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It’s not about sex. Undoubtedly, that is a good thing in her case. The limits of her affliction are unknown, even to her, but she doesn’t want to tempt fate. Her evening with Mr Gray certainly hadn’t been her first experience and still it had unleashed a hell she hadn’t expected. It didn’t make sense. Of course, it was easier if she did not question it. Easier to be grateful for her salvation and not let her possession overwhelm her. She is grateful, in a way. She is thankful that Ethan understands her predicament and, indeed, that he stayed with her throughout. With the exception of that one altercation when her demon had merely used him as a disguise. A discourse she confided to him in the dead of night. She told him everything, finding it surprisingly easy, and he listened with such intent it was hard to recall a time they weren’t so acquainted. When she spoke of confessing her feelings to the masked demon she could not help but turn her head. The words were stilted. There was much to be said. She half expected him to stop her midway. Yet, he remained. His fingers gingerly tracing hers where they sat against her knees. The firelight danced before her eyes, burned at her soul, and still she felt the softness of the man hiding his own beast.
It had taken her seeing his own demon for them to have the conversation that had lingered in the air since they first met. Faced with his monster she had done nothing more than take a step back though her heart had raced. Part wolf he may have been but it was the man she saw within him. How he raged. Chained to stone - his own choice - he fought and bit at the air. Her scent had surrounded him and unleashed the animal he had hoped to subdue. Rather than return upstairs, she had sat on a nearby crate and in time he had calmed. There they had remained together until the sun rose. She had unchained him after his last night and asked him to join her for tea when he was well rested. That was how they found themselves sitting before the fire as the night consumed the world around them. Sir Malcolm had long since bid them goodnight and in time Ethan had convinced her to sit on the floor with him. Mutterings of strange American customs had made him chuckle and, in turn, she had smiled. They spoke of their demons, of their fears, and of their pasts. Cathartic, some would say.
She turns her hand palm up, watching as his fingers follow the lines there. The words he caresses her with mirror her own. Enough to urge her to look at him again. His expression is one of sincerity, as it always has been with her, and it stirs something deep inside. It is then she moves closer to him and dares to steal a kiss. The action is tender and delicate. She expects some sort of animal instinct to break free, from one of them, yet it doesn’t happen. Instead they take their time, learning the taste and feel of each other. She doesn’t get lost in him like she did with Mr Gray. It’s different. She is hyper aware around him, she has been since the moment they met. At the time she had suspected it was simply that she felt she needed to be on guard. Now she is not so sure. The smile she sees when she pulls away is boyish and infectious.
‘It’s a damn shame,’ he says.
She tries to fight her smile but fails. ‘What would that be, Mr Chandler?’ she asks. Formalities come naturally when she’s not sure of herself. She’s increasingly unsure of herself around him. Yet, somehow, secure.
‘That you don’t smile more often, Miss Ives’ he says. ‘Proper smiles. Though I’m not immune to those mischievous little ones you give me from time to time.”
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ her words are punctuated with a knowing smirk. The grin she receives in return causes her smile to widen. It begins to fade again after a moment and she tucks a stray hair behind her ear. ‘There was a time I smiled often. In time, I suppose, that faded as most things do.’ her fingers to continue play with the loose hair idly. Venturing into the unknown with him, in a very different sense to what they’re accustomed to, is daunting.
‘Vanessa,’ he reaches up to take the hand that’s fiddling. Why, she couldn’t possibly say. Voicing her name is enough to grab her attention. She likes the way he says it and curses propriety that he cannot do so more often. ‘May I take the liberty of unpinnin’ your hair?’
It’s a strange request. One she doesn’t expect to hear but finds oddly endearing all the same. The only response she gives him is a silent nod before she turns her back to him. His fingers move gently in her hair to find each and every pin. Thin tendrils drop one by one around her face and shoulders. She closes her eyes and silently prays for guidance and protection, unnecessary though it is. He would not dare risk her safety. American he may be but, perhaps surprisingly, still a gentleman where she was concerned. When he’s done with her hair she turns back to him, finding herself a lot closer to him than she had been. She raises her hand to caress his cheek while he threads his fingers through her hair. Her hand drifts downward, beginning to unbutton his shirt just enough to see the few scars she had witnessed while he was chained up. It reminds her of what she has seen and part of her wonders what he saw when her demon was unleashed.
‘Does it hurt?’ she asks. ‘When it comes from inside you like that, are you aware?’
‘The wolf is a brute,’ he tells her. ‘Physical and angry. Pain feeds into that. I am aware of the wolf. The wolf is aware of me. Sometimes I feel him itchin’ to come out when it’s not his time. It does hurt after, I won’t lie about that. Not to you. Cuts and bruises, occasionally a few broken bones. I don’t always remember everything that happens and a wolf can get a lot done in one night.’
‘What’s something you remember?’ she asks without thinking, mesmerised by his willingness to divulge such information. ‘Forgive me, that was an inappropriate question. You don’t have to answer.’
‘It’s alright. We know each other’s deepest secrets, don’t we?’ he asked, a sad smile on his lips.
She pauses, studying his face. In the back of her mind she asks herself whether she really wants to know. Truthfully, she cannot be certain unless she does have all the facts. She lowers her hand to squeeze his. ‘Tell me something you remember, Ethan,’ she says quietly.
‘I could smell you comin’ a mile off,’ he said without hesitation and she inches back, confusion clear on her face. ‘The other night when I was chained it the cellar. I could hear you walkin’ even though you were trying to be quiet. But when you opened the door we may as well have been sittin’ as we are now. The wolf didn’t rage because you were fresh meat, he raged because we were being kept from you. You smell like warmth on a cold winter’s night. A fresh field of flowers after the rain. Something sweet I’m not so sure about... And the tea really lingers on your tongue, suppose I’m goin’ to have to get used to that.’
‘I suppose you will,’ she agrees.
‘Were you aware of what was happenin’ when it came out of you?’ he returns her question but without the harshness easily attributed to her manner. It’s gentle. He cares for her and always has. It’s apparent in everything he says and does. It was she he had vowed his loyalty to when they reached the point of no return, not Sir Malcolm. Whatever happened they would be in it together.
‘Yes,’ the word is quiet. Even when she told him of the encounter with the demon, she spoke as though afraid it would be called forth again. Her stony exterior defied only by the break in her voice. ‘In part. I was powerless to stop it, but I understood. I felt...’
‘You felt what?’
She pauses, her fingers drawing gentle circles against his skin. ‘There was a time when my affliction first manifested, I was not aware then. There is a void in my life where memories should be but perhaps it is for the best I do not know of it. I wonder then, what changed? When did it become so absolute? It was not considered a possession back then,’ a small shake of her head gives way to new thoughts. ‘Regardless - in answer to your question, I felt as though I had returned to… I was institutionalised when first it occurred. It is most unfortunate that I became more aware for a time during my convalescence. It felt like I was there again. When I was in control of my senses I was being manhandled, food forced down my throat, bathed in ice. A group of men surrounding me, dictating how things should be.’
‘Does Sir Malcolm know?’ he asks, curious. She has his full attention.
‘What he does and does not know, I cannot be sure,’ she responds. ‘It is not something I speak of, though I’m sure he was aware of my incarceration.’
‘He was very much against bringin' outsiders in,’ he tells her and it comes as little surprise. It seems as though he wants to say more and she gives a small nod of her head.
‘It is alright, Ethan,’ her voice is soft. ‘We are rather straightforward with one another. I know what his intentions were during those few days. We have dealt with it, in our own way.’
It is his turn to shake his head, a small scoff escaping. ‘I should have guessed,’ he says.
They fall silent for a time then. He draws her into another kiss. It’s still exploratory, to an extent. There is no eagerness to it. They enjoy one another’s company and the closeness they are sharing. That’s all their kisses are, a way to be closer. She enjoys it. A sense of happiness engulfs her effectively quashing the overwhelming hunger that such actions usually ignite in her. Her hand flattens to his chest, feeling his heart beating firmly beneath her palm. She remembers watching Peter sleep when they were children and pressing her hand to his chest in a similar manner. Such thoughts no longer linger as they used to. She has made peace with the memory of both her dear friends, it is her new friend she must focus on.
He is chuckling again when he pulls away and she raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘You think a lot, don’t you?’
‘I should hope anyone worth associating with would,’ she responded, not quite understanding where he was going with it.
He buries his face in his hand, unable to help but laugh. ‘That was my own doing,’ he responded. ‘I meant, you always seem to be assessing everythin’ around you. You’re observant.’
‘Is that something you've observed?’ there’s a playfulness to her demeanour.
‘Why, yes it is,’ he grins. ‘I have observed your penchant for observing, as it were.’
‘Then I would say we have something in common, Mr Chandler,’ she reasons and presses another soft kiss to his lips. She finds the feeling it gives her is addictive. Should she be given a choice between kissing him and something similarly addictive in nature, she knows which she would choose.
‘Again with the formalities,’ he chides between the flurry of kisses she instigates.
‘I’m afraid I cannot help it,’ she grins against his lips. ‘Being as British as I am.’
‘Well, you’re with an American now, little lady,’ he plays his part well. The accent becomes thicker and the character appears for her amusement. Laughter breaks forth and he grins and he laps it up. Even open as they are becoming with one another, it is rare to hear and see her laugh. He endeavours to make an effort whenever they are alone together, but it never comes easily.
‘It’s strange to call you Ethan,’ she admits, her face slightly flushed.
‘It’s refreshing to call you Vanessa,’ he counters.
‘I do like hearing you say it,’ she looks away, her eyes drawn back to the fireplace. ‘Sir Malcolm is the only one I hear it from anymore.’
‘Well, that’s certainly goin’ to change,’ he tells her sincerely.
She likes the idea of hearing him say her name more often. It’s likely something she will have to grow accustomed to, but she has no doubt she will manage. The idea of having that sort of relationship with him is certainly not unappealing. Their conversation continues, occasionally giving way to long silences where they do nothing but become better acquainted with one another. When they speak they learn things about one another neither had thought to ask. He shies away from talking about his father, but gives her anything she asks for on his mother. She gives him little on both, and what little she does is laced with disdain. When he prods about her mother’s sudden death she warns him it is not for the faint of heart and assures him that, perhaps, she will speak of it another time. He doesn’t push it, content with her response, and she likes that about him.
The night wears on and they grow weary, but she is not ready to say goodbye to him just yet. He adds more wood to the fire and they settle down on the rug, the throw from the sofa already shared between them. A small negotiation leads to her laying with her back to the fireplace. He wants to make sure she will stay warm, the longer they stay the colder the rest of the room becomes. She doesn’t argue but she gives him a look that says chivalry does not necessarily get him everywhere with her. Though she suspects he knows that already. Besides, she thinks, she is appreciative of the gesture. They continue to talk even as sleep begins to claim them. Her hand remains against his chest, his heart beat soothing her and stopping her from lingering on his arm draped over her waist. She falls asleep first, the warmth doing her in. Moments before hand she shifts closer to him and it isn’t long before they’re both lost in a deep sleep, her head resting against his shoulder and her hand beneath his shirt.
Had they considered the implications they likely would have said goodnight and not allowed themselves to be caught. Perhaps she had subconsciously hoped Sembene would find and wake them before anything could be misconstrued. She’s not sure why but she always feels the otherwise silent man has a sixth sense about her. Somewhat of a guardian angel. But it is not to be. Instead they wake to a very familiar, almost terrifying, voice bellowing around them. Ethan is up almost instantly. Vanessa is a little slower, trying to get her bearings. She supposes he is used to this sort of thing, though an odd sensation forms in her stomach at the thought.
‘Sir, I can assure you, this is not what it looks like,’ Ethan is quick to say, though she doubts saying it while he buttons his shirt helps matters.
She feels like a small child as she watches Sir Malcolm round on them both. Mostly Ethan. Waking up so fast has never been good for her and just sitting up is taking a lot more energy than it should. Her hair sticks out at odd angles and her eyes refuse to stay open, but she tries and unfortunately it doesn’t mean a thing to her would be guardian. Her sleep addled mind is fairly certain she is too old to be treated in such a fashion yet she is in his home. That and, as she slowly reminds herself, he has already lost one daughter and knows can become of her. He is just protecting her, she does understand that.
‘I suggest you retrieve your coat and hat, Mr Chandler, and leave my house this instant,’ Sir Malcolm roars and she imagines the lions she has often heard him describe to her.
‘If you’ll just let me explain, Sir,’ Ethan is pushing and she rather wants to tell one or both of them to shut up.
Instead she gets to her feet as she hears the older man exclaim that the younger has done quite enough. She is not sure what makes her say it, but the title escapes her lips before she can stop it. ‘Father!’ It is more than effective, everything in the room seemingly grinding to a halt. In all fairness she is still partially asleep and he has always acted more like a father to her than her own did. Thankfully the noise stops and it gives her a moment to collect herself. Despite her hair hanging loose and her neck remaining uncovered, she stands tall as she looks the man in question. ‘I think it is safe to say that we are both well aware of my - limitations. With that in mind I can assure you, Sir Malcolm, that Mr Chandler was a perfect gentleman all evening,’ her voice is huskier than usual, but she pushes on. Moving towards her father figure she raises a hand to rest against his shoulder. ‘Your concern is understandable. My actions were, perhaps, foolish but I trust him. More so than you do. Indeed, I believe I have fallen in love with him. Believe me when I say I will not risk that for anything.’
There are no words to be said after that, though Ethan is still rather certain he should be leaving. She glances between the two and gives a small nod before she begins towards the door. ‘Now, Gentlemen,’ she says over her shoulder. ‘I should think it is time for breakfast, wouldn't you agree?’ the rest can be sorted out between the two of them, she thinks. Out of view she allows a mischievous smile to grace her lips.