I know what you're thinking...

He wastes no time in getting himself upstairs. He's only been dreaming of this kind of scenario for about three years now; he'd be lying if he tried to claim he weren't a bit nervous, but it's the good kind of nerves. He's definitely not going to let them stop him enjoying this.

Fifteen minutes, she said. That gives him time to have a quick wash and brush his teeth, and chuck a few glasses of Scotch down his throat. It crosses his mind that he might have time to give himself some relief before she gets here too, in the interests of making it last; he's in two minds though, and she'll be here any second. So he leaves it, and forces himself to go and sit on the sofa instead, and just wait.

He's never been the best at sitting still. She might think anticipation's the best part, but this is torture.

 
[Following this:]

True to his word, he's only another fifteen minutes or so. He even remembers the bottle of wine she wanted, as well as another of Scotch to make sure the room's well-stocked.

He does smell of beer a bit though - occupational hazard - and smoke. Not that it would ever bother him, but women seem strangely adverse to such things. 

'What's for dinner?'




Bloody hell, this is like being married.

 
He holds the door open for her again, steps aside so she can go first. It feels like the right thing to do.

'Rats'll bring tea in a minute.'

 

Hours later, he couldn't honestly say if he's had any sleep or not. It's like hovering on the edge of consciousness, one foot in the land of the awake and lucid, the other firmly planted in the realm of nightmares. He jerks from images of blood and that gun, and his family, to Alex lying on his chest, comfortingly warm in the crook of his arm. Never awake, never asleep, and it gets to a point he can't stand anymore. During one of the more aware stretches, he jabs himself with a fingernail to make it stop, using the pain to bring himself back. He extracts himself from her, and  heads to the bathroom. It's probably a good thing he destroyed the mirror. He doesn't want to see what he looks like at the moment.

The idea of lying down again is unbearable. He needs to move, but he's still too tired. Should go for a walk or something, but he can't contemplate dragging himself all the way downstairs and outside. He pulls his dressing gown from the wardrobe and lights a fag instead, pacing around the other end of the room a bit. Eventually, he sits down and sticks the TV on, flicking through endless channels (one of which, he notes vaguely, seems to be aimed at squid) until he finds football. England even. Euro 2012. 

It'll do. He mutes the sound so she isn't disturbed, folds himself up in one corner of the sofa, and stares blankly at the screen. By the time the game's up, the night should be over. It feels like the first step on a long road, getting through this endless night. If he can do that, everything else should be a doddle.

He'd kept a cab waiting, all the better to make a quick exit. He supposes it doesn't really make a difference now though, except the fact that he'd rather they come for him when he's already back in his office and not out here on the street like a scumbag.

She looks knackered. He doesn't say anything but does keep his eyes on her from behind his shades. Seeing her again, alive and awake - he can't articulate to himself how relieved he is. How right this feels, having her back.

But it doesn't stop it being awkward too. Impossible for it not to be, really. He did shoot her.