It was a scene all too familiar, in these recent months: the hour was late, the bottle long emptied, the girls' doors locked for the evening. Her veneer of civilization had washed away in a steady stream of rum and whiskey, their only souvenir a cluster of sticky rings on the old wooden desk where a thin sheet of amber liquid had crept down the neck and barrel, tracing the curves of the glass vessel like fingertips on the gentle undulation of a woman's form. Her aim was less than true, in this state.
He would come to her then, sensing his duty from the solitude of his darkened room at the end of the hall. Creeping softly in the shadows, a specter within these haunted walls, he would ease through her door like a breeze upon the shore and find her slumped over the desk, cheeks tear-stained and one of many photographs of a handsome, baby-faced soldier staring up at her from its gilded frame. With a soothing growl, he would lift her from her seat, her arms looping drowsily about his neck, slender legs draped over his long, capable arms. Her cheek would loll upon his shoulder, and his warm, stilted breath fluttered the loose strands of hair upon her sweat-beaded brow.
Their destination was the large four-poster, the one in which the fallen Commodore had taken her as his so many years before. He would nestle her upon the quilted linens and methodically undress her, the loose waves of opulent fabric slipping from her shoulders with ease. As he worked, he ignored the clicks and grunts that emanated from his less than cooperative throat, a chorus of unease that needn't interfere with this cherished moment between them. All the while, she would smile and giggle and speak as if she were someone else, in another place, another time, as if he were the one man she never could let go.
At first, the act required some coaxing: she had lead his unwilling hand between her grateful legs, guiding his fingers towards her merciful release. Now, he knew his duty well, his touch as nimble and sure as on a firearm. He would watch her face contort in blissful response, her fingers grasping the pillows each with deft stroke as she bathed in the only true escape she could enjoy from the tragedy that surrounded her, the ever-present reminders of her loneliness. It was only he who could bring her to this point—no other had ever played the strings of her pleasure with such virtuosity as this. Each touch, each gasp, each release brought tears to her eyes.
When it was over, he would rinse his hands in the washbasin and readjust the mask that hid his true self from view. She would turn away, the darkness creeping over her once more, and will him to stay with her a while longer. She wanted him to hold her, to watch over her as he did so loyally for the boy. She wanted to feel his arms wrapped round her still-taut waist as she slipped into unconsciousness, to wake in the night to feel him inside of her. She wanted the morning sun to dance upon them as they lazed the day away in each other's embrace. But above all she wanted him to love her, as she had loved so many who had been ripped away from her. And she had so very much love to give.
When it was over, he would drape the quilt around her bare shoulders, smooth the strawberry strands that framed her lovely face, and slip from her grasp without a sound, the evening carrying him away from her and into the tense professionalism of their daily lives. Duty would call again, to be sure, and she needn't watch as he left her once again; it was a scene all too familiar.