Dedicated to anyone out there who has learned that love ain't always pretty.
A/N - The lyrics belong to Bonnie Raitt. Chauvelin belongs to Baroness Orczy. I belong in a nuthouse.
(o_-)
If you want to listen to the song, there is a free download here - http:/www. freefox. com/mp3/37_00/Bonnie-Raitt-Spit-of-Love. htm
And a good clip is here - http:/www. amazon. com/Spit-Of-Love/dp/B000TPCJUU
The lyrics are here - http:/www. cduniverse. com/lyrics. asp?id=12454015
Warning - There are adult themes in this fic. Nothing graphic, but if you want fluffy sweetness, pretty thoughts, or a happy ending, don't read this. The good news? This is not my usual style of fic - you'll probably be getting some new Percy/Margot fluff soon. . .
But seriously, this fic is not very nice.
There it is - a fair warning. Read it at your own risk.
Spit of Love
There's a howlin' at my window,
I hear him closin' in.
That green-eyed jackal's got the scent,
Knows I'll let him in. . .
She had once been the Comtess de Louvre-Bastian. She always forced herself to remember that whenever he came through her door.
He would stand there, waiting - she knew for what - and he would meet her eyes and say, "Madame?" in such a voice. She never could resist it.
Like that first day in the old Temple holding cell, she was wearing black, as he was, though then she had been mourning a dead husband and murdered sons, and he was . . . was. . . not mourning. . . but baying for blood, calling for something deeper and darker than what any sun could reveal. He was only slightly larger in stature than she, but she had never felt tiny until he had looked at her. He was not much stronger than she - a well bred mother of two grown sons - but she had never felt weak until he pulled her from the crowd of the condemned and told the guard to release her to his care.
He said to her now, as he had then, "Come."
And she went.
He slinks in by me at the fire,
More bitter than the cold.
And it's a rage as old as Hades,
That'll sputter on these coals. . .
Her boudoir was warm - he always insisted on that. She supposed she ought to be thankful, for a warm boudoir was better than many could boast in Paris these days. She always had coal, or wood enough for a fire - riches indeed!
But it always reminded her of that other room - the first one - where after that civil ceremony where both parties had worn black, she had seen him, and she learned the meaning of his love.
I'm callin' on the Furies, to let the toast begin.
I'm roasting on the spit of love again. . .
He had told her, that first night, that he had a daughter.
"You will never meet her," he had said, as he gently laved the bite mark on her shoulder with a wet cloth, "For she needs a mother, and that is what I do not think you will ever be by me."
She had agreed with him that night.
She still did.
I never have believed you,
But I stick around for more.
Somethin 'bout that hollow in your eyes,
There's a darkness at the core.
Well, it's got me slowly turnin' -
I'm basting on the bone.
I'm skewered like some drunken fool,
In juices all my own. . .
She never knew when he would appear - his business was his own and he never confided in her. But a house and the name "Madame Cheval" were enough of a bequest to know he would be back, and the light touch of his fingers against her cheek as he left was somehow always enough for her to know that, somewhere, there was a twisted measure of affection in his very black heart that he saved only for her.
And somehow, she craved that black heart - though she knew that it could only destroy her.
Callin' the Furies - carrion choir.
Singin me back upon the pyre.
I'm roasting on that spit of love again. . .
She knew she could not save him - she had no grace left, even for herself - but there was a slicing pleasure in knowing she knew a piece of him - had some hold on who he was, and some grip on his desire.
It was never enough.
She had never felt small until she had become his equal, and now, she knew she would never feel whole until he had deserted her.
She would close the door behind him and feel that she would rather be half a woman than ever live without him.
You can call it what you want,
But it's lyin' just the same.
There's no mercy in these ashes, baby
When your love's a cryin shame. . .
Sometimes he came when it was dark already, and she had no way of knowing it was him until he spoke.
"It is I, wife," he would say, in his dry mockery of the truth that she often wished she could imitate, and she would hold his hands and press them to her ears - as much to drown out the drug of his voice as to feel him, warm and whole, nearby her again.
Later, he would hold her, drawing one finger through her hair, and murmuring, "I. . . I saved you. . . no one else. Remember, cherie, that I saved you."
And she would lay quietly, letting the soft words protect her from his next, inevitably harsh whisper.
"You are mine. . ."
And they're howlin in moonlight, baby
They're here to call my bluff.
They're wonderin if there'll ever come a day,
When I'll have finally had enough. . .
She had never been owned before. She had belonged, she had been wanted, she had been taken - but never owned. It was new, it was wonderful, and it was terrible. Because it meant that she owned a part of him, too.
Even as that thought made her suppress the need to retch, she hoped she would throw it all up. . . that she would empty herself. . . so there would be room in her heart to gorge on him again.
For three wonderful days in the autumn, she thought she had won him for good. Maybe now she would have time to learn the byways of his mind, and keep his heart for herself.
That night, she was awakened by the cold light of the moon - he had opened the window shades so he could dress in the dark.
"I must go, cherie, another prisoner has escaped from the Temple," he whispered and took her lips gently - promising more, but not giving anything away.
She hated him, but even more she hated the unknown Scarlet Pimpernel who always took him from her.
Would he return, this time? She shivered in anticipation and disgust. She hoped he would survive.
Another touch of his fingers to her cheek - he knew how to play her senses even as he inspired her darkest dreams.
His eyes focused away from hers, and though he was still in her room, he was gone from her. Then he left her house, dusting the sleeves of his immaculate black coat as he went.
She watched him go, the bitter taste of defeat in her mouth.
No matter how much she might own his twisted heart, she knew she would never own his hate.
I'm callin' on the Furies, to let the toast begin
I'm roasting on that spit of love again. . .
Fin