He knows that the Witchblade draws him. He knows because for the past month
whenever he wakes in the middle of the night he finds himself in the
wielder's apartment. She steps on him once, curled as he is on the floor
beside her bed. He doesn't blame her for being upset by his intrusion. He
is a little unnerved by it himself.
After that first night he hopes that the Witchblade has had its fun and will let him be. When he wakes again to her shouting on the next night he knows that such is not the case. On the third night he handcuffs himself to his own bedstead though he knows it is a futile gesture. If he can navigate the streets of New York in his sleep he suspects that the slim steel bracelets will not present much of a challenge to his hijacked subconscious. As he trudges home again after being banished from her apartment for the third night in a row he curses the Witchblade's perverse sense of humor. Though it has loosed his admittedly feeble chains to pull him halfway across the city, it can't seem to be bothered with finding his shoes before it takes him.
On the fourth night he vows to stay awake and prevent yet another nocturnal trek at the Witchblade's whim, but he keeps his boots on just the same. He is slightly disoriented to wake before her sofa instead of beside her bed. It takes but a moment to realize that she must have waited up for his arrival and retired only after he lay down at her feet. He is puzzled that she has allowed him to remain through the night and dares a quick look at her though he knows he should not. Her slumber seems remarkably undisturbed by the knowledge that an assassin has been sleeping in her living room. He leaves quietly before she awakens and decides to evict him noisily after all.
On the fifth night he binds himself more securely to the bedstead and hopes only to delay the inevitable. He discovers that the Witchblade is not amused by his attempts to thwart it even slightly. Instead of allowing him to methodically unravel, unlatch, unlock all he has done to constrain himself the Witchblade wrenches him from his restraints to follow its bidding. He wakes in the predawn hour, not to the wielder's shouting but to the throbbing in his raw wrists. He is surprised to look up and see her face at the edge of her mattress. It almost appears as though she watches him sleep. He thinks that this is unlikely but stares up at her in wonder nonetheless. She looks peaceful, he thinks sadly and knows that she could not aware of his presence.
Sometime in the next week he begins waking at dawn to find a pillow beneath his head and a blanket pulled over his shoulders as he lies on her floor. He has long since perfected his skills at being able to sleep in the roughest circumstances, in the most inhospitable conditions. That she attempts to provide him with even a minimum of comfort that he does not need offers him a hope that he dare not consider. Even when he wakes with her small hand curled against his cheek he is afraid to believe that she knows he is there.
He still sees her during the day too. Truthfully he cannot bear to be far from her. Though he tries to remain in the shadows she invariably finds him skulking there. Sometimes he foolishly allows himself to meet her searching gaze and an oddly amused smile brightens her face. He is both relieved and irritated when her duplicitous partner distracts her before the temptation to smile back becomes too strong. He is confused and annoyed when her dead partner looks at him compassionately. He does not need sympathy from a ghost, he thinks.
He has been avoiding his boss as best he can since this has begun. He has never been adept at lying to anyone, least of all to the man who has always been able to read the truth in his eyes. His best strategy is to stay out of sight, out of range as much as possible, but it is not easy and not particularly effective. He knows that he is only delaying the inevitable, irrevocable confrontation and he is not ready.
He knows that she is beginning to remember more and more about the Witchblade. With those memories come memories of himself as well. When she sleeps with her hand pressed against his face he is with her in the dreams. Many are reiterations of dreams he has had all his life. His ability to see these things even without the Witchblade's intervention is part of the reason he is drawn into its saga lifetime after lifetime. He remembers. He always remembers. And now she is being reminded.
He wakes to the familiar sensation of a pillow beneath his head and a blanket across his body. But he is not resting on the floor and there is more weight on his chest than can be accounted for by a simple bedspread. Turning his head he sees that the Witchblade lies not on the graceful arm flung across him but on the crate that passes for a nightstand beside the bed. He brushes her hair away from his face and marvels once again at how she manages to take up so much space. She is a bed hog, he muses sleepily. It is not out of any inherent selfishness on her part; it is simply because he allows it. There are very few things that he could ever deny her and insisting that she remain on her "half" has never been anywhere near that list. He guiltily recalls that he has probably kicked her shins though. He never remembers the actual deed, but he is well-accustomed to the mock reproach the morning after.
He pulls the blanket higher over them both and resigns himself to a minor lecture in the morning.
After that first night he hopes that the Witchblade has had its fun and will let him be. When he wakes again to her shouting on the next night he knows that such is not the case. On the third night he handcuffs himself to his own bedstead though he knows it is a futile gesture. If he can navigate the streets of New York in his sleep he suspects that the slim steel bracelets will not present much of a challenge to his hijacked subconscious. As he trudges home again after being banished from her apartment for the third night in a row he curses the Witchblade's perverse sense of humor. Though it has loosed his admittedly feeble chains to pull him halfway across the city, it can't seem to be bothered with finding his shoes before it takes him.
On the fourth night he vows to stay awake and prevent yet another nocturnal trek at the Witchblade's whim, but he keeps his boots on just the same. He is slightly disoriented to wake before her sofa instead of beside her bed. It takes but a moment to realize that she must have waited up for his arrival and retired only after he lay down at her feet. He is puzzled that she has allowed him to remain through the night and dares a quick look at her though he knows he should not. Her slumber seems remarkably undisturbed by the knowledge that an assassin has been sleeping in her living room. He leaves quietly before she awakens and decides to evict him noisily after all.
On the fifth night he binds himself more securely to the bedstead and hopes only to delay the inevitable. He discovers that the Witchblade is not amused by his attempts to thwart it even slightly. Instead of allowing him to methodically unravel, unlatch, unlock all he has done to constrain himself the Witchblade wrenches him from his restraints to follow its bidding. He wakes in the predawn hour, not to the wielder's shouting but to the throbbing in his raw wrists. He is surprised to look up and see her face at the edge of her mattress. It almost appears as though she watches him sleep. He thinks that this is unlikely but stares up at her in wonder nonetheless. She looks peaceful, he thinks sadly and knows that she could not aware of his presence.
Sometime in the next week he begins waking at dawn to find a pillow beneath his head and a blanket pulled over his shoulders as he lies on her floor. He has long since perfected his skills at being able to sleep in the roughest circumstances, in the most inhospitable conditions. That she attempts to provide him with even a minimum of comfort that he does not need offers him a hope that he dare not consider. Even when he wakes with her small hand curled against his cheek he is afraid to believe that she knows he is there.
He still sees her during the day too. Truthfully he cannot bear to be far from her. Though he tries to remain in the shadows she invariably finds him skulking there. Sometimes he foolishly allows himself to meet her searching gaze and an oddly amused smile brightens her face. He is both relieved and irritated when her duplicitous partner distracts her before the temptation to smile back becomes too strong. He is confused and annoyed when her dead partner looks at him compassionately. He does not need sympathy from a ghost, he thinks.
He has been avoiding his boss as best he can since this has begun. He has never been adept at lying to anyone, least of all to the man who has always been able to read the truth in his eyes. His best strategy is to stay out of sight, out of range as much as possible, but it is not easy and not particularly effective. He knows that he is only delaying the inevitable, irrevocable confrontation and he is not ready.
He knows that she is beginning to remember more and more about the Witchblade. With those memories come memories of himself as well. When she sleeps with her hand pressed against his face he is with her in the dreams. Many are reiterations of dreams he has had all his life. His ability to see these things even without the Witchblade's intervention is part of the reason he is drawn into its saga lifetime after lifetime. He remembers. He always remembers. And now she is being reminded.
He wakes to the familiar sensation of a pillow beneath his head and a blanket across his body. But he is not resting on the floor and there is more weight on his chest than can be accounted for by a simple bedspread. Turning his head he sees that the Witchblade lies not on the graceful arm flung across him but on the crate that passes for a nightstand beside the bed. He brushes her hair away from his face and marvels once again at how she manages to take up so much space. She is a bed hog, he muses sleepily. It is not out of any inherent selfishness on her part; it is simply because he allows it. There are very few things that he could ever deny her and insisting that she remain on her "half" has never been anywhere near that list. He guiltily recalls that he has probably kicked her shins though. He never remembers the actual deed, but he is well-accustomed to the mock reproach the morning after.
He pulls the blanket higher over them both and resigns himself to a minor lecture in the morning.