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That warmth isn’t beside her when she wakes up. Why does he always go? Where does he always run off to? In the time it takes her to stretch out her weary bones and muscles, she discovers his heat is missing, but his scent is not. Eyes open, she looks around, and indeed sees a serape draped over her chaise lounge. It’s rare he stays the night. A drawn out fuck, a tender kiss, and then he’s gone. Curious, the assassin sits at the side of her bed, and glances around her room. In any event, he’s not in here. Should anyone sneak around her, the hairs on her neck stand on end.
Wrapping a robe around herself, she doesn’t bother going off to look for him. If he’s here, he’s here, and that is more than she deserves, anyway. She starts for the kitchen, deciding coffee might help draw her lover out, but when she makes her way down the tiny steps, a strong scent hits her nose.
He’s cooking.
“Didn’t wanna wake you, sweetheart.”
The words catch her off-guard, and she smiles, entering the tiny servants’ kitchen.
“You must have gone to the market,” she says, sitting on a stool.
“For the rice and vegetables, yeah. This though--” he gestures to a filet of fish blackening in the skillet, “--I caught.”
“You went fishing?”
“Found an old pole in your cellar.”
“What were you looking for originally?”
“Just taking a walk.”
The assassin grows silent. She wonders how much he still distrusts her. He’d be a fool not to, but mornings like this make her want something else. Normalcy. The thought is too pretty…
“Hey, I didn’t forget about you.” The gunslinger taps a steaming pot with a wooden spoon. Where did he even find all of this cookware? It’s wooden and cast iron…must be from this kitchen. She never cooks, but whatever is in this pot smells wonderful. She leans in, and frowns, seeing a fish head boiling, staring back at her. “It’s soup. I know you ain’t much of a chewer.”
“How thoughtful,” she deadpans, leaning over the hot stove to kiss him.
That look he gives her could make her blush, blood-flow willing. That charming half-smile doesn't leave her as he ladles soup in her bowl, and fixes his own plate. It's imprinted in her mind as she pours the two of them coffee. It's consuming her as they set for the table upstairs, and once the porcelain dishes thud against the hardwood table, she can't help but wrap her arms round his neck, and speak against his lips: “Thank you for breakfast.”
She wonders when she got so sick for him. She wonders how it's possible he compromised years of brainwashing, and managed to pull a person out her tangled mess of an existence.
His breath is warm on her. It reminds her of the night before-- how warm he made every inch of her.
“Don't thank me til you've had some.” His hands run over her spine. “Think you'll like it, though.”
She does.
Her spoon is scraping the bottom of the bowl as they talk idly of the lake and its clear water. How he could see the fish swimming to his hook. The soup is creamy and hot down her throat, but it doesn’t feel like rocks in her stomach like most food feels. Even the taste is pleasant. Heavy, but not sickening. Like his body pressed to hers. She wonders where he learned the recipe, where he learned to fish. There are so many things that they don’t know about each other.
“You really ain't never caught a fish from this lake?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Mighty shame. Can practically live off them alone with how good they bite.”
“You will have to show me how next time.”
“You'll catch on in no time. Ain't nothing to it.”
She pushes her empty bowl to the side, and he picks at his teeth with a fishbone. As they finish their coffee, he lazes back in his chair, belly sticking out in satisfaction of a home-cooked meal. She rests her feet on his lap, sipping from her mug, looking out of her cloudy window. Can’t be bothered to hire someone to clean it. Indeed, there are automated methods to have windows cleaned anymore; however, there is a strict analogue approach to this fortress.
“So when do you think you'll be done fixing up the place?”
She looks around at covered up crates, dust, work lights, paint, and so on. They've been untouched for months.
“Perhaps a couple of months.”
“You should let me help.”
“You’re never here long enough.”
She doesn’t mean to say it so bitterly, but the nervous smile he gives her tells her that she should be feeling guilty right now.
“I’m sorry, Jay I-”
“Save it, sugar. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
Looking up at the ceiling, she falls into silence. He’s rubbing at her ankle with his good hand. The skin across skin relaxes her. The heavy meal makes her eyelids heavy. While she still thinks she’s hurt him, all she can dwell on now is the simplicity of a lazy morning.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks.
“Like a baby,” he responds.
She hasn’t opened her eyes, but she knows he’s lying. Even with the coffee as strong as she’s made it, he’s been yawning. His eyes are red. He most certainly pulled an all-nighter. His hand continues to stroke her leg. Back and forth, back and forth.
They can never be normal, no matter how exponentially close they come to it. He’s a name on a list that she’s at liberty to cross off. The thought frustrates her. If things had not gotten so complicated, she could have done it ages ago. She can’t now, though. Far be it to question her superiors, but Jay Cassidy doesn’t need a bullet through his head.
At least, that’s what she tells herself time and again. Chanting it in her mind. To push down the thought that it’s all for naught, and she will kill him someday.
How long can they keep up this charade?
Back and forth.
He’s so warm.