scene: Irene has just slipped through the fingers of a stranger who had previously harassed her with his attention. Having retreated to the opposite end of the bar, she, with some wonder, finds herself looking at James Moriarty. Too desperate to question the unlikelihood of his existing outside of his normal habitat and in the public domain, Irene is drawn to him.
i.e. A woman hides from threatening male attention under the wing of another man, equally dangerous, but known to her.
He was watching her, she could feel that, and it made her skin crawl. His intrusive weight crushing her a few moments ago, she could feel that too. His pressing, invasive odour of alcohol and uncleanliness. And his vile, whiskery mouth.
Another man at the bar counter, far to one end, was surrounded by a deep pool of colour. He sat sideways on a bar stool but his head was turned away from the bar. He seemed to be searching in the crowd. No, not in the crowd, through the crowd. As if the crowd were not there. To Irene, he felt safe-his smallness, his slightness, his place in the dark indigo pool of colour felt like a refuge. She hastened toward him and slipped onto the stool next to him, mirroring his position.
He turned his head.
Irene did not allow herself to baulk, though her surprise was supreme.
"Mr. Moriarty. . ."
"Hullo," he replied, dolefully. His character sagged. He looked tired. Tired enough to be safe. A tiger, in a cage, tranquillised. "What do you want."
She glanced back at where she had come from. The big, red man hovered at the end of the queue for drinks, his eyes circling. His appearance pulsated.
"To see you," she lied, finding a hand on his knee and leaning her face close.
"No." He jerked back, expression wearily irritated, rejecting the advance. He heaved a sigh, muttered a distressed thing, then bent his head over, baring the back of his neck.
She put her fingers on it, stroking the short hairs. This bit he didn't mind. He bent into her, more, so she carried on, grazing the black strands back towards his crown and down again. She tried kissing his neck, putting her lips to it, but he mumbled 'no' again.
She didn't stop, this time. Fear ate at her, her, pinned between two evils. She lightly kissed his neck, his ear, the fringe off his forehead.
I hate you, I really hate you, and you hate me, you really hate me.
Her hand was still on his knee. His slid and settled over it. He craned his neck and kissed the underneath of hers. Memories slopped coldly over her. She kissed his jaw-each time just a rudimentary single kiss, from each of them. A call and a reply. A tightening of their nooses.
So he kissed her neck again. She kissed his cheek. His mouth chose her lips to reply. Then she turned away from the game, not knowing him any more.
Unspoken fury, she could feel it singing her, lashing from him, fury and humiliation.
But safety, from the deep, red sea.