Sometimes, she lies awake at night, sleepless and restless. It's during those times she thinks of him, and all that he's shown her and put her through as he lay beside her. Part of her is seething, another is afraid, and a very small portion of her soul is indescribably happy. He's put her through misery, flaunted her, threatened her, but he's also made her feel important.
He is not invulnerable to the inescapable virus that is stress, and often his tirades are directed at her, regardless if she understands what he is going on about or not. She just sits there, listening. That's what he likes. She can see it in his eyes when he's finished, a twinge of gratitude in them. He doesn't need her to soothe him like a mother does with her wayward son, he needs someone to understand him, and not even the ever-faithful Moran was capable of that.
And, she does understand him, his frustrations and his bitterness. She's endured cruelty, though perhaps not to the same extent as he. She remembers being teased and taunted as a little girl, and can only imagine what it must have been for a man as eccentric as he.
People say that by striking out against the weak, you either make them stronger, or manifest bitterness inside them.
It seems, in James' case, the young Powers boy had been successful in the latter. James likes to tell her of his killings sometimes, with such internal glee that it frightens her. But she listens, she always listens. That's why he keeps her around after all; he needs someone to listen to him.
It is only in the night, that he becomes silent.
She always turns to look at him when she can't seem to fall asleep, observing how peaceful he looks when he's asleep. There is nothing to speak of his viciousness or psychopathic persona, and sometimes, she wonders if it really is James sleeping beside her, or if he's slunk out again to prepare for some grand scheme of his.
It seemed impossible that a man who looked so content in his slumber is the same James Moriarty she's come to know. Gone is the fear and bitterness that he instills in her while he is awake, replaced with feminine softness and affection.
She loves him most while he is asleep, though she dare not ever speak to him of it.
She's here to listen, after all.
Though sometimes, she feels inclined to scoot closer to him, so their bodies meld against one another. Sometimes he'll pull her close, wrapping his arms around her waist tightly and tucking her head under his, and soft murmur escaping from his lips every now and then.
His words are always incoherent, but they always bring a smile to her lips. She can imagine what they sound like, and then she's listening to him again. And though his stories and tales of death have always frightened her to the core, she finds that she rather enjoys listening to him. Because as demented and unpredictable he is, his voice is softer than his heart, and he is a magnificent story-teller.
Perhaps she's a fool for loving James Moriarty. But if that's the case, she'd rather be a happy fool, than a struggling artist, like she had been before he'd dragged her into his den.
In the morning, sometimes he'll linger beside her, speaking to her of some event or another, and she'll smile cutely towards him, because she's listening to him again.
And it is that single action, which makes everything worthwhile.