projects to the people who were going to pay me to go to Argentina last year?"

I smile. "Travel and get paid for it. Sounds like an idea to me."

"Let's go to bed first," you suggest. "We'll plan tomorrow."

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