Emma's thoughts
It was a few weeks after the worst moment of my life. The moment I left him, my elegant ex-lover, standing there. When I gazed into his eyes that final time, flooding with emotion I could see how much he was hurting. I was just as emotional as he was, but I had to, I was returning to Peter, I had to leave. It was a terrible mistake, one that has plagued me over and over in my mind. But I thought that this moment would never come, but it has. Peter returning to me was surprising, exciting but I also felt the guilt and pain of leaving Steed. I couldn't nearly imagine how bad he was feeling, worse than me presumably. He had found out about Peter's homecoming in the newspaper, and I hadn't even attempted to give him an explanation, sometime to mull it over in his mind, just said goodbye, and left. But I knew that he cared about me too deeply perhaps, but I knew he loved me, and I still feel the same about him. Even when I'd left him, I tried not to think about having left him altogether, but I still loved him. It hurt me. As I lay in my, our bed, Peter sleeping beside me I felt more alone now than I had ever felt before. Steed was not a part of me anymore, he made me whole, and without him I felt nothing. Even after years of being alone without Peter, in my mind I felt as if I should be happy that he had returned, but in my heart, it feels as if I'm trapped not able to feel anything, without Steed I felt worthless and empty. But deep down I think Peter knew this, he knew and was too proud not to ask. He knew of my relationship I'd had in his absence, I could tell by the way he looked at me, the guilt I felt and the pain. I'd left Steed standing there and returned to my husband, I could feel my heart beating as tears formed in my eyes, at the memory of what I'd done only a few weeks ago. How could I have been so thoughtless?
The day she left, and Steed's thoughts.
It took Steed a cup of her favourite tea and that was it, he simply asked for Miss King to leave as subtly as he could.
Yawning as he said, "I'm terribly sorry, but it has been an awfully long couple of days. And I must catch up on my sleep Miss King, if you don't mind?"
He indicated the door as she rose up from the chair in his kitchen.
"Not at all Steed".
She knew that this wasn't the real reason, she had seen it in his eyes the moment she'd walked in, and she could see it again lodged behind grey eyes trying to hide his pain through his barrier of gentlemanliness, Mrs Peel's leaving was the reason, and she knew it. As she left, Steed closed his large, pale green apartment door behind her. He turned and pressed his back against the door and sighed. His tears broke their way through as he slowly sunk to the carpeted floor, and simply cried. He sat there weeping like a child, who had just had his favourite toy taken away from him. He sat there leaning back against the door, his hands cradled his streaming, tearful face, his elbows were neatly supported by his knees. He felt hurt, not by the fact she'd left him that he understood, it was the fact that he would never see or be with her again. His heart ached for the first time. He felt as though he couldn't stop, his emotions ran through him like a drug. He needed something to take away his pain, something strong. He slowly rose from his crouched position, and walked over to where his liquor stood in their glass decanters. Lifting the Brandy he poured the reddish brown liquid into a glass and gulped its contents straight down without thought. He poured himself another, and paced the floor, thoughts whirling around in his head, he drained the glass a second time, then headed back towards the decanters, he poured another, and drank its contents again. He became more angrier and uptight, creases formed across his brow, and he threw the glass down onto his electric fire. Its glass pieces scattered around the floor, and he walked over towards the fire, he placed his trembling hand across his forehead, as he broke down into an uncontrollable state, of emotions.
He kept seeing her face, hearing her voice, and feeling the touch of her smooth skin. He had to get away, had to get her out of his mind. But he couldn't and didn't know how. He hunted for the Bentley's keys in his grey breast waistcoat pocket, and forgot about his bowler, as he stormed out of his apartment, the door slammed shut behind him. He started the engine, and sped off down his cobbled street. He found himself turning the Bentley into 'her' Street without thought, he brought the Bentley to a halt. And raised his head up towards her window, he knew that it was a mistake to fall in love, but he also knew it was a mistake now to try and claim her back. She was married, and she had returned to her presumably dead husband. He couldn't do anything about it, it was done over. He tried to shake away his tears, and he started the Bentley up again, in a heartbroken, semi-drunken state he headed back through the streets of London. Fog and traffic. He looked at that empty seat beside him, remembering her sitting there with her special smile, he could hear her laugh, see her hair blowing in the wind as it usually did when they travelled. But now it was empty, as empty as his heart was, she was the one that made him whole, made him feel young and alive. Now she was gone, he wiped away the stream of tears down his face and turned the Bentley its usual route back to his apartment. As he parked the Bentley, he saw it was getting dark, this was the time they were usually together, either at a French musical, expensive restaurant, or back at his or her apartment. He climbed the stairs of towards the flat, and unlocked the door, and headed straight for the liquor decanters again. He poured the liquid into another glass, and gulped in down.
The thought of her stretched out on his leather sofa entered his mind as he looked at the empty sofa, he saw her face, his eyes closed trying to savour the moment. He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped at its strong flavour, hoping it would take away his pain further, but he was to emotional, too angry, too sober in his mind, to care about anything but her. He should have stopped her from leaving, should have told her how much he cared about her. Should have done something, but he was too proud to stop her, after all she was married, he didn't own her, but Oh! How much he wanted to be with her now!
She was just as surprised as he was when she entered the room,
'Trust him to make a dramatic reappearance' her words circled his mind.
And that final kiss she gave him, he could still feel her warm breath on his face and her lips on his cheek, her hand on his tie, the look in her eyes, the tears that were there. Tears slowly ran down his cheeks and he raised his hand to his forehead, rubbing at his newly acquired headache.
He walked over to his desk, and opened the lower drawer; under it was a secret draw. He lifted the panel upwards, and inside it was their photo album of their trip to Paris for her Birthday. He lifted it out, and rested it on his wooden oak desk.
He walked over to the liquor table and poured himself another glass of Brandy; already the decanter was half empty. He lifted the decanter up along with his glass and placed it beside his red leather chair. He picked up the photo album from the desk and slumped into his red leather chair. Already his eyes were filling up with emotion, as he would see her face. Picking up the Brandy filled Waterford Glass, he sipped at it, as he opened the album. His memories and thoughts of her were circling in his mind, he had the photo album perched on his knee, as he turned the plastic film covered pages, he gazed at their portraits of their happier times. He found one photograph that stuck out in his mind, one he'd taken by the Seine River at Monmartche, the moon shone and its glistening, jewelled ripples of the rivers motions reflected in her auburn hair. He gently caressed the image of her face; her smiling portrait made him react to her and grinned sorrowfully, while tears formed in his eyes. He remembered that moment well, the moment when their lips met each other, and kissed. It was the most romantic time they had together; they could be together without fear of hiding their love from others.
He did not care how unprofessional it was to cry, even over a woman. He who'd never shed a tear when he was shot or injured badly, but now he cried, he cried long, deeply and emotionally. He felt as thought he'd lost a part of himself, in a way he had. She'd been all he thought of, had dreamed of and wanted, but now she was gone. Gone but not forgotten, as he knew she would always be in his heart.
It was a few weeks after the worst moment of my life. The moment I left him, my elegant ex-lover, standing there. When I gazed into his eyes that final time, flooding with emotion I could see how much he was hurting. I was just as emotional as he was, but I had to, I was returning to Peter, I had to leave. It was a terrible mistake, one that has plagued me over and over in my mind. But I thought that this moment would never come, but it has. Peter returning to me was surprising, exciting but I also felt the guilt and pain of leaving Steed. I couldn't nearly imagine how bad he was feeling, worse than me presumably. He had found out about Peter's homecoming in the newspaper, and I hadn't even attempted to give him an explanation, sometime to mull it over in his mind, just said goodbye, and left. But I knew that he cared about me too deeply perhaps, but I knew he loved me, and I still feel the same about him. Even when I'd left him, I tried not to think about having left him altogether, but I still loved him. It hurt me. As I lay in my, our bed, Peter sleeping beside me I felt more alone now than I had ever felt before. Steed was not a part of me anymore, he made me whole, and without him I felt nothing. Even after years of being alone without Peter, in my mind I felt as if I should be happy that he had returned, but in my heart, it feels as if I'm trapped not able to feel anything, without Steed I felt worthless and empty. But deep down I think Peter knew this, he knew and was too proud not to ask. He knew of my relationship I'd had in his absence, I could tell by the way he looked at me, the guilt I felt and the pain. I'd left Steed standing there and returned to my husband, I could feel my heart beating as tears formed in my eyes, at the memory of what I'd done only a few weeks ago. How could I have been so thoughtless?
The day she left, and Steed's thoughts.
It took Steed a cup of her favourite tea and that was it, he simply asked for Miss King to leave as subtly as he could.
Yawning as he said, "I'm terribly sorry, but it has been an awfully long couple of days. And I must catch up on my sleep Miss King, if you don't mind?"
He indicated the door as she rose up from the chair in his kitchen.
"Not at all Steed".
She knew that this wasn't the real reason, she had seen it in his eyes the moment she'd walked in, and she could see it again lodged behind grey eyes trying to hide his pain through his barrier of gentlemanliness, Mrs Peel's leaving was the reason, and she knew it. As she left, Steed closed his large, pale green apartment door behind her. He turned and pressed his back against the door and sighed. His tears broke their way through as he slowly sunk to the carpeted floor, and simply cried. He sat there weeping like a child, who had just had his favourite toy taken away from him. He sat there leaning back against the door, his hands cradled his streaming, tearful face, his elbows were neatly supported by his knees. He felt hurt, not by the fact she'd left him that he understood, it was the fact that he would never see or be with her again. His heart ached for the first time. He felt as though he couldn't stop, his emotions ran through him like a drug. He needed something to take away his pain, something strong. He slowly rose from his crouched position, and walked over to where his liquor stood in their glass decanters. Lifting the Brandy he poured the reddish brown liquid into a glass and gulped its contents straight down without thought. He poured himself another, and paced the floor, thoughts whirling around in his head, he drained the glass a second time, then headed back towards the decanters, he poured another, and drank its contents again. He became more angrier and uptight, creases formed across his brow, and he threw the glass down onto his electric fire. Its glass pieces scattered around the floor, and he walked over towards the fire, he placed his trembling hand across his forehead, as he broke down into an uncontrollable state, of emotions.
He kept seeing her face, hearing her voice, and feeling the touch of her smooth skin. He had to get away, had to get her out of his mind. But he couldn't and didn't know how. He hunted for the Bentley's keys in his grey breast waistcoat pocket, and forgot about his bowler, as he stormed out of his apartment, the door slammed shut behind him. He started the engine, and sped off down his cobbled street. He found himself turning the Bentley into 'her' Street without thought, he brought the Bentley to a halt. And raised his head up towards her window, he knew that it was a mistake to fall in love, but he also knew it was a mistake now to try and claim her back. She was married, and she had returned to her presumably dead husband. He couldn't do anything about it, it was done over. He tried to shake away his tears, and he started the Bentley up again, in a heartbroken, semi-drunken state he headed back through the streets of London. Fog and traffic. He looked at that empty seat beside him, remembering her sitting there with her special smile, he could hear her laugh, see her hair blowing in the wind as it usually did when they travelled. But now it was empty, as empty as his heart was, she was the one that made him whole, made him feel young and alive. Now she was gone, he wiped away the stream of tears down his face and turned the Bentley its usual route back to his apartment. As he parked the Bentley, he saw it was getting dark, this was the time they were usually together, either at a French musical, expensive restaurant, or back at his or her apartment. He climbed the stairs of towards the flat, and unlocked the door, and headed straight for the liquor decanters again. He poured the liquid into another glass, and gulped in down.
The thought of her stretched out on his leather sofa entered his mind as he looked at the empty sofa, he saw her face, his eyes closed trying to savour the moment. He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped at its strong flavour, hoping it would take away his pain further, but he was to emotional, too angry, too sober in his mind, to care about anything but her. He should have stopped her from leaving, should have told her how much he cared about her. Should have done something, but he was too proud to stop her, after all she was married, he didn't own her, but Oh! How much he wanted to be with her now!
She was just as surprised as he was when she entered the room,
'Trust him to make a dramatic reappearance' her words circled his mind.
And that final kiss she gave him, he could still feel her warm breath on his face and her lips on his cheek, her hand on his tie, the look in her eyes, the tears that were there. Tears slowly ran down his cheeks and he raised his hand to his forehead, rubbing at his newly acquired headache.
He walked over to his desk, and opened the lower drawer; under it was a secret draw. He lifted the panel upwards, and inside it was their photo album of their trip to Paris for her Birthday. He lifted it out, and rested it on his wooden oak desk.
He walked over to the liquor table and poured himself another glass of Brandy; already the decanter was half empty. He lifted the decanter up along with his glass and placed it beside his red leather chair. He picked up the photo album from the desk and slumped into his red leather chair. Already his eyes were filling up with emotion, as he would see her face. Picking up the Brandy filled Waterford Glass, he sipped at it, as he opened the album. His memories and thoughts of her were circling in his mind, he had the photo album perched on his knee, as he turned the plastic film covered pages, he gazed at their portraits of their happier times. He found one photograph that stuck out in his mind, one he'd taken by the Seine River at Monmartche, the moon shone and its glistening, jewelled ripples of the rivers motions reflected in her auburn hair. He gently caressed the image of her face; her smiling portrait made him react to her and grinned sorrowfully, while tears formed in his eyes. He remembered that moment well, the moment when their lips met each other, and kissed. It was the most romantic time they had together; they could be together without fear of hiding their love from others.
He did not care how unprofessional it was to cry, even over a woman. He who'd never shed a tear when he was shot or injured badly, but now he cried, he cried long, deeply and emotionally. He felt as thought he'd lost a part of himself, in a way he had. She'd been all he thought of, had dreamed of and wanted, but now she was gone. Gone but not forgotten, as he knew she would always be in his heart.