A/N- This has been up for a while, but after looking at it again, I took it down to edit, as there were a lot of things I was unhappy about. It was originally going to be a three-part story, but I've decided to make it five parts instead, for clarity's sake. Three parts are up so far, please do review if you read it, it's probably my favourite thing I've ever written. Thanks.
Part 1.
The solitary do not thrive in London. If you wander down the veritable labyrinth of back streets you will realize there is a small niche of time, when the busy, bustling city seems uncannily quiet…in the very dead of the night, when the only souls out seem to be those who have no choice; those who wish to be elsewhere. It is most unwise to wander through the streets at this time, and the only refuge will doubtless be an unsavoury- looking bar, its neon sign half-alight, a veritable magnet for the less desirable clientele of the night.
She has no reason to be out at this time. She has a home to go to, a prettily decorated flat, with tasteful furniture and good books. Although she is fairly unremarkable looking, she is not ugly, and she is well dressed, with a natural elegance which cannot be imitated or learnt. Ladies of her stature and nature do not walk alone at this time of night, they do not walk alone at all, and that is why, when she steps into the bar, the few customers watch her with detached curiosity.
She is used to feeling like she does not belong, but she still feels an uncomfortable prickling creeping up her spine as the blush begins to stain her cheeks. She is thankful for the darkness, and when the barman inquires her poison, she cannot help but reply in the softest, least conspicuous voice she can manage.
She does not like to be noticed.
He, on the other hand, is a dab hand at night- time solitude. When he enters the bar, the barman knows exactly what drink to pour him, and he knows better than to ask for payment. He will pay when he leaves, for all of his drinks in one transaction, and he will do it with the cold indifference of a man who has all the money he will ever need, but nothing else.
She is not comfortable, sitting so close to this man who seems so at home, in a place so alien to her. She wants to move, to take her drink, and slide into one of the booths in the corner, where she can be alone with her morbid and desperate thoughts, but she does not want to be obvious. Despite her discomfort, she does not want to offend; she still has remnants of her child- like eagerness to please. So she resolves to remain seated at the bar until she finishes the first glass… once she orders her second she will move.
He drains his tumbler of whisky in one, and silently requests another. The barman does not tell him to slow down, because he has watched this young man down 8 straight whiskeys and walk out without so much as a single stumble. Unusual for a man so thin, but not extraordinary, and so the barman does not comment; he knows the young man will not get drunk or cause trouble, and that is his only concern.
She recognises him first.
It is difficult to make out faces in the dimly lit room, but when she raises her eyes to ask for her second glass, she notices the angular jaw, and quickly looks down again. She does not want to be accused of staring, and she thinks maybe the wine has gone to her head. When she looks up again, surveying him through her lashes, she notes the slanting cheekbones, and the unmistakeable slight curve of his mouth.
Set in a permanent sneer.
To forget that sneer would be to forget the past five years, and to forget the past five years would be to forget who she is. She watches him now, unashamedly, and with no pretences. She wants him to note her lack of decorum, because then he will realize. She does not know what will happen if he realizes who she is, she is filled with a mixture of dread and anticipation. She, with all her intelligence and intuition, does not have the faintest idea how he will react, and yet, she continues to stare, recklessly, goading. She plays a game with herself, a taunting, childish game, which she would have sneered at five years ago. I'll count to a hundred, she thinks. If he hasn't looked up by the time I count to a hundred, then it's a sign, and I'll leave. One, two, three, four…
The young woman is staring. He feels her eyes, he's always been so keenly attuned to people around him, he's always known eyes upon him, and he knows she is looking. He stares into the bottom of his nearly- empty tumbler, wondering whether she is staring at him out of curiosity or attraction, or maybe something different altogether. He has had female attention in the past, lonely young women who frequent these places, and he has taken them home before, he has given them all he can, and then he has woken up to an empty bed the next morning. They, like him, are only looking for a temporary release, and he is always relieved to wake up to no-one. He doesn't know what he'd do if one of these restless and damaged women were to still be there in the morning. He'd probably ask them to leave.
Thirty six, thirty seven, thirty eight…
He doesn't see sex as anything more than a release of tension, a way of venting his frustration. The idea of "making love" is an alien concept to him these days. The women he takes home are attractive, yes, delicate, fragile things who, like him, are no longer filled with any of the optimism which gives people the capacity to fall in love. They tend to approach him, or make their intentions clear. Clearer than just staring anyway.
Fifty eight, fifty nine, sixty…
He has not looked at her yet, and she begins to feel a cold fist tighten in her chest. The idea of walking out at a hundred, of leaving without a single word, terrifies her more than anything else, but she has made this deal with herself, and she has fallen victim to enough broken promises to realize if you cannot keep a promise to yourself then you may as well give up on everything. And so she resolves to do as she promises, and in the meantime, as she counts, she prays.
Seventy two, seventy three, seventy four…
He decides that he has not released tension for a while, and so if this woman is willing and interested, then he will oblige her.
Seventy nine, Eighty, Eighty one…
He knocks back the last of his whiskey and shudders, hoping she is attractive enough for him to take home now. He'd rather not drink any more tonight.
Eighty five, eighty six, eighty seven…
He raises his eyes, and looks straight at her face.