Rouge Noir

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Sound of the key in the door.

"You'll have to let yourself in." she calls, sarcastically. (Of course, she could put the chain on. They both know that.)

"Such a gracious welcome..."

She's painting her toenails. Not something she does regularly, but it's summer, she's off duty and she can wear sandals, so why not?

She gets one look at his face, before he dives into the bathroom.

Normally, he can cope. But to see Lisbon's pale, pretty feet daubed with that dark blood colour...

Shaking, shocked and sick. Perhaps, one day, he'll be able to come to terms with these things that rip out of nowhere.

...His wife had never painted her nails; she'd done ballet as a child, and disliked her feet, which showed it. Instantly recognisable...

Sound of the door, and he stands, irresolute, still rather white.

There's a strong smell of acetone - she's wiped her feet clean. (Afterthought, she drops the bottle in the bin, too. She doubts she could ever wear that colour again, now, without feeling sick herself.)

He rarely has to explain himself to her. He's not sure that he could at this moment.

Gently, she pushes his shoulder until he sits, busies herself making him tea. The warmth revives him, and he holds the mug as if it is a lifeline. He seems to spend his life these days embarrassing himself in front of this woman.

"I didn't realize..."

"You shouldn't have to." His voice, a little raw. "I should go."

He's in no condition to cook. She doesn't think he's in any condition to drive, yet, either.

"Don't worry, we'll just have take-out tonight." she says.

His ostensible reason for being there, gone. He's been busted, and she's let him know that she knows. Which makes her busted, too.

The line is still there. But it's becoming increasingly blurred.

Oh, well, she can have a friend over. Nothing in the regulations about that. And she'll be damned if she'll turn him out with whatever pictures he has in his head at the moment. Gives him a crooked little grin.

"Thai okay with you?"

"Okay. But I get to choose the movie." It's a shadow of his usual smile, but warm, still cheeky.

She sighs with what she knows is fond resignation. And if sitting through him jeering at 'Ocean's Eleven' is what it takes, then so be it.