She's been off since then. He's not worried, but he's not not worried. Maybe if he looked at the post incident medical and psych reports he'd know why. Whether he isn't reading them out of respect for her privacy or because he really doesn't want to know what happened to her then isn't something he thinks about. And her performance remains unaffected, as does his. There is really no need to investigate aside from something like sentimental empathy. Such a thing has no place in the office.
It's a busy summer, but it's always busy, and it's summer in name only (there are no seasons anymore, not even in a place like Wutai). He likes it better that way, but that's an irrelevant value judgement, and the only one he'll allows himself. The fact that she looks especially dazzling on Mondays and drinks alone on Fridays are thing he'll avoid opinion on.
However, a routine is possible only in a vacuum. The department isn't a vacuum, but rather a maelstrom. So on this Friday, they are both out, at the behest of the others. Those two are more visibly concerned, or maybe invisibly. They can't express it organically, but something, something of their concern is evident.
She orders a rum and coke on the rocks, with the specific request that the content of the rum be high, but not high enough to take away from a deep color. The ice clinks in his Cutty Sark, and the others comment about how strange her drink choice is. This issue is never broached farther than that, the clock ticks, the others drink their beers until they've forgotten their concern, so much so that they leave, a happy parade of bars beckoning. For him and her though, the festivities fall on deaf ears.
"Are you alright?" He asks. The words aren't hollow, but gilded with a veneer of casual insincerity.
"Naturally." She rises from her stool, and redacts that statement. "I drank on an empty stomach. Drive me home."
He doesn't ask questions, but maybe he should have, is what he thinks as he comes to, bound and in a bathtub. He always knew that she was going to be the death of him, so he's not as bothered as he should be. The tape over his mouth itches, he observes.
She raises a long finger to her mouth in a pantomime to be silent, as she removes the tape. Then she stares at her hand like a foreign object, wondering why she made the shushing gesture because there was absolutely no reason for that. He's not the type to scream. Her other hand is occupied, thumb brushing against his lips absentmindedly. When that moment ends, she attacks him in the most plaintive way. Her body is as warm as her hands are cold.
The physical struggle that goes on, an incongruous counterpoint to the fact that by now neither are struggling to maintain a sort of professional boundary. He could stop this, probably. As odd and aggressive as the fact that he's tied up in her bathtub after having been knocked out, the sex act itself feels very consensual, even as her hands are around his neck, her teeth scrape at his collarbone with something like a fervent passion. The fact that eventually he's going to have to come inside her is regrettable and irresponsible, but his hands are tied. He'll forget the fact that he could untie them because it's a comely excuse to explode and leave something like shrapnel inside her.
After the act, he's still bound in the bathtub, and she's washing her hands at the sink but completely ignoring her slick inner thighs. She's methodical with the familiar action. As though she's washing blood off her hands, a fact he notices but she overlooks. As the faucet runs longer and longer, he finally speaks.
"Are you going to untie me?" This query is about as much a metaphorical question as they come. Why is he asking? He could do it himself. If she just leaves him there though, would he? She's looks at him as though he's just said something insane, which he has. But entire situation is equally bizarre and if he's crazy so is she. A pleasant hypocrisy.
"Yeah." She responds, that look still on her face, eyebrows still drawn in a disgusted confusion. Her clean hands are gentle and the touch is delicate.
"I didn't mean for this to progress so far. It doesn't usually." Is the explanation she finally offers. These words provoke a wild curiosity, but he doesn't ask what she means.
When they separate, somewhere along the edge of night and dawn, his suit is more disheveled than anybody who knows him but her has ever seen it. The elevator ride down is as long as the night was short. There are fireworks at the crux of the planet and the sky, but nobody knows the occasion.
author's note : this short was heavily inspired by a track by shiina ringo entitled 'nagaku mijikai matsuri' in that both it's lyrics and it's music video formed the core concept. actually, it's as much of an homage to that track as it is a piece of fanwork. another significant influence in stylistic tone is the works of murakami haruki. the belladonna in the title comes not from the plant but from a 70s arthouse anime entitled 'the tragedy of belladonna'.