Thanks for reading this story. This chapter is probably most OOC but I have always thought that the more inclined to transgression would be Morticia. You have to keep reading though... =D
It was late afternoon and she had just awoken from a fitful and restless sleep. She watched him fold the paper in to his lap, and watched his olive hands reach for the coffee in front of him. Those hands that had touched her silently the evening before, tension pressed between them like a drying thorn, love making that had left her bereft and empty. He had been as courteous, as attentive, as ever and yet for the last few weeks he had drifted in and out of this malaise as if in a dream. One moment he had forgotten that evening in the restaurant, the next he was punishing her with his own insecurity. She knew that, as the strange evening with Hannibal travelled further and further away from them, he would come back to her. She had thought, at the opera a week ago, that she had won him over. Yet she struggled to convince herself that it had not altered them in some way. To have been with Hannibal in that way had to have altered her and for Gomez to witness it had altered him too.
"The children are staying with Fester tonight," she said slowly, "He has new plastic explosive and you know how they can barely resist that."
He smiled at the thought of his children, "Just us then?"
"Yes," she tipped her head to the side, and was genuinely pleased to see that she had his rapt attention, "And I thought we could do whatever-"
There was a groan behind them and they both turned. Lurch proffered the phone to her husband. He nodded for a few moments, then made an "mmhmm" as he placed the receiver down. He turned to her, concern written across his face.
"The strangest thing," he shook his head, "The restaurant has burned down."
"Your new venture?"
She felt an unexplained, burning tightness in her stomach but she hid her unease.
"Yes," he shook his head lightly, "The project manager wants us to get down there. Fire investigators are there just now."
He caught her worried frown and placed his hand across hers, "Worry not cara mia. We won't lose any money."
And she loved him so much that she could not correct his worries and she could not allow him to lose such naivety. She told herself she was being foolish as she watched him dress and that she was panicking as she accompanied him all the way to the door to say goodbye. And yet she knew that it had come to its natural finale. She held him, much longer than she usually would have as Lurch waited by the car.
"Tish," he held her at arms length and studied her with kindness, "Is all ok?"
"Yes," she shook the feeling away, "Of course. Just hurry back please."
He reached out then, and with the tenderness she so loved, placed a kiss on her forehead.
"Ok," he smiled, "I promise."
"Thank you."
She watched winter night come over the grounds quickly from the chaise in the huge parlour. She had lain there nearly all day, in corset and silk robe, and thought of her days in Paris. The weight of her thoughts lay on top op her, weighing her down in a malaise she could not shake. Fear trickled into her bones. It grew cold, as if joining her mood. Finally the fire crackled and danced in the huge hearth and she had had to exert herself to achieve such a spectacle – with Lurch not here it was difficult to light such a fire and she needed something to distract her. She had decided to dedicate her time to trying to locate a book she was sure they had in the vast library, but could not find. Barefoot, she climbed lightly up the ladder. Then a noise, the delicate creek of the 3rd floorboard outside the door, heralded the presence of someone within her home.
Her heart pumped in fear yet she was content and attuned to the horror she felt. She turned to look below and already he had reached the foot of the ladder, in absolute silence. He was gripping one of the posts with soft, expensively formed, kid gloves. She felt all of those people that had gone before her as ghosts around her – their crime bad manners, some unspeakable, others murdered because they irritated him. She didn't know why he had chosen her. But he had. He had chosen her years ago.
He looked up at her and she felt confusion flood her. Her brain had long ago become accustomed to that hard look of desire, and a minute part of her reacted as it always would with any man. She was pleased to see that Hannibal still desired her; she was not one to set aside her vanity for fear.
"You're losing your touch Hannibal," she smiled slowly, coming down the ladder, "I have to say that the arson was not your best moment."
Morticia did not know why she said it but it felt natural to be critical and any attempt at wittiness was surely better than begging him to leave.
"You have a habit of making me less effective," he reached out and placed his hand on her cheek. She moved her face away. The touch of leather was always her weakness and she could not allow it to come from him.
"If you knew it was me, why did you wait?"
she had no answer and he knew it.
She watched as he moved away from her and slid his hand over the photo on the fire place. An intimate photo of her cradling Pubert. She wanted to cry out for him not touch it, yet she couldn't.
"You didn't believe me Hannibal," she looked at him, "You don't believe me still. You want something Hannibal and you get it, what would be the point of running when you've watched me forever? You'll do what you want. I cannot stop you."
He shook his head, a sardonic smile upon his face, "I am shocked by your lack of manners. Won't you offer me a drink?"
This change in conversation took her by surprise but she did not show it. Instead she stared at him for a moment. She knew she was out of her depth. He was much stronger than her and far quicker. She had no means of protecting herself and no means of beating him. And no means of finding him less sinister. She looked at him again and understood her 19 year old self intimately. She had no doubt why she had found him attractive...and she still did. Forgive me, my darling, she thought. Forgive this blinding, flaming, shocking emotion.
She knew she could not reach for the phone and she knew that if he wanted this to be her end, then it would be, telephone or not. She nodded her head, "Of course. Please follow me."
They moved quietly to the den, and she felt every step further into her home was a massive violation. He did not remove his expensive wool coat, nor the new and fresh leather gloves. She poured him a scotch from the decanter on the side board with hands that were subtly shaking.
"Everything in here seems expensive," he sat down, unwittingly, in Gomez's chair. Then she rethought that sentiment, of course he knew it was Gomez's chair. She knew it because she saw him derive pleasure from it.
"Is this where you are, privately," he crossed his legs, "As a family?"
"Yes," she pulled her long, expensive robe around her. She felt very in danger and exposed. And it rested like a weight, hot and firing, in her stomach.
He noted the motion and smiled lightly.
"I am making you uncomfortable," he sipped from the crystal glass, "I could talk to you most intimately, or insult you fully, and it would not move you. I've taken you to my bed and it has not moved you that you stand in front of me, half-naked. Yet as soon as I mention them..."
She remained cool, "I have always been steely."
"But not with them, and that is what interested me in the restaurant," he offered her, "Everything I said slid off you, but not when I mentioned your children. Your little daughter is very beautif-"
"Stop!" She demanded, her resolve nearly cracking, "Speak about anything but not about them."
She chided herself immediately for her lack of control. She had given him his first victory.
"I am sorry," he stood up and came towards her. He clutched the silk belt of her robe between his fingers. She stared at his hand as it began to pull it towards his body in slow motion. She did nothing to stop as it slipped free of the knot that held it at her waist.
"I remember," he muttered, as he tugged at it gently once more and it fell open, "Every single detail...and I know you do to."
"I won't ask you not to do this," she said slowly. She watched his eyes skim her body and regretted not changing into something a little less revealing; a little less fragile, "But please..."
"No," he laughed as he slipped the robe from her shoulder to reveal her ivory skin, "Of course you wont. You would not be inclined to seem weak. But what would Mr Addams think?"
His leather-clad fingers trailed across her shoulder, making her skin prickle. She watched as he pulled his fingers down, across the solid edge of the corset which rested along her chest and then up again towards her neck. She closed her eyes against the unique sensation of contradiction and felt shame wash over her. A shame that she could not possibly give a name to because if she did, it may make it real. She was so fully ashamed of how good it felt to have his hands upon her. She wished he had not mentioned her husband. His name must not come from those lips, be said in that accent and with such an intonation of disdain.
The box, so closed, poured forth its contents in a sea of urgency. He breath hitched in her throat as his hand brushed her cheek.
He leaned in close and his breath whispered against her, "You know what he would think. Don't you?"
She stepped back from him and it took all of her energy to stay upright. She felt her knees weaken and she leaned against the wing of the chair to steady herself. She was shocked by her moment of weakness.
"You see Mortica," he stepped towards her and again, he trailed his hand across her arm, "You can't quite help yourself and even your husband knows that that is your problem. You are letting your body betray you. In a woman I would ordinarily find this disgusting but, in you, I find it delicious."
That word held within its weight so many meanings. She looked into his eyes.
"Please leave," she murmured, revulsion evident in her voice.
"I can't Morticia," his voice was strained, " We both know that."
He pushed her against the wall at the fire side with a violence that left her breathless. His hands where everywhere and no where at once, and his smell repulsive and attractive at the same time. Her thoughts fled to that evening weeks before, when her husband had pushed her against the wall atop the stairs, before this man who held her now had brought the past, tangible and touchable, back into her world. He pressed his mouth to hers and she let him . He gripped her wrists and crushed the bones there. Memories poured forth and assaulted her.
"Hannibal," she bit forcefully down on his lip, the tingling taste of blood sending messages so mixed that she cowered from the feelings and visceral reactions in her body, "Stop."
"Why should I?" His hands clamped around her hips and he lifted her upwards, he growled in rage but a smile of satisfaction turned the corners of his mouth when he felt her arch against him. He was pleased he had elicited this reaction and she knew he would attempt to reward her. He reached up and touched her hair gently,and the affection was more than she could bear.
Because," her voice, weak from fear and humiliation, was nothing but a whisper, "Because you care about me."
"This is a mistake women in my life often make," he thought of Bedelia and Lady Murasaki, "They mistake consideration for need. Care for desire."
"I haven't though," she placed her hands on his shoulders to create some space between them, as he seemed to have halted his assault, "And you know it. The problem is Hannibal, that even you cannot do this to me. You cannot do this to me because it would not satisfy you. I would not cry or beg and at the end you would leave yourself empty, and leave me even more so. You want something you cannot have; the past. If you do this to me now, I will hate you. Is that what you want? "
"Even me?" He tipped his head to the side, "Morticia, you know what I am capable of."
"And it is not this," she held out her hands, "You would not do this. Have another man's wife? Even you are not capable of this. You are committing the worst of bad manners if you do this and I will not satisfy you because I will not be willing. You want me more than anything and yet, I will not be enough. Don't take that risk."
Every syllable she uttered was uncannily frosty; as if she had frozen her heart. She knew what she was saying was true; he was beyond any means of satisfaction that lasted a decent amount of time. Yet she had used all her ammunition. If he chose not to listen she was without hope. She had lost hope anyway.
He stepped back from her and back from a precipice. Was it enough to know that, for a moment, she had thought of giving in to him? Or, at least, her body had arched against his touch. Her mouth little sighs and her bites a keen reminder of what lay underneath those society-bred manners.
"Are you happy?" He stepped away again and she saw torture there, in eyes that were dead and ageless. He revolted her; he fascinated her in equal measure. She tied her robe, felt the blossoming agony of bruises forming around her wrist. The blossoming shame of betrayal, of transgression, that was building in her gut was making it difficult to concentrate. She thought only of Gomez, wished only to have Gomez beside her. Wished only to tell him that the small moment of weakness was just that.
"Remember," she fell back against the wall, wiping the blood from her mouth with perfectly delicate finesse, "It was you who did not want me."
"Not really," he answered, all of his energy gone from him, "I could feel it in you. You started to realise that you could not be enough and I knew it would come to this. You did not answer my question."
"Yes, I am, I truly am," she responded, "I don't know how to make you believe it."
"I do believe it," he answered after a beat, "I think that is what makes me even angrier. How can you love him when you had me?"
She thought of their differing version of love.
"I can't explain it," she answered, though it was a subject on which she could elaborate if she truly wanted, for a very long period of time, "I won't be forced to either."
"No, I couldn't even force you to be afraid, any more than a paltry tinge of fear," he laughed lowly, "I respect that."
She would not give him the insightful knowledge that, in fact, she had been petrified during what had just taken place.
"You see," she stayed exactly where she was, glad for the yards of space now between them, "I don't have to explain why I love. It is just there. And you were in my past."
He nodded lightly, "I have miscalculated?"
"Very much," she answered, " Hannibal, I know from your eyes you've gone further than anyone has. You can't turn back the clock; for old lovers or old hopes and you can't wish I did not love. You can't wish I had not made my life. You can't wish that you had not fallen."
suddenly the tension cracked. Her memory tidied itself up; suppressed and the mask of compunction slipped back on to his face. She saw it happening vividly before her.
"I will take my leave," he smiled, and it was one of sadness and satisfaction, disappointment and what could have been, "And I will leave you be."
"Do you promise?" She did not mean to plead so evidently, but it left her mouth before she could reel it back in and make it sound less desperate. She could not risk him coming back ever again. She may not be able to convince him next time; she may not be able to convince herself.
"I promise," he bent over her hand and pressed a kiss there, "And I do not break promises. However, I will always watch you. You're right about the past you know, but it doesn't stop me wanting to recover it. You will always have a special place in me. You should be privileged."
A privilege and a curse, she thought caustically.
She inclined her head silently, then turned away from him without another word. He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
