Summary:Wine from the bottle, New Year's Eve closing in. Here's to remembering back but foremost here's to what's to come.
A/N: Well, well, well, well…. Well… Weeeelllll - once you start saying 'well', it's just sticks like glue apparently. Anyway, I sorta had to continue this little thing seeing the mood struck me again. Hope you enjoy =)
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Euphoria #2
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She finds him at the edge of festivities, on the periphery of the bustling crowd. Her eyes land on him with a silent plea for help. The pursed lips give her away; a sign he has become rather accustomed to. He watches the delicately strides she takes through the masses, heels high and sleek, the gait slow but purposeful. Her smile is only polite on the surface.
It's no mystery why she seems on the brink of transforming into the infamous ice queen of the past; Chief Taylor accompanies her on the left and the right is flanked by a red-faced Mayor, already beyond tipsy even if it's a full hour till twelve. It's a wonder she manages to appear polite with those two. An art form that always leaves him astounded – not that he will ever tell her this.
Shadows cross her face for a split second and in that second of darkness he feels drawn towards her, pulled by gravity to ponder what lies behind shadows, behind that seamless mask of professionalism.
Time is a mysterious force, he reckons, for the idea of her has transformed like a damn metamorphism in his mind, the characteristics that made him cringe and curse once only enforce a whole other spectrum of emotions now. So, it is strange indeed to find himself in this large ballroom, the ceiling high and elliptical, the light almost a wan silver and she looks ethereal and not villain-esque. Veiled in shadows and armed with a secret smile, he finds her beguiling. The irony of bringing in the New Year with what used to be an arch nemesis is not lost on him.
Beguile, strange creature that is it, sees him quick on his feet.
With some sort of long-forgotten gallantry he whisks up two long-stemmed champagne glasses from a passing waiter, the bubbly still buzzing and he deviates towards her, plan fast-forming in his mind. He catches her off guard – a thing he is becoming rather attached to accomplishing – and the offer of alcohol is received with the same grateful smile he has also become used to.
She tips the glass ever fractionally in his direction, a small almost imperceptible tilt to her head before she takes a sip and he tries to hide the smug grin by following suit, the Chief and the Mayor leaving for glasses of their own. The two disappear into the throng of celebrating police personnel, leaving him alone with her.
They stand almost shoulder to shoulder, the gap wide and yet non-existent. He pretends not to notice, sipping champagne and regarding the crowd of people instead.
She hums, and the noise draws his attention like poison drawn from a wound.
Her eyes are on the crowd for a short moment, her smile complacent.
She catches him staring and the smile deepens.
"My hero," she whispers to him, her gaze sincere yet piercing, "I was a second from insubordination, surely." The tone is sarcastic but warm.
"At your service," he mumbles back with a sloppy salute, his own voice rough and gravelly whereas hers floats.
They tip their glasses again with mouthed cheers.
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They end at a circular table, at the edge of civilization, the chatter of the room like watching a far-away city in the nighttime. Removed and yet included in the celebration; music subdued and yet distinguishable. They sip their drinks respectively and every now and then a visitor or two passes by and he observes her, the interaction and the many facial expressions that flitter across her expression, variables that rely on whoever approaches her. He opts for staying hidden himself in the shadows, occasionally nodding and throwing in a comment or two.
He enjoys her company, even more so in this setting, just the two of them, off-duty.
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The clock strikes twelve.
The room is in uproar.
His heart flutters and thrums, erratic and ecstatic.
Her lips are chaste against his cheek, the impression warm for the briefest of moments before his skin is bereft. For all practices and purposes it's too short and too innocent to garner much and yet it lingers on his skin, an inevitably warm imprint.
"Happy New Year, Lieutenant," her tone is mirthful, he thinks, the little vibration of something molten in it and it strikes him with a vision of a sweltering sun, encompassing in its warmth and the connection it speaks of.
"Happy New Year, Sharon," he replies back, the clink of their crystal glasses loud to him, shrill over the thrum of his own blood.
Her smile is encompassing as well and the impact it has on him always bewilders him afterwards but for the moment he smiles back in the same fashion, only happy to bring in the New Year with her.
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She leaves with an arched eyebrow, what is surely supposed to be a veiled message. Only, he has no clue what it means.
She's too quickly gone in the throng of people, a sashay he watches feeling flustered till she disappears altogether.
Lost in the dark; that seems to be the recurring theme of his life now.
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Later it is with a peculiar feeling he watches someone else place a hand to the small of her back. Someone else who lean in close, someone else who whispers close to her ear. Someone else who brings out secret smiles and unobstructed laughter.
He hesitates to put a name to the feeling, fear that once named it will linger as well.
It's easier to sweep it away, to pretend not to recognize the lump in his throat that slowly slides down to settle in his stomach, roiling.
Much easier to simply drown the rest of the champagne and look away.
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He dreams of the kiss.
Only in sleep it transforms not unlike the way she has transformed.
Transformation leaves him breathless.
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=)