Elizabeth and Frandrew: SCENES

by Tessaray


STUDIO, Part 3

Drew watches Elizabeth settle back into the cushions of the overstuffed armchair. She seems on edge now, wary of him… maybe even a bit intimidated.

And he's glad.

Before, as he'd been attempting to draw her portrait, he'd felt a quiet rapport growing between them, like maybe she'd begun to… well, not trust him exactly, but at least tolerate his existence. It had been their first and only experience together without pain, bitterness or guilt…

And then he'd noticed a faraway softness rising in her eyes, an intimate curve forming on her lips. He recognized that look from Franco's sketchbook… and he knew it wasn't for him. No, she'd been thinking of Franco, imagining him behind this easel…

He's rarely aggressive toward civilians, least of all women, but that made him angry. It made him need to take control of this situation… of her…

Take off your jacket…

He knows his anger is irrational. Why should that soft expression be for him? What has he done to deserve it? She sees him as a squatter in her husband's body — why should he expect anything but outright contempt from her?

Yet, when she'd touched him earlier, led him to this easel, he'd felt a deep shock of recognition, a painful yearning… and a weird pressure has been building inside him ever since. It hasn't helped that images of her keep flashing before his eyes… of her languid, sated body, of the curve of her hips, her generous breasts. And the images aren't drawings or fantasies — they're memories, complete with sounds, scents, tastes — and he finds that he's once more at the mercy of the deep, carnal hunger that had ignited when he first set eyes on her in those sketches…

The problem is, she's in love with the man who made them, and in her mind, he, Drew, killed that man. And he's keeping him dead because he's a selfish, heartless bastard… a coward

He hauls in a burning breath and focuses on Elizabeth. She's rigid in the chair, eyes fixed on the wall. Everything about her is remote and defended now… but her spirit seems to be reaching like an invisible hand, stirring him deeply… and her lips are so red and full, her bare arms are shimmering and flawless, flooding him with unbidden sense memories and he knows that her skin feels like warm milk flowing beneath his fingertips… he knows how her neck arches beneath his mouth when she wraps her overheated body around his and breathes a name…

Franco…

He hisses, grinds his teeth. He can't bear this knowledge. It's creating intolerable chaos in his mind, gripping him as ruthlessly as he's gripping this goddamned pencil in his hand. So he does the only thing he can — he calls on his years of training, discipline and experience, and treats this enemy like any other. He kills it dead.

"I made you uncomfortable before," he says, gruff, detached, but his voice rings like a gunshot in the too-silent room.

Elizabeth flinches, regroups instantly. "No, you didn't," she says flatly.

"No?" he says, not displeased that he startled her. "You seemed—,"

"—I wasn't," she snaps, lifts her chin and regally pushes her hair back from her forehead. "It's just that when Franco makes a request, he's polite about it."

"I know," he says without thinking.

Her eyes dart to him and lock on. "How do you know?"

"Because Franco is fucking perfect," he snarls, and instantly regrets it.

"Is?" she says, her brow arching into that Gotcha expression he's learned means she's caught Franco's scent.

And frankly, he's tired of it. He's tired of her fishing expeditions, of her reading into innocent comments, of her trying to push his buttons. Franco's gone, and everything that's happened here — from finding the studio key to knowing where to put the easel to how to hold this damn pencil that's been haunting his dreams for weeks — all of it can be explained by muscle memory. He's in another man's body, and that body has accrued a lifetime's worth of unconscious habits that emerge in familiar situations. That's it, end of story. And the images and sense memories tormenting him are nothing but an alien brain firing residual electrical impulses. It's perfectly logical.

He angrily tosses the pencil into the tray, squares his shoulders, throws out his chest, makes his spine ramrod straight. Now this posture is his and his alone. It restores order to his universe.

"It won't work, you know," he tells her like an accusation. "Trying to get him back by sticking me behind this easel."

She shrugs. "So stop. Walk away."

She's so poised, so beautiful. It stings that she doesn't bother to deny her little ploy. He snarls, watches himself turn, yank open the door and leave without a word or backward glance… but his body seems to be staying rooted to this spot… and the pencil is in his hand again.

He stares at it like it's a piece of shrapnel embedded in his flesh. He's aware again of the pressure inside, building, pushing outward like an overinflated balloon, and yes, he should walk away

But why the hell would he? He's stronger than whatever this is — this echo of Franco, this collection of impulses, these fragments of memory. He's got the Navy Cross for Extraordinary Heroism, for chrissakes!

"Look," he barks like a command, but now she just rolls her eyes and resumes staring at the wall. "Not that you asked," he continues. "Not that anyone asked, but coming to in that hospital bed in this body... it was like waking up in one of those new self-driving cars I've been reading about and it was barreling down the highway, all systems set — direction, speed, destination, even the radio — and I didn't have any control over anything. But now I do. Now I have control, understand? And I'm not giving it up."

"Just don't get too comfortable," she says, not bothering to look at him. "That car you're in? It's only a rental."

Before a retort can form in his mind, she continues:

"Though it does beg the question — if you're so in control, why have you parked the car here in Franco's studio, instead of flooring it out of town?"

Her voice is icy and he swallows down a lump of dry. It's a great question and he has no fucking answer. He did earlier — something about confronting the enemy, learning his ways in order to annihilate him…

But the truth is, he's here because he wants to be. In fact, there's nowhere he'd rather be.

And he hates it.

Her question hangs in the air like a bad smell, but because he'd resolved not to lie to her, he ignores it and instead studies her portrait on the easel before him. Surprisingly, it's not terrible… but something is definitely off. He squints, cocks his head. It's her left eye. He picks a kneaded eraser out of the tray, molds it to a blunt point, erases a portion of the eye and redraws it from memory… because he can't bring himself to look at her. When he's done he steps back — nope, still off. He huffs in frustration. He's used to things coming easily, to achieving a quick mastery of whatever he tries, but he can't master this. Even with Franco's hand, Franco's tools and Franco's muse in the chair only feet away, his results are clumsy, amateurish.

She deserves better.

"You're not leaving with Kim, are you?" Her voice catches him off guard. It's soft, musical, drifting down like a warm rain…

"No," he says utterly disarmed.

"Why?"

He glances up at her. She's leaning forward, watching him with those formidable indigo eyes of hers. A warrior's eyes, hunting for weakness.

"Trying to get rid of me now?" he grunts to mask sudden turmoil. "You've done everything in your power to keep me here. Ankle monitor, psych ward, medical proxy—"

"Yes," she says. "And I failed. So tell me, why—"

"—I don't have a plan yet," he interrupts, too harshly.

"But, I thought you and Kim—,"

"Kim is no longer a factor."

The abruptness and certainty of his answer startles him. He hadn't realized until this exact moment that he has no intention of seeing Kim again, that the mere idea of it fills him with revulsion. He tries to refocus on the drawing, but it seems to be fading at the edges…

He hears a soft hum of surprise, hears Elizabeth's clothing rasp as she shifts position, but he doesn't look at her. Instead, he presses the pencil tip to the paper and begins darkening her mass of hair, a back-and-forth motion, a loud, frantic scratching that almost, but not quite, keeps the unavoidable question from reaching his ears…

"Why are you still here, Drew? Tell me. I need to know."

He freezes, his heart soaring at the sound of his name on her lips. He quickly parses her tone — tender, plaintive… not stern, not accusing. It's a tone that gives him courage. Enough courage to answer.

"I'm here because I want to be with you, Elizabeth," he says, and feels his gut lurch.

Her lips part as if to speak, but she stays silent. And into that silence, a hundred images and impulses rise inside him and collide — fragments of memory and tender words, of crippling doubt and fleeting joy… and yearning most of all. Yearning for union… and for reunion. For a love he has never known… yet knows in the depths of his soul.

Elizabeth's love.

Tears are glistening in her storm-gray eyes now. She slowly closes them, keeps them closed as she speaks — a poignant trait he knows so well his chest tightens…

"You want to be with me," she says, very carefully. "Or Franco does?"

And because he can't lie to her — or to himself any longer — he tells her the truth:

"We both do," he says.

To be continued… in STUDIO, Part 4