Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Everything below her knees aches. The flesh along her left achilles’s tendon has been rubbed raw by her shoes, and the balls of her feet slam unsupported against the pavement with each step, sending sparks of pain all the way up into her spine.

She pauses in the middle of the sidewalk, lifting the hem of her gown to regard the source of her discomfort. At the end of her legs are a pair of heeled sandals. A white strap runs along her toes, another cradling each heel and securing itself around her ankles. Delicate. Expensive. Thoroughly impractical. Her dress is more of the same. Long enough to graze the concrete, an ocean of pearl-hued silk clings taut against the bones of her hips before widening along the legs, billowing with the occasional breeze. The top leaves much to be desired, the night air around her clinging to the exposed flesh of her arms and back. She rubs at the skin absentmindedly, considering a course of action.

(The sensation brings to mind his surgeon’s hands. The way the tips of his fingers ghosted along her metacarpals in the dark of the theater. Dragging his nails just so - burning her from the inside - deliberate and unrelenting - )

The memory is shattered by a black sedan speeding past on her right. Shaking away the tendrils of her fugue, she is plunged into awareness of the sound of city night. Of footfalls on sidewalk - laughter and raised voices - buskers and street hustlers. As familiar to her as the thrum of her washing machine or the flat drawl of her mother’s annoyance.

She considers her surroundings - close enough to still see the facade of the theater behind her, the area itself is relatively safe. But she is still a woman alone and unarmed, in an evening gown that announces her wealth. It would not be prudent to remain such an easy target. So she walks. One block. Then another. Her body moves forward in space; her mind drifts backward in time. Turandot. At the Teatro Colón. She recalls the paper program in her hand, folding and unfolding, seated in their private box.

(Their box - their seats. Hand in hand, calf against calf. Several seasons now. Enough that she cannot count the number of productions. Piazzolla by the Buenos Aires Philharmonic was a particularly enchanting evening. During their rendition of “Verano Porteño” she may have felt something akin to love.)

She doubles her pace, as if physical distance will provide distance of mind. She had left the theater at a near run, brusquely pushing past the attendant outside of their box, stumbling down the stairs and along the great carpeted walkway into the immense foyer, made dizzy by the vastness of ornate lights. Fearing that she would vomit or weep, she did not stop walking until she regarded her shoes, those several minutes ago.

It was the orchestra.

They were tuning. A directionless hum of collaborative preparation. And then - a violinist dragging horsehair on catgut - that accidental note. D below middle C. Clicking through the tumbler lock of her mind. Thrusting her into consciousness. Awareness of the man - that thing - seated next to her. A specter from her past. A figment of a nightmare that tugs at her gut and sends tingles along her spine. In a panicked fugue, she fled.

Allowing the scene to replay behind her eyes, the adrenaline fading, the metal taste along the back of her tongue dissolving - she comes to realize that he did not follow. He did not rise from his seat as she recoiled in horror. He did not even turn and look.

She wonders if he’ll stay through intermission.

She wonders if she means so little.

Everything unfurls before her like waking from a dream. The harder she tries to focus, the more that slips away. Like trying to grip a fistful of sand. Each grain a piece of her that flutters to the sidewalk, littering the pavement with years.

Her head swims again, and she inhales deeply. Counts to four. Exhales in the same rhythm. A trick he taught her. A box step of breath. Has he taught her everything? Is anything left truly her? Will she scrub uselessly at her skin in the shower - his fingerprints pressed firm into her being, unable to be removed?

Out, damned spot. Out, I say.

Inhale. Exhale.

One. Two. Why, then, ‘tis time to do it.

The buildings glow orange in the way that the oldest cities do - devoid of fluorescence and neon. Modernity atop tradition. It was comforting when she was asleep. So awakened, she feels as if she strolls through a suburb of hell, windows and doors framed in fire. She cannot look at them, instead casting her eyes to the inky darkness above. The light pollution of the city blots out all but the brightest stars. Churning behemoths of plasma fires and gas, transfigured by their distance into twinkling decoration.

He had told her once that some of their stars were the same. That the world was more interesting with her in it.

(Again - later. The telescope upon their roof - his hand around her waist as he guides her vision through the lens. His hips pressed firmly against hers. The constellation of Capricorn on the horizon. Her stars. The placement of the sun at her birth. The eldest and wisest of the earth signs - possessing natural authority and a formidable presence. She’s always felt more like fire herself.)

When she begins to feel as if she can walk no longer, she finds herself on the doorstep of their home. Floating along the currents of the city, deposited like silt, thighs twitching with the effort of her journey. She pauses to regard the virile and abundant tipu tree that partially obscures the entrance to their unit, running the tips of her fingers along a low hanging honey-colored blossom. Without a thought, she enters the six digit code into the keypad on the door. An intrusion of technology on the otherwise antiquated doorway. A green light - a faint beep - and then the door swings into the darkness.

A sensation strikes her - she is a modern day Orpheus. Shepherding the Eurydice of her remembered secret self from the depths of perdition. And if she turns back now - it may vanish into the air.

With a firm step, she crosses the threshold and shuts the door behind her.

The apartment was her idea. He had wanted something far more substantial - a gargantuan Beaux-Arts estate on the outskirts of the city. Large enough to require a staff to maintain. She had insisted against it. International fugitives do not need space to entertain.

Apartment itself is an understatement. They own one-third of a palatial two-hundred year old home in the center of Recoleta, split into three private residences. Theirs is the one on the left, a sprawling two story living space with private roof access. It doesn’t hurt that their immediate neighbor on the right is a Swiss banker who is only in the southern hemisphere for three weeks a year, let alone in Buenos Aires. This privacy, combined with close proximity to the cultural center of the city, was impossible for him to turn down.

Standing in the modest foyer, she abandons herself to the muscle memory of routine. Shoes are unbuckled and set carefully beneath the coat rack to her right, next to the stairs. Jewelry is unclasped and placed on the credenza. Her feet bring her through the living room, propelling her under the archway into the kitchen. The handle of the refrigerator door is cool against her palm, left hand finding a mineral water exactly where she expects. The bottle opener is in the first drawer, right in the front. The waste bin - to dispose of the cap - is hidden under the sink.

Bending as she presses the pedal, in the brief instance before the chrome lid flips open, she sees it. The unfamiliar halo of champagne blonde that surrounds her head. Horrified at the loss of her auburn locks, she raises a hand to the taut chignon at the base of her neck. To her relief, she finds that it isn’t real. Convincing in texture and look, but false nonetheless. With a trill of her lips, she peels the apparatus from her head, freeing the pinned hair underneath. This, too, is practiced, fingers nimbly sliding the pieces of metal securing the curls beneath. They tumble along her shoulders as she places the wig and its accoutrements on the kitchen island, rubbing a soothing hand along her scalp as she regards the empty apartment.

The silence here is so pervasive in its totality that she hears only the effervescence of her drink. She paces, like a great cat in an enclosure, examining the trappings of her surroundings. Trying to make sense of the life assembled here. While more minimalist than previous abodes, it is still undeniably his. The decor is impeccably curated, equal parts bespoke pieces and antiques. The colors are masculine and severe. The dining table and chairs, she notes with amusement, can only seat two. Gone are the days of dinner parties and opera boards. Their lives must be filled by each other, whatever that has come to mean.

Past the table, a bookshelf dominates the only wall in the living area that is not dappled with windows. She trails her hands along the many spines. Texts on psychology. Food. Wine. The Roman Empire. She is stopped in her tracks by a first edition of As I Lay Dying, secure in the knowledge that it is hers. A gift - for her birthday two years past.

The room shifts in focus - and she is able to see her influence just as clearly as his. A hand sewn quilt neatly folded on the sofa. A framed photograph of Frida Kahlo. The piano in the corner was a purchase for her - because she complained about the harpsichord. She didn’t like the way the notes refused to carry. The lack of resonance abandoning them to die upon the air.

And God, the plants. The room teems with life. Several trailing Pothos and more than one String of Pearls. A collection of Calatheas line the coffee table, leaves strained vertically as they pray for first light. A particularly robust Monstera stands defiantly next to the french doors leading to the balcony.

The door appeals to her, a portal to the outside world and away from the tomb-like silence that surrounds her. Stepping onto the balcony, verdantly green with as many plants as she found indoors, she takes in several great lungfuls of air, staring out across Recoleta and into the heart of the city and beyond, along into the night. Clouds have rolled in while she was inside, now obscuring the stars that lined her walk, thunder rumbling in the charged grey bodies along the horizon.

Five years in Buenos Aires.

Five years since she decided to intervene. Five years since she loaded her mentor’s pistol and chased a demon to their mutual undoing. Five years since she tasted the flesh of Paul Krendler’s brain, and dappled Chateau d’Yquem against her breast.

The weight of it all threatens to crush her, marred with sin as she is, until the sky breaks in two. Great sheets of water begin to pour forth, battering the balcony and splattering the hem of her gown. A thousand tiny baptisms against her skin.

She lingers in the sensation - until she hears the rattle of the door handle. The sound of a man's dress shoes crossing the threshold behind her.

Silence. The clearing of a throat. And then a simple plea.

“Clarice. Beloved. Come in out of the rain.”