DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but my own name.
SPOILERS: Mentions of Niko, thoughts about inner darkness and so forth.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To spheeris1[at]yahoo.com
a cacophony of a woman
By spheeris1
If you were thinking clearly... well, if you were thinking rationally, then you might be somewhere else right now. You might be in your bed, the one you share with your husband, the quiet space where he is a steady presence – soft, sure, calm. Like a body of water unmoved, nary a ripple in sight.
But you are in Russia, questioning everything – your loyalties, your priorities, yourself – and you can see the rolling tide building up steam, ready to take you under without a shred of remorse.
And maybe you've been eager to be swept away for a while now.
You can honestly say that you didn't expect to hit him.
You didn't expect anything, not a trail of cigarette smoke and not accusations – no matter how true, no matter how close to the bone that they cut. You didn't expect to take sides, to choose one thing over the other – even though you have, even though you continue to walk down the path of most resistance.
He just wants you to be safe. You get that.
And you just want... you just want...
You can honestly say that you didn't expect to get so angry, so defensive, so utterly defiant. You didn't expect him to truly understand and he doesn't, not at all, but you didn't expect to feel so strongly about it. You've kept it silent all these years, haven't you? Squirreling away your morbid fascinations so that no one has to see them, so that perhaps even you don't have to see them too much.
And it was all okay. It was all fine and tidy and oh so fucking serene.
Until it wasn't.
She makes you mad. And she terrifies you. But she's awakened something in you, something that you've been keeping at bay, something dark and tantalizing.
And you feel a little crazy, because you know that the deeper you go, the harder it'll be to find your way out again. But that's the thing, isn't it? That's the center on which all of this spins – you don't want to find your way out.
She intrigues you. She infuriates you. And yes, you want to catch her, and yes, you almost want to save her, and okay, yes, maybe you even want to keep her close – to lay your hands on her wildness, to touch her fire and let it burn you up, to let her have you... all of you, all the mixed up pieces, all the twisted places...
Maybe you want her more than you've wanted anyone or anything.
And that scares you.
But it doesn't stop you.
And if you were thinking clearly... well, if you were thinking rationally, then you might be someone else right now. Someone with an ounce of self-preservation, someone who thinks of a loved one – waiting at home, worried and helpless. You might be someone who can see the forest beyond the trees.
You aren't being rational, though. None of this is actually rational.
But this is who you are, on this hotel bed in Russia, far from all you've been and still closer to reality – spying on the spies and making impossible deals, following your instincts regardless of the danger, rushing headlong into one hell of a turbulent sea.
This is who you are and you don't give a damn about the twelve, you don't care about the rules of this game – this game that you don't know how to play, this game that could get you killed – and you don't care about the layers of lies you must dig through to get to the truth.
This is who you are – a cacophony of a woman, neither black nor white – and you've never felt clearer.
The End