Season of Ashes Ch. 03-05

Chapter Three

Milicent

FOR MILICENT, gratitude was at best a non-renewable resource, and the small reserves that Dominik had managed to unearth through his actions were immediately spent and subsequently eclipsed by the prevailing onset of material concerns. Food! Clothes! Money! Documents! Milicent's personal effects were tucked away in a hotel room on the other side of the Seine; his belongings, if he had been telling the truth, were likely squirrelled away in Montmartre. They needed all the resources in the world to climb out of their present predicament, but they had the singular misfortune of finding themselves bereft of any resources to begin with. Milicent knew that the circumstances would seem less hopeless in the morning, when she could analyse her situation with fresh, well-rested eyes -- but she was already spiraling and overthinking her troubles, and this panic, concomitant with her exhaustion, shortened her fuse and exaggerated the depths of her despair.

Upstairs, she scoured the rooms, surveying every closet for salvageable goods and filling the entire abode with the sound of her bustle. As luck would have it, she located a small number of articles: oversized T-shirts, a few pairs of sweatpants, running shorts, three-quarters of a poncho. The toilet lodged a secret cache of towels and sundry toiletries, including bars of soap with scents that appeared to have intensified in the years of disuse. Porcelain rubble marked the outlines of a missing tub, but a drain remained in the corner of the room, and the sinuous showerhead that spooled around the tap was evidently capable -- after Milicent's rapid experimentation -- of sputtering out a limp blast of cold water at irregular intervals.

She stared at the small mirror above the sink with a quizzical expression. She was keenly aware that Dominik had omitted any associations with organisations. No backup, his hand had told her. Could a simple mercenary be so skilled? Then again, who he was now wasn't necessarily the best reflection of who he was before. He was older and more experienced than she was. Plenty of time to abandon old alliances and strike out on his own.

"Out of curiosity," she called out of the half-open door, lifting her arms to wind her hair into a messy bun, "how does someone like you know about a place like this?"

She doffed the halter that looped around her neck; the dress began to unfurl from her body. She peeled it off with her fingers, accelerating the disrobement until a ring of once-exquisite material encompassed her feet. A white bandeau ensconced her breasts, and a matching strip of panties flossed the bare crevice of her lower cheeks, the waistband snug around her. She took a bracing breath, stepped out of her heels, and gripped the fixture, aiming it toward her upper chest. Eyes closed, she turned on the tap --

"Jesus MontGOM'RY--!" -- she turned off the tap, teeth chattering -- "...Christ."

Dominik

Their temporary dwelling was comfortable in a sort of shabby, downtrodden way. It was enough to stave off the night air and provide shelter from their enemies for at least a night or two. It was a Cold War era building, and the appliances hadn't been updated since then -- agents in need of shelter rarely complained about the creature comforts when the alternative was a night on the streets. Dominik had firsthand experience with both, often enough to know what he preferred.

Milicent made her way upstairs, her heels clicking on the steps. He heard her rummaging around, and took the opportunity to do so for himself. There was nothing in the refrigerator, save for an interesting ecosystem turning fascinating colours in a corner. The cupboards were full of chipped, dusty dishes, and a handful of military rations and canned goods. They'd have food for the night, if nothing else. Fujiwara was disappointed to find no coffee -- not even instant coffee -- the stale teabags in a drawer would have to do for now. It was better than nothing; he had a headache threatening to get even worse with each passing moment.

She called down to him, and he put the kettle -- only partially rusted -- on the stovetop before replying.

He mulled over his answer for a moment, uncertain as to how much he should trust her with. While she was an ally of convenience, that didn't mean she was entirely trustworthy, or that his answers wouldn't be used against him. He stared down at the burner, watching the flames flicker for a moment longer before he replied.

"I've...worked with MI6 before. I knew enough of them to get a good feel for their ops, ran a couple with them. Used to drink with their Paris station chief before..." He paused, staring aimlessly for a moment. "He's in a wheelchair now. It's a tough business." He shook his head, clearing the errant thoughts away. He didn't have time to dwell on the past, lest it catch up with him. There would be time for woolgathering when he was dead.

He didn't really answer her question, but she had enough of the story. For now. He leaned on the corner of the scuffed table. It squealed in protest, but held his weight for the moment. It was only a few moments longer before the kettle began whistling its insistent song into the kitchen, steam hissing from the spout. He poured two cups, dunking the teabags in and making his way upstairs to examine their sleeping arrangements.

There was one bedroom. He sighed; his sense of chivalry was slight, but it wouldn't allow him to deny Milicent the bed. Fujiwara would make do with the lumpy sofa in the sitting room downstairs. He'd dealt with worse. He set the steaming mugs on the desk, moving to peer into the wardrobe--

--Until a pained outburst from the bathroom caught his attention, and Dominik burst in. "What--"

She'd chosen not to undress completely, but her undergarments didn't hide much. He couldn't have stared for more than a few seconds, but the image was burned into his mind, cemented by the hormonal cocktail of victory still coursing through his veins. His eyes flicked down her figure; he couldn't help himself. Slender and luscious at the same time, she had a dancer's muscle paired with the buxom curves of a pinup girl.

He was fucked. Milicent's company was going to be more dangerous than any of the foes they'd faced that night. Somehow, knowing that she was capable and dangerous only made her more alluring, a femme fatale in the finest tradition. It was a cliché, but there was no better way to describe the blonde. It was hard to think of her as the same woman who'd killed a man earlier and disabled another, who was washing blood off herself even now.

"Christ," He muttered under his breath, before clearing his throat and backing out of the bathroom, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "After all the shit we've been through tonight, I couldn't help thinking..."

Fujiwara shook his head, flashing a lopsided smile in an attempted apology. "There's tea in the bedroom; I couldn't find anything stronger. You can have the bed, I'll be downstairs."

Milicent

If Milicent gauged Dominik's intrusion to be a breach of propriety, she offered no outward expression of it. Nor was she reactive to the gallantry inherent in his concession of the sole bed. When his strapping frame occupied the bulk of the doorway, she turned her head, her body convulsing from the chill, and offered a curt nod in acknowledgment of his remarks.

"Th--tha--ok--kay."

She closed the door -- more to spare herself the embarrassment of appearing feeble than to preserve her virtue or shield him from the volume of any subsequent outcries. Who could've imagined that the hardest component of her day would involve enduring an irregular shower? She gritted her teeth, steeled herself with a platitudinous mantra, and twisted the tap once, twice, again and again, using the short bursts to give herself a glorified whore's bath while a bar of soap and a damp washcloth worked their wonders. Between rounds of vigorous rubbing, she stripped herself of her undergarments, rinsed them in the sink, and left them on a hook to dry overnight.

Afterward, she examined herself in the mirror. No trace of blood or espresso was visible on her bare skin; lingering in their stead were the occasional monuments to the day's violence -- the mark around her throat, a mauve patch on her left shoulder, sprinkles of nail-bed pink on her chipped, onyx-painted nails. As much as she was looking forward to sleep, she dreaded waking up. What dormant pains would the morning uncover? After a premature moan at the thought, she partially mummified herself in the embrace of a white towel, wrapping it snug from breasts to thighs. She left her heels in the corner by the basin and tracked wet prints out of the toilet and into the bedroom.

Never had a bed looked more inviting. She might as well have been back in the grand master bedroom of the Grisaille. Milicent had an immediate urge to drown herself in the marshmallow depths of the mattress, to bury her face in the soft clouds of its abundant pillows. Caution checked her enthusiasm. She heard her mother's voice ringing in her head: Look for creepy-crawlies. In filial homage to this parental injunction, Milicent peered at the gaps around the bed for any signs of harbourage, and checked the sheets for the unmistakable patches that might indicate the presence of bed bugs. Nothing. Perhaps the British were decent guests.

With a smile, Milicent sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing on it experimentally to enjoy its springiness. Her eyes fell on the steaming mugs on the desk.

Seconds later, she made her way down the stairs, walking slower than before to spare her bare feet from the agony of encountering any shrapnel in this unfamiliar terrain. Her hands balanced the two mugs; her towel was evidently snug enough to stand on its own merits.

"Here." She placed one mug on the low coffee table in front of the couch, then took a seat on the striped armchair opposite. Her spine was stiff and upright, like she didn't want to lean back, but she had an aura of relaxation about her -- most apparent in the unhurried way she brought her own mug to her lips and slowly adjusted herself in her seat. One leg crossed over the other, making the bottom edge of her towel ride up along her thighs.

Déjà vu struck. She cocked her head from one side to another, ten o'clock and two o'clock. There was an oversized wall clock hanging across from her, its hands petrified into stillness. Milicent -- poor, innocent, unwitting Milicent -- had started the evening clad in a white cocktail dress, a cup of espresso in her hand, at the posh café of the Impérial. Here she was now, caught in the limbo-like hours of the late night, wrapped in a white towel, and holding a mug of tea in a long-abandoned sitting room. There was no window next to her now to provide an outlet for rumination, but the poster that dominated the nearby wall -- a reproduction of van Gogh's Starry Night Over the Rhône -- did its best to mirror the impression, if not the actual effect, of a wet evening view. Like the hand of a clock, she had swept around in a full circuit only to wind up where she had started.

But not everything was the same.

Her eyes lingered on the poster, noting the fluid mess of intermingling colours: jaundiced gaslight, deep-blue water, green-blue sky. Two lovers -- why would they be anything else? -- leaned against each other in the foreground.

She took a sip. Her mouth imparted no pigment on the mug; her lipstick was long gone now, washed away with the blood. Her head turned, and her blue eyes, dancing with a newfound sparkle, found their way to Dominik.

"Take off your clothes."

Dominik

Cold water. That's all it had been; she shivered with its icy caress as Fujiwara backed out of the toilet, leaving her to close the door behind him.

He forced his breathing to slow, his heartbeat to ease into something approaching his usual calm -- or as close to it as he could achieve, given the events of the day. It had been too easy to assume it was another attack, another assault on the relative solace they'd found here amidst the peeling paint and slowly decaying furnishings. His footsteps were heavy as he made his way down the stairs, each one weighted with the burden of the day's events.

His thoughts were roiling with chaotic turmoil, swirling in his head like a tangled mass of eels. It was difficult to keep hold of something for long enough to tug at the thread, and force his brain to engage. Fujiwara told himself that it was the exhaustion and not the blonde woman standing beneath the shower, wearing little but scraps of fabric. It was a difficult lie for him to accept.

The couch in the sitting room emitted a cloud of dust as he settled on it, bringing with it the scent of stale cigarette smoke. It was lumpy but comfortable enough for the night. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they'd be able to put a plan together and figure out what they were doing. He tugged the cuffs of his sleeves open, rolling them up to his elbows to reveal powerful forearms. He didn't pay any heed to the red smears his fingers left on the fabric; the shirt was already ruined anyway.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands loosely. His shoulders sagged, feeling the weight of their situation in full for the first time. It was easier to ignore the realities when they were fighting for their lives; now they didn't have that luxury.

They were in the middle of Paris, probably sought after by INTERPOL, the local police, whoever their supposed client was... Too many enemies, and not enough answers. All they had was their temporary safe haven, and whatever resources they could scrounge together.

He wasn't an idiot. He had a few thousand euros stashed in a locker in Gare du Nord, along with a passport for someone who had never heard of Ted Mullins or Dominik Fujiwara -- but where would that leave Milicent? She was in the same situation he was, and he didn't know how likely it was that she'd be able to escape the country in the same way. For that matter, he didn't know if their foe had been able to burn his other identities.

His thoughts were too scattered, and he needed clarity. Being tentative and uncertain wasn't going to get them out of this situation alive.

Any chance at further reflection was spoiled at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Milicent floated into the room, wrapped elegantly in a towel. Her feet were bare on the fading rug, but she seemed not to pay that any heed as she settled primly into an armchair. She seemed to not quite fit into her surroundings, turning the towel into an outfit, her skin somehow glowing despite the pallid illumination of the ageing lights. It was as though she'd been painted into a background by a different artist, carving her own place into the world regardless of what others thought it should be.

Milicent's eyes sparkled as they roamed around the room, flickering to the van Gogh print along the wall before they settled on him at last. His eyes had never left her. Fujiwara straightened unconsciously, his spine stiffening in a mirror image of her posture, as he responded to her propriety with the habits instilled by his military life. It seemed to be a different life entirely -- hell, yesterday seemed to have happened to a different person entirely.

He nodded his thanks to Milicent as he took the mug from the coffee table, not quite able to meet her gaze as he wrestled with his thoughts. His bare forearm exposed a tattoo on the inside of his right wrist, a winged dagger with a banner across the blade.

The mug paused on its way to his lip, his eyes finally meeting hers and searching for something.

"I'm sorry?" His brow creased; his voice came out as a hoarse rasp. Fujiwara took a swallow of his tea, the bitter edge of the stale teabag dragging him back to the present.

He searched her face for signs of deception -- or hints of what she was looking for from him. The ghost of a smile teased at her eyes, but she still maintained that same poker face he'd come to know. His own stoicism was an innate defence mechanism that he relied upon to hide his intentions, but she took that and elevated it to artistry. How could he be certain that the teasing glimmer in her expression was true, and not just a ploy?

Did it really matter? Part of him -- a primal, hungry voice making itself heard above the turmoil -- didn't care. He'd been victorious. He'd vanquished their enemies, he deserved to claim a prize in return. The golden expanse of skin was an invitation; Milicent would never have worn the towel if she didn't want it torn off. It was difficult to swallow it down, to suppress the hunger that flashed through his eyes, or the spark that trailed down his spine. She was no less enticing for the lack of makeup or the bruises; his fingers twitched around the mug as he pictured his fingers making their mark on her body, leaving her throat with the persistent reminder of his cravings. That thought was difficult to dismiss once considered, growing in urgency with a very different kind of aggression than the violence of a few hours prior.

"If this is about..." Fujiwara cleared his throat, unable to finish the sentence without thinking back to the way she'd looked under the water, clad in scraps of transparent fabric. That body was hidden under a towel that would be too easy to leave puddled on the floor in front of him. "You surprised me, that's all. It's obvious you're no damsel in distress with a saviour complex. I'm not deluding myself into thinking otherwise."

Despite that, the temptation was still there. She might not have been in need of rescuing, but the impulsive, instinctual reaction to surviving trauma together manifested in different ways. For Dominik, it meant that he wanted to fuck. It always had. His body didn't care that their partnership was fragile, or that she was as dangerous as any enemy he'd bested that night. The testosterone and adrenaline sang a siren song, dancing through his system with a single-minded glee.

His grip tightened on the mug, and muscles bunched in his jaw as he swallowed another sip of his tea.

Milicent

Milicent kept the mug close to her mouth, one hand on the handle while the other cupped around the body, letting her palm and fingers soak up the heat. Swirls of invisible steam twirled in the air above the drink, making her features appear wobbly. Her coy smile shimmered.

Without threat of imminent peril, without fear of lurking treachery, she was finally able to savour the act of looking. The strength of her gaze reflected the appetitive nature of her character: she drank Dominik in as though he were a work of art, as though the normal niceties of etiquette held no sway in thwarting the impolite interest of her probing eyes. He was a sculpture built to shame the proportions of Adonis; she was polite enough to notice the craftsmanship in his lineaments, rude enough to broadcast her interest with her voyeuristic inspection. There was no undue influence operating on her. No post-battle adrenaline encouraging her to veer toward arousal. She had even taken a cold shower. Milicent recognised this as pure desire: an indulgence of the darkest kind.

Scores of professionals had, in years past, detected a troubling obsessive quality in Milicent's interests -- a sort of sybaritic impulse that would, if left unchecked, compromise the trajectory of her career. She had learned to quell her cravings. These days, a trellis of diamonds, hard and unyielding, formed a carapace around her; she cultivated a glacial outlook, taking in the world around her with clinical, disinterested eyes. But the urges were still there, always skulking in the shadows, ready to pounce at the first sign of a chink in her frostwork armor.