Author's note: Thank you, as always, for the really, really lovely reviews. It's truly excellent to know you're enjoying it. If you have time to review this one, then it'd be excellent.

I wanted to indulge in some more gratuitous fun, before picking up the plot to a great extent again. There is some plot development, but not much. I hope you don't mind.


When she awoke it was past noon – she could tell from the sun streaming between the abandoned drapes – and she rolled over to find no one and nothing in the coldness of the bed. For a second she questioned it but the memories were too fresh and violent to be considered mere fantasy. She heard the noise of running water and looked towards the door at the far end. Steam poured from under it. She sat up and slid from the sheets after a moment. There was a full mirror at the armoire, speckled and aged, and she stood before it. Her hands slid over her own ribs, down to the fingerprints emblazoned on her hips and thighs. They were of a royal-purple, and pressed out evenly into the flesh. Her hands moved back up, onto her neck and across her livid collarbones where he'd devoured the flesh. She might be tender, in more than one visible way, but so would he be.

And she took pride in them, in these marks of possession. There was something holy about them to her mind.

There was something deeper, even, than a vow of matrimony.

She swept his shirt from the floor and pulled it on, buttoning it unevenly. It reached her thighs just, and covered her enough to be deemed acceptable. Then she wandered to the dresser at the far end. She knew, immediately, that this wasn't the master bedroom but it was almost as big. It may have been his childhood room or the one of a teenager and while there were few personal items, there was a small cluster of photographs in filigree frames set out proudly.

One of him and Williamson.

One of him and a rather hairy looking fellow, who looked both swarthy and alien.

One of him and a disembodied hand (he was younger in this but his moustache was just as fulsome).

And one of the four of them.

His parents, she knew immediately, and his brother. His father was a carbon-copy of him, almost identical in stature and bearing and Latino looks. The person who most piqued her interest was his brother though. The squat, balding teenager stared out at her with racoon eyes.

Not handsome by typical standards but she might see why he could be viewed that way.

She scooped up the frame and took it towards the window seat, where she set her legs across the cushion and rested the photo in the slope of her raised thighs. She pulled the drapes aside so there was better light with which to study it. Her study was distracted by the perfect view onto the graveyard though, the early fog swirling gracefully over and around the various stones in different stages of decay. A rotting mausoleum which looked like crumbling chalk. The thick vines which were interwoven across the dirt, dotted bizarrely with golf balls. In the distance and the back of the house there were dense and thick trees, in which she could imagine getting lost for hours.

Across the way, outwith the bounds of his vast land, someone had started to build a white clapboard house. It seemed to ruin the look somewhat.

She turned her eyes back to the photograph, waiting patiently in her lap, and saw it properly in the light.

She had heard, of course, what had happened and, in the spaces between the wonderful moments of their night, more than once she had considered the similarities in what he had done to his brother and what she was doing to her sister.

Or what she was about to do.

Because for her, it was very simple; she was on this ride now and, forsaking all she knew to be morally right, there was no possibility of her disembarking. There would be a collision, at some point down the line, and she would have to walk away from the fiery wreckage, hand in hand with him.

The bathroom door clicked open and he emerged, a towel around his shoulders and striped cotton bottoms strung around his hips.

"Full disclosure?"

He laughed quietly into the peace of the morning.

"Good morning," he towelled his hair so it was rough and on end – it didn't suit him – "Yes, alright."

"Your brother?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment and moved towards the bed where he took a cigar from what she'd learned was the box he kept them in, and struck a match against the post. Immediately it sparked to life. It was incredible how quickly she'd come to associate the smell of cigars with him, with comfort, with peace and excitement all at once.

"Come here, please, Morticia," he motioned to the love seat in the corner of the room.

She did as she was bid, and settled on his knee when he opened his arms to her. She set the photo on the cushion beside his thigh as she awaited his response. She wasn't afraid this would break any unspoken vow or bond, she already knew she had his honesty forever.

"My brother…." He considered her question with the seriousness she'd come to realise she'd only ever saw in these last twenty four hours.

There was such gravity, such genuine desire to please her in his words that she was taken aback.

"I broke his heart," he shrugged, "And I didn't realise I was doing it."

She nodded.

"He had finished with them, with them both, and I didn't realise how torn up he was. They came to me and I, the fool I was, thought it would be fun. A conquest for the billiards room and the yacht club, Siamese twins, you understand? I don't expect you to and that might seem irreverently low to you, and for that I apologise. But what you heard and what happened are two different things."

He paused and pain crept across his brow and into his eyes. His mouth sagged.

"I shouldn't have asked."

"Of course you should have," he touched his forehead to hers, "I will always be honest with you, even if my honesty doesn't commend me to you."

"It does," she whispered passionately, despite knowing she should be appalled, "It truly does."

"He discovered my infidelity, of course," Gomez continued, "And he was demented with pain. He took off in the middle of the night."

She nodded, her silence a token of her willingness to still listen.

"My father was sick anyway…" his voice stuck, "And my mother. They went out to look for him, got caught in the riots with the mob and…my mother survived for a few days."

She could tell there was too much effort in the words for him, too much effort in the memories. She pressed her hand to his cheek and cradled him to her chest.

"Hush my darling."

"You think I am a terrible person? I didn't hate them, any of them, and it was punishment, penance, enough."

She needn't consider his question for more than a second, "Oh Gomez, no. No. It was just a series of events that conspired to seem related. Oh my darling, my love, no."

He wept openly then and it wasn't embarrassing or demeaning. It was refreshing to feel so entirely in tune with someone at their most vulnerable.

-0-

He swept her hair onto her head as she sunk into the old brass bath. It was almost too deep for her but she propped her delicate foot up onto the faucets. The smell of bitter almonds, fragrant in her hair and on her skin, floated to him.

"Does my lady have everything she needs?"

She smiled, "Yes, I do."

"Then I shall have Lurch make us breakfast," he bowed.

"Oh Gomez," she slid further down, "Just tea for me."

"I've never seen you eat," he whispered.

"You probably won't," she smiled.

He turned to go but her voice stopped him.

"Soon, I should, I must go home."

He'd been dreading this, and awaiting it, in equal measure.

"Then what?"

She considered for a moment, her fingers coming to rest across her own shoulders. He wanted to take her again and again in that moment and suddenly an animal, a beast, was inside him.

"You can't go."

She smiled patiently, "I must."

"Then I must see you tomorrow, and the next day, and every other day after that," he nearly slid on the slick tiles as he dashed back to the bath and fell to his knees, "You must swear it to me. I will die without you."

She reached one of her soaking hands out to his cheek to caress the skin there – the delicious habit she'd developed over the course of their perfect night.

"Of course, my love. How else will we plan our future?"

The relief of her words made him pass out almost.

Again he stood and again she stalled him, reaching out the same hand to tug at his.

"If what you did was wrong, what I am doing is worse."

He nodded quietly and left her to her bathing.

When he returned to the room she was freshly dress – or as fresh as he supposed she could be – and perched on the edge of the bed.

When she looked at him there was delight in her eyes at his very presence. It made his heart leap. He set the tray down on the dresser and turned to the door, where he let the lock click shut.

"You are not going anywhere."

"It seems to be that way," she said, moaning in delight as she slid her own dress down her shoulders, trailing her fingers torturously across her own pale skin, "It seems my resolve is rather weak too. Maybe you'll show me a phone, so I might make my excuses."

He tugged the material downward so it felt with a soft rustle to the floor and lifted her towards him and up, so she was able to wrap her legs around his hips. He spun, pushed her against the wall, and knew he needn't ask her permission.

"Only after you let me make love to you…"

"Again?"

He grinned, "Again."

"Alright," she feigned reluctance amidst a laugh, "If I must."

The breakfast lay, forgotten, and by the time she was able to drink just her tea it was frozen cold.