He leaned into the back of the red leather chair that supported him. God, this was fucked up. Maybe it was the brandy he'd been swilling en masse since that night, hoping, and even though he'd never considered himself a religious man, praying, really, that what he'd been told that night wasn't true. She couldn't be dead. Not that one. No, she couldn't be dead. It'd been seventeen years since he'd seen her last, last held her, last smelled the strawberry shampoo she loved to use on her golden blonde hair, locks that he so loved to lose himself in after they'd made love. As he held the tippler in his hand, watched the amber liquid as it reflected the fire in the fireplace, seeming to take with it some of the flame, and therefore start the fire anew in the glass, he inhaled deep. He smiled, tired. Fine tobacco, and old, musty books. She'd been right when she said that's what he smelled of when he came out of that room, and he'd always go there when he needed to think, or bring comfort to himself when one of the demons from his past haunted him, as they so frequently did. She'd said she loved the smell of that room, when he'd once offered to bathe to take it off himself. Anything for her, anything to make sure she was happy, and safe. Hell, he'd give up anything for her, just to see that smile once again. It was at that point that the voices came, as they always did. Voices that never seemed to give him any peace. Oh, they'd always been there, but they'd been vague, their target unsure, because she'd always been safe before, even if she wasn't his, at least she was safe, and that was all that had mattered, all that had kept the harpies from hell that were his internal demons, at bay. Now, they found strong clawhold, and began their torment.
"You're some man, aren't you? Look at you. You go out there to that city, night after night, playing dress up, and playing with toys. You save so many nameless assholes from petty thieves and rapists, and think you're making a difference. Well, you aren't shit, are you? Look at you. couldn't even save her. Couldn't save the one woman who actually meant something to you. You said you loved her more than life itsself, and you failed her. You're pathetic."
As trembling hands sat the glass down on the antique Louis XV side table, and he walked drunkenly up to the old window, lightening crashed outside, and thunder shook the window pane so hard that it felt as though it were knocking, trying to get inside. The glass in the individual panes like the hands of the person now touching them, so that it was hard to tell where the thunder stopped, and the man began. As he looked, wearily, out the viewing glass, the trees began to sway in the wind, the branches becoming so many graceful dancers in time Gaea's ochestra. Suddenly, it wasn't branches that were dancing in time with the wind, but both of them. He in his finest tuxedo and tails, and she in that little black dress that had hugged all her features, the one she knew he loved to see her in, all the better to help her get out of after they left the event early, he grinned slightly to himself. The sound of the wind sounded just like her laughter, it carried just as easily across the room. He could still feel her body pressed up against his as they tumbled as one onto his...no, wait.. their.. bed. She had two laughs. The one she used in public, light, airy and full of faux innocence. and the one he loved best, the one she reserved for when they were alone, and he was turning her on. God, what that second laugh did for him. It was one that said a million things, every one of them so naughty they could only be uttered in the confines of the room she used it in, and even then in whispers.