23. Journey
In the last few months they have come such a long way. As she sits and watches the first fingers of grey light bleed into his face, she cannot stop the overwhelming swell of love for him flooding her body.
When they had first fled Fleet Street, leaving behind a legacy of gory murders, he had been as surly and brooding as ever, snapping at her at every opportunity, avoiding her as much as possible. When they had reached the little industrial town near Southampton and had found small quarters to rent, he had kept to one of the tiny bedrooms without moving. She had slept fitfully on the floor of the second, Toby constantly asking her if she wanted the bed. She had tried to get him to talk to her, but he had shut off from her, ventured to a place where she couldn't follow.
And then, one night something changed—he changed. She still doesn't know what prompted it to this day, nor does she even want to. All that matters is the fact that he had approached her, a blaze in his eyes, his teeth bared in a wolfish grimace, and she had allowed him to take her, leaving her son sleeping in his little wooden bed to slide clothes from the barber's cool body, trying to warm his soul with her fire for him, and he had held her as though she was the only thing anchoring him to this place, a spectre of a lost soul who belonged in neither the world of the living nor of the dead. She did not understand why he was doing this, but she had no time to care before he was filling her, making them one, binding them together for eternity. It did not matter to her that he spent the entire time with his head under her chin so he could not kiss her, or she him, the ghostly whimpers of her name falling from his mouth every time he had the breath to do so.
None of that mattered, not really, because she could feel him, solid and real, the ice around him melting from the sheer force of her love for him.
Afterwards, lying together in the slick darkness of their passion, he had allowed her to hold him, to stroke her hands soothingly through his hair, whispering reassurances to his battle-worn heart.
Every night since then he has allowed her to do the same. He has not kissed her yet, but it doesn't matter. It's enough to be by his side at night, to connect with him on the most intimate level, to know that she is helping him to forget even if it is only for the moment and even if he only pays attention to her in the blanket of night. And, as a further consolation, he has not uttered his wife's name since, has acknowledged the woman he is really sleeping with by half-hissing her name into her hair as he finishes. Perhaps, she'd thought musingly the other night as she'd held him in her arms, it had been his way of finally saying goodbye to Lucy for the last time.
Today he awakens at the feel of her feather-light touch, sits up on his elbows, stares at her with black eyes as she smiles softly at him. There is something different about him today, something in his eyes melting. It confuses her and thrills her, and she trails a hesitant finger down his face. At her touch he begins to slowly lean forward with a determination, pressing his lips against her jaw with more confidence than she has seen since his killing days. For a moment she does nothing, frozen with surprise and delight, then changes the angle of her head so their mouths meet. He does not pull away like she'd feared. Instead he responds awkwardly, pulling her down with him to love her to the hopeful song of the birds outside.
Yes, she thinks as she is enveloped in the warm wetness of his mouth, they have certainly come a long way since Fleet Street.