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There is a certain feeling that Delphine (now Angelique, though she will never think of herself as such in her own mind) gets when there is someone unexpected waiting in what should be an empty room. It starts in her lower back and creeps up and around to wrap around her belly and tickle her shoulder blades, almost like the feeling a person gets when someone whispers in their ears from behind, but less of a shock and more of a cold, hard thing.
She supposes it is residue of her past life, but really, while she had been an excellent observer and information gatherer, she had never that spark it took for the more... interactive part of the job. Maybe it is just inborn, like her ability to bend the tip of her thumb at a near right angle (the Americans call it 'Hitchhiker's Thumb' and it amuses her to no end) or roll her tongue.
This feeling is different. It travels the same path, but it is warm and almost comforting.
"You're getting sloppy, Angelique," Lorraine chides as Delphine turns to close the door.
"I knew it was you," the Frenchwoman replies easily, spinning the three locks and dropping her keys in the bowl that sits on the little end table near the door.
Lorraine tsks but lets it go. The sound of her lighting a cigarette is like a soothing punctuation to what was an otherwise frazzling day.
"Hello," Delphine murmurs, walking over to the older woman and dropping into her lap.
She gently takes the cigarette away between two thin fingers, leaning up and kissing the blonde softly before pulling away and taking a drag. She lets the smoke drift from her mouth in lazy curls.
"Hello," Lorraine replies, taking back the cigarette but not putting it to her mouth.
Instead, she nuzzles into the dark haired woman's neck, breathing deeply. She lays soft, lingering kisses there, exhalations quiet and a little ragged.
While Lorraine has always made a habit of treating Delphine well, she is not prone to being overly affectionate or clinging. Her last mission must have been... difficult.
“Quoi qu'il en soit, c'est fini. Vous êtes ici maintenant. Ils ne peuvent vous blesser," the younger woman murmurs, rubbing her temple against the top of her lover's head.
The hair there is softer than it has any right to be, especially considering how often it is bleached.
"Je n'aurais pas dû venir - je te met en danger juste en étant ici..." the spy sighs quietly, tone almost regretful.
"I don't care," Delphine assures, and a small spike of fear aside, it is true.
Lorraine sighs again, dropping her cigarette into the small ashtray Delphine keeps next to the comfy chair, before wrapping her arms firmly around the younger woman.
The chair was Delphine's first purchase after moving in. She had dragged Lorraine to every second hand shop in lower Manhattan, until even the spy's seemingly infinite patience for her had worn ragged around the edges. It was worth it though. Now she sat in the chair - an overstuffed monstrosity of a piece - whenever she read or wrote or practiced her guitar, or whenever missing her lover became almost too much to bear.
"I can't stay long," Lorraine says, eyes closed, forehead very warm where it lays against Delphine's body.
Delphine gently pushes Lorraine back, stroking slightly damp, shockingly pale hair from her face.
"Then let us make the most of the time we have, yes?"
She moves forward to kiss her lover, to ignite that spark that always lurks beneath the surface, but a hand stops her short.
Now Lorraine smirks, eyebrow quirking in a gentle tease.
"A little bird told me that a certain someone has a performance tonight." The smirk becomes a real smile, small but true. "I wouldn't want you to miss your debut."
Delphine is glad the room is dim, hopes it is enough to hide the blush on her cheeks.
"I would inform this little bird that no performance is more important than the chance to spend a lazy evening in bed with you."
The blonde snorts, expression turning just a touch lecherous.
"Lazy is not the way I would describe our time, but, that's not the point." Lorraine pauses, expression open and earnest as Delphine has ever seen it. "I want to see you play."
The blush spreads down from Delphine's cheeks, down over her throat (the scar so faint it is barely a silvery shine there), onto her chest.
"You have seen me play," she demures, looking down at her lap, equal parts pleased and embarrassed by her lover's interest.
Lorraine lifts her chin with one crooked finger (her knuckles are bruised badly, still purple with it, and a small bandage sits on her wrist, hinting at stitches), waiting until the younger woman looks her in the eyes before speaking.
"I want to see you play in front of other people. I want to see you thrive, darling." Her expression doesn't change - stays earnest and firm - but the smallest of creases appears between her eyes. Lorraine Broughton is unsure. "Unless you don't want me there."
Delphine is quick to reassure.
"Of course I want you there, mon amour. C'est juste... c'est stupide..."
Picking up the mostly dead cigarette, the blonde takes a deep drag, burning it to the filter. She doesn't say anything further, just waits for Delphine to continue.
"But just, what if I am not good enough? What if they laugh?"
Lorraine raises an eyebrow, stubbing out the smoldering end and cracking her neck.
"You clearly believe that this is important enough to do it despite these fears, so tell me what is really bothering you."
Delphine feels her throat closing suddenly, like something large and hot is lodged there. It is not as bad as dying, but it is distressing nonetheless. She forces herself to be calm, not to panic at the feeling.
"I am... unsure of how you will react." Both blonde eyebrows creep upwards towards Lorraine's hairline. "To the songs. I... some are about you..."
Lorraine's expression goes blank, empty for a moment, before she seems to realize and shakes herself back into emotion.
"Angelique," she begins, then frowns and begins again. "Delphine -"
"They are not about you, about you, just... spiritually? Non, metaphorically." The younger woman assures, moving to stand. "I would never compromise your safety, I swear it. But... you would know they are about you."
Before she rises too far, the blonde pulls her back down, enfolding her in a warm, solid embrace.
"I know. I trust you, remember?" She chuckles, resting her chin on the dark haired woman's shoulder. "You should let me finish my thoughts, yes?"
Delphine nods, kissing Lorraine's cheek; partially in apology and partially to draw courage.
Lorraine smiles (Delphine can feel it against her lips) and leans into the gesture, humming so softly it is almost inaudible.
"As I was saying, Delphine . I can't guarantee what I will feel after hearing your songs, but right now what I feel is honored. And I can promise that whatever my reaction, it will be honest."
Delphine can only nod, a strange sort of relief rushing through her body.
"Okay?" Lorraine asks, turning her head to kiss her neck.
"Okay," Delphine replies, nodding. "Okay."
****
The cafe is small and dim, lit mostly by candles on the scattered tables. There is a small raised platform that the proprietors call a stage, but Delphine thinks this is much too generous. Really it is little more than planks of wood painted black and stacked side by side so that they add a few inches to the performers, but that will serve her purposes.
Nervous, sweat dotting her forehead and slicking her hands, Delphine steps up to the microphone and clears her throat.
"Th-thank you. I have written a few songs for you, I hope you find them to your liking."
Another nervous clearing of her throat.
The lights are bright on her, but only in comparison with the rest of the cafe. Squinting as she lifts her battered acoustic guitar (a gift from her lover, who says it once belonged to Bob Dylan), she seeks out familiar ice blue eyes.
Lorraine reclines in her chair, looking for all the world as if she is completely inattentive, but Delphine sees the way her gaze is steady despite her slouch and takes strength from it.
Strumming a few chords, Delphine closes her own eyes and holds the image of Lorraine in bed in her mind. The way the older woman looks when she thinks Delphine is not paying her any mind.
The Frenchwoman leans forward, mouth almost touching the cheap, dirty microphone, and begins.
Her songs are more Joan Baez and Joni Mitchel than Prince or Freddy Mercury, but they are strong and pierce to the heart of her. They are her poetry - some parts more clunky and juvenile than others, especially in the translation to English, but all earnest and real - accompanied by the sounds of the strings she has spent the last year blistering her fingers to learn.
They are beautiful songs, if unrefined.
She sings three, two in English and one in French. When she is finished she opens her eyes, smiling briefly at the applause she gets.
Looking over to the corner, she sees that Lorraine is gone, and the smile breaks like a glass dropping onto the floor.
Swallowing deeply and automatically hugging the MC as he comes up on stage to usher her off and continue the program, she quickly makes her way to the exit, desperate to go home and hide the raw and naked heartache she feels.
Outside Lorraine waits, leaning casually against the brick wall of the building.
She doesn't say a word as she reaches out and takes Delphine's hand, but her own fingers shake as they wrap around the younger woman's palm.
When they get home, Lorraine takes her against the barely closed door, then lifts her into her arms and carries her to bed and makes love to her again, softer and with infinite amounts of care.
Slowly, Delphine goes from shattered to calm to almost happy.
"Did... did you like them?" she asks after a time, wrapped securely in the older woman's arms.
"I think you know," Lorraine replies, amused.
She runs a lazy hand up and down Delphine's arm, tracing letters and phrases that the younger woman chooses to ignore, though she could identify and decipher them if she chose.
"Tell me anyway," Delphine whispers, needing to hear it, still tender from earlier.
Lorraine pulls her up, so they are face to face, then flips them over so she is on top, peppering kisses along her cheeks and neck and chest. With each one she mumbles something, something short and true.
"What?"
"Je t’aime. I love you."
Delphine feels her throat closing again, but this time it is not frightening.
She yanks the older woman back up and kisses her, not stopping until they are both gasping for breath.
They don't say another word until long after the sunrises, bathing the room and their bodies in golden sunlight.
"Sing to me?" Lorraine asks quietly, ear pressed firmly against Delphine's chest.
Delphine smiles, feeling warm and happy and exhausted.
Taking a deep breath, she beings to sing.