The smell of blood lingers with Julia days longer than the actual presence of any blood. In fact, Julia thinks, there was no blood. This is purely psychological, she knows, and it doesn't stem from anything she's aware of or can place, such as guilt or horror. Or anything she wishes to place. The phantom smell comes from somewhere in her psyche. It's simply there, like a fact, when she breathes in. The smell had always reminds her of a smoking gun, as they appear in tandem, but not when she's with Vicious. When she's with Vicious, there are no guns and she feels both cold and excited at the same time, or did once, and when she's alone it's like waking up from a long sleep. With Vicious, there're things here in her mind that don't dwell any other time. She supposes she loves him, or did once.
Vicious isn't secret about the aspects of his "work" life, and as well he shouldn't be, Julia knows, because she's part of the Syndicate as well. This thought sometimes startles her when she thinks it without warning. This is the life she's chosen, and she says to herself sometimes that she doesn't regret it. She feels if she doesn't - sometimes verbally -affirm a thought she isn't absolutely resolute on, it will lose its resolution, like something of fantasy ceasing to exist without belief. Vicious doesn't regret anything openly, but that's people like Vicious. People like Julia toy with things before standing resolute. She has a conscience and more fear than she'd like. But it would only be an insult to her to pretend she wasn't the woman she was, that she hadn't seen her fair share, that she hadn't done her fair share.
It would also be an insult to her to pretend she was a match evenly for Vicious. She simply wasn't and no amount of conviction on her part would make it so, and could undo the fact that she had found a counterpart in Spike Spiegel.
The night she realizes this, it's raining a steady tattoo on the windows and she inhales a little unsteadily after holding her breath, aiming, bent double over the pool table. The balls connect with a light crack, rolling to opposite corners over the slightly frayed fabric of the table. Julia feels herself smile lightly, but when she breathes again, she scent of blood is on the air. It smells slightly rotted and old and is gone as soon as she tries to find it. Her smile slides from her face, replaced by a look of disgust no one notices.
She breathes through clenched teeth as Spike takes his turn. She tastes nothing but smoke, but she can't stop thinking now, unsettled, disturbed. The floorboards of her mind are unturned, the heart beating steadily. Maybe it is the smell of guilt, horror, fear.
The night before, when she'd slept with Spike, it was really nothing. They both avoided each other's eyes when they dressed, and she blamed it on being drunk on very good wine, but she knew every movement had been her own doing, from the moment she called a cab for the two of them, to the walk up to her apartment, Spike leading the way, his coat tails swishing in the dark. The violent reaction to their passion, which had been Spike kissing her first, leaning in a way that reminded her of a much younger boy, then slipping his hand under her dress. He'd had more to drink than she did, more than enough to lay blame, but she'd wanted this just as much. She'd whispered it to him, and took the reins, undressing him before undressing herself. It definitely was wrong, and she knew that completely from the moment she'd shut the door to this very second. She kept repeating that word until it ceased to make sense, may have even whispered it.
With Spike, it was different. Without the obvious, a different man, different body. Of course the angles of his body were different, his hands a different feeling. They weren't as rough as Vicious' hands, longer. His body was slimmer, still muscular but he felt like water, sliding in an almost supernatural way over her. She felt vulgar comparing their physical distinctions, but it was a immediate reaction. To compare, contrast, and be surprised. He was definitely more limber.
That wasn't the difference. She didn't think she could describe the difference if she tried, but she knew what it meant. It wasn't that Spike was drunk. She'd made drunken love to Vicious before, made love to Vicious when he was so out of it, she felt afraid to refuse, and felt out of control. The primary thing she noticed - and she had to notice, because it took the throbbing admonitions from her mind - was that with Spike she felt this culmination of all sorts of satisfaction that had little to do with the sex. The connection between two people she always felt she should be aware of if she slept with them was there. Confusing, exhilarating. When she made love to Vicious, no matter how hard, soft, slow, fast, it was the same. At one point she felt something, but felt nothing now. She didn't feel regret, for a moment, and instead felt happy, for the first time in what anyone would consider a long time. It wasn't unwelcome. On the contrary, as far as realizing you love someone and don't love someone else, in the middle of having sex, it was interesting.
She hadn't been brave enough until tonight and the feelings didn't come in a torrent. They had built up slowly and only now was she acknowledging their presence.
It meant nothing, though, she told Spike. It hadn't meant anything, Spike had echoed back, not meeting her eyes. The awareness of what they'd done crept up slowly over the next few hours, instead of settling suddenly. She could feel his hands hours later, could smell him, could taste him. That faded when Vicious had come in. The sheets had been changed, but it seemed like the memory was tangible in the room. Even a scalding hot shower couldn't erase it, until she saw Vicious. For her own sake, she forgot Spike. For her own sake, she remembered him again, hours later, lying next to a sleeping Vicious, and then the guilt began to seep. She could faintly smell blood before she closed her eyes, but at least it wasn't Spike's scent, at least it wasn't the smell of wine, the smell of something that shouldn't have happened.
She felt like she hadn't blinked, standing here in the dimly lit room, playing pool like things were normal. For all they knew, it was. For all Julia knew, her life was changing, but in that way that creeps up slowly enough that there's barely recognition on your part. Her heart would beat faster when she would think of Spike, and her palms were sweaty and slippery when she gripped the pool cue.
Julia wished sometimes that she didn't feel her own humanity and emotions as keenly as she did. That somehow they were a switch to be thrown, shut down when they weren't necessary. Would she still feel love? Did Vicious feel love? She doesn't know how he feels. All that she's aware of is that, in the pit of her stomach, there's this feeling that chokes in her throat. It travels past her navel, down, and then out of her arms into her fingertips, shaking them.
Tonight is that night, all over again, the nerves and the excitement and it will be every night after tonight, until their last moments together. The gulf that opened between Julia and Vicious will grow larger, and Julia will think she's brought down everything. It doesn't matter, though, what tumbles or crashes. Spike makes her happy, in the most simple terms.
What's wrong with being happy? Julia asks herself, leaning against the hard, cool wall of the room, her jacket bunching uncomfortably underneath her back. Why should that be a problem?
She breathes in again and tries to ignore what she's imagining.