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Donna Willis hummed quietly as she nursed a glass of wine in her hand. The dark, rich liquid caught the specks of light coming from the full moon outside, its silver rays making way through clouds and the half-drawn curtains to paint her hands with crystal red of the drink.
Red like wine.
Red like blood.
Her breath caught in her chest as her gaze involuntarily travelled up to the fireplace, now cold and dark; but that was not what she focused on. On the shelf there stood photographs, coloured and monochrome, of her family, her beloved sons. All eight of her boys, then all seven, then–
She forced herself to look away, manicured fingers going pale as she gripped her wine glass tighter.
"You're alright, Donna. You simply drank too much. It happens when you're drunk." Her voice was shaky as she pretended to be alright. Her sons' eyes looked at her through the photographs, both proud and worried.
With a gulp she finished the drink, then wiped the corners of her mouth with her middle finger as her other hand put the glass away with way too much force. "I know, James. Don't remind me." She begged as she once again looked up towards the photos, almost able to hear her oldest son's concern at the way she was behaving. James didn't reply, steadily holding her gaze, face proud as he posed in his uniform in front of the American flag.
An old, yellowed telegram laid next to it, stamped with an emblem, black ribbon tied around it.
Donna rubbed her forehead and got up from the couch. Her meticulously made beehive was now a series of falling strands of hair, loosely cascading over her shoulders. With a sigh she carded her hand through her hair to brush it away from her pale face, her brow twitching as she unintentionally tugged on some knot remaining from her previous hairstyle.
"I'm sorry, boys…" She said half to herself, half to the photographs on her wall. Some of her sons were cheerfully posing with their young kids, others were with their wives and fiancées. Her gaze lingered on two little buggers, nestled between her now-oldest son Jacob and his wonderful wife Hannah. They visited her a couple of days ago, the kids matching their father's energy to the dot. She missed having a loud house, full of kids running around, up to mischief at all times. Was it tiring? Obviously, and yet she missed the times of her youth.
She had always wanted to give her boys a happy home, a safe home. It definitely wasn't easy, not here, not in Boston, not for a single widowed mother who had to manage seven boys, not for an abandoned mother with her eight child on the way. So she worked, full time, then took a second job. James was old enough to help with managing the youngest Jeremy while she was away, Jacob and Joseph were growing up quickly enough to help out with their younger brothers too. She never took their help for granted yet now, being faced with loneliness and too much free time and alcohol on her hands, overthinking everything made her feel worse and worse about herself.
She was a good mother, wasn't she? She always made sure her boys didn't lack anything, and she tried to spend as much time with her children as possible. She even took them on vacation a couple of times, and John and Jude went to college thanks to child support being paid by Jeremy's father. The man did have a tendency to disappear, but his payments were always on time, so he was decent in at least that area. She only saw him a couple of times after he had left her with a baby, all of the meetings bittersweet, filled with angst and yet such amounts of love and affection that she felt dizzy and lightheaded, and so incredibly confused, and so shattered when he left her again.
She reached out, adjusting the last photo to be in line with the others. This time in colour, her boy, her baby boy Jeremy all grown up, his buckteeth on full display in a wide, flashy grin. After he failed to finish high school, landing a well paid job felt like a dream. She still remembered how proud she was of her boy, and how incredibly scared she felt when she learned all available details of the job.
It was right after James' death, wasn't it? Jeremy returned home almost oddly joyous, beaming despite still grieving his oldest brother. I'm going to have a job, ma! he yelled in the doorway, and she remembered running out of the kitchen, hands still wet after doing the dishes, all to congratulate him and be happy with him and celebrate this unexpected event. Only Jude was still living with her back then, the rest of her sons already living their own lives; the three of them celebrated the entire evening, and she felt like nothing could ever bring her down. Only later did she learn that he would be sent away, all the way to New Mexico, to work there. She never got any other details, never even got a job description, which happened, right? And yet that happiness soon turned into worry weighing down on her soul like a millstone, threatening to drown her in her thoughts, especially when Jude left suddenly to live with a close friend of his.
Before she knew it she was left alone, looking at her baby boy being taken away, his bright red shirt fading into the distance.
She sobbed, the memories all too vivid, especially in her current state. She reached towards the coffee table where her empty wine glass sat, then sniffled loudly as she dug her nails into her wrist instead. Gosh, was she pathetic. She could only hope that her children would never see her like that, her classy and composed facade irreversibly shattered as they'd witness this mess of a woman she became behind the closed doors.
A knock on the door pulled her out of her mind. She straightened up abruptly, eyes wide, hands falling to her sides. "Delivery!" An unfamiliar voice called out and she wiped her tears away, her dark eyeliner smudging over her cheeks.
Her first instinct was to go to the door, and that's what she did, and yet a thought stopped her. She did not order anything, as far as she could remember. So she glanced out through the peephole in her door, only to see an unassuming young man, a scruffy redhead holding what, a pizza box? Why was he here?
"Wrong address!" She called out through the door, her voice breaking halfway through the sentence. She clenched her fist, powerless and ashamed, and closed her eyes tightly when the knocking repeated itself.
Didn't he hear her?
She took a deep breath and straightened her face.
"I'm sorry honey, but you got a wrong address. I didn't order anyth-"
Words died in her throat as she opened the door, her eyes wide, her heartbeat picking up. That red suit couldn't be mistaken with anything, especially paired with a deep red mask covering the man's face. His hands were slender and gloved, one holding a bouquet of roses, the other - a disguise with the stupid redhead's face drawn on it.
She instinctively took a step back, her hand hovering over the door handle. Her vision got misty again, tears collecting in the corners of her blue eyes.
"Donna…"
"Go away." She sniffled, glaring up at him. Her loose, tangled hair tickled the exposed skin on her shoulders and neck, her usual pink dress suddenly feeling stiff and uncomfortable.
"Donna."
She sobbed and shook her head, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. With a firm motion she closed the door, then leaned her back against the hard wood. She sniffled and hid her face in her hands as she allowed her body to sink down against the door, her knees feeling weak and unstable.
She barely registered when the door opened and closed again. A warm presence appeared next to her, an arm making way around her shoulders, pulling her closer against him.
"Donna, you're drunk." His voice was just as she remembered, low and warm, with a faint french accent tainting his words. She shook her head, then nodded, grasping his shirt and quietly sniffling into it.
The Spy rolled his eyes slightly, discretely shifting his tie out of the way to prevent it from being stained by her snot and tears. "What am I going to do with you, eh, mon chou?" He whispered into her hair, taking in the smell of her perfume. Gray streaks began to creep their way between the charcoal strands of her hair, he noticed, and yet he found himself not minding that change in her appearance. She looked even more mature this way, even more beautiful in his eyes, even if her makeup was smeared all over her face and she definitely wasn't sober.
"I don't… I'm sorry…" Donna said weakly, and the Spy shook his head.
"I know you are. Come on, let's get you to bed." He decided. He wanted to have a fun night with her but he was a gentleman, a man of manners, of course he needed to take care of her when she was in such a state. That's something any man with a semblance of responsibility and dignity would do, and he did pride himself on having a lot of the latter.
Deaf to any of her protests he picked her up from the ground, his knees producing a series of quiet pops he prayed she did not hear as he rose up.
"I'm sorry…" Donna repeated, and the Spy let out a quiet sigh.
"Don't be. It… happens to the best of us. Besides, you know I will not tell your children anything." He reassured her, doing his best to get rid of the usual mock and coldness that was synonymous with his tone, and make his words more gentle and more genuine.
"My children…" Donna picked up and again looked at the photographs as they passed by them. "Jeremy…?"
"He's safe and alright. I am… keeping an eye on him." The Spy settled on saying. Had he told her that he worked in the same place as her son? He did not remember, age apparently getting to him as well. But she didn't exactly know where her son worked, and given that he held a lot of secrets regarding his life… he was safe to assume that she did not know that particular piece of information.
"You are? Oh, Corentin…" Donna did not question it further, instead she closed her eyes and nuzzled her cheek against his chest, his broad and firm chest, smelling of cigarettes, cologne and alcohol.
She was soon forced to open her eyes as he jostled her, sitting her down on her bed. Without a word she looked up at him and she breathed deeply, feeling ashamed and sorry, even if the wine in her system made her more desensitised to what was physically going on around her.
Her pale eyes observed passively as her lover knelt down in front of her, before slowly unzipping her dress. He carefully guided the fabric to loosely fall off her shoulders, exposing her, and she shuddered when she felt him kiss her collarbone.
"You're as beautiful as the day I lost you." He murmured into her freckled skin and she rolled her eyes, leaning into his touch.
"You lost me? I lost you, it was you who abandoned me." She pointed out and the Spy sighed heavily, a sad smile dancing on his thin lips.
"Oh, merde, be quiet. I was trying to be romantic." He grumbled and she couldn't help but chuckle, despite the heavy matter of their conversation.
That's why she could forgive him every time he did appear in her doorway. His charm, his sex appeal, the shroud of mystery around him that was like a magnet, it felt like a beacon of light for a moth that she was; but also the care and gentleness, and the impossible amount of reverence that made her feel as if she was a goddess or a divine being, praised and exalted, adorated by him for the very way she breathed, she walked, she lived. If that was how a goddess felt, she would not mind being Corentin's religion, she came to a conclusion as she sat naked on the edge of her bed. She did not even know when did he finish undressing her.
"Hands up." He asked softly and she obeyed, feeling the delicate fabric of her sleeping gown brush against her skin as he dressed her up for the night. "Bon travail, now give me your face… Exactement. Sage fille..." He talked to her in french and she did not even care what it was at this point. The delicate touches he left on her skin as he cleaned her face with a handkerchief, the warmth and vibrancy of his voice, it made her feel more at home than she had felt for a long time.
"Allez, on va te mettre au lit, d'accord, mon petit chou-fleur? Tu es tout ébouriffé, mais ce n'est pas grave. Tu vas t'endormir et je resterai avec toi toute la nuit. Je ne disparaîtrai pas cette fois."
His whisper was intoxicating, his words incense filling the room with a taste of love she had not felt for so long. It was like fireplace smoke, the kind that gets tangled in your hair and clothes, and no matter how much you try you still can't get it out, except… she didn't want to get it out. She wanted to live it, breathe it, allow it to curl around her like a shawl, her own armour against the cold and unwelcoming world. Like a phoenix, she would perish just to rise again, her better, new self, living in the flame of his feeling, robed in the mist of his love that would sit on her skin like droplets of dew and wash off all the impurity she held within.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, bare freckled skin against his suit, pulling at his collar and tugging at his tie. "Corentin…" She breathed, her eyelids fluttering shut as she tried to urge him to scoot forward. "Oh, Corentin…" She whispered again and with surprise opened her eyes as the Spy didn't reciprocate her gesture. Instead, he gently pulled her away.
"Donna, you're drunk. We can't." He said patiently, and with a smooth movement he helped her lie down on the bed. "Go to sleep, mon petit chou-fleur. I will be here when you wake up." He promised.
Before she realised it, before she could even protest, her tired eyes fluttered shut, body relaxing between her pillows.
The first thing she registered upon waking up was a headache. It wasn't dramatic but it was there, a constant low hum of pain at the back of her mind. She winced when morning light hit her face, getting into her still sleepy eyes, magnifying her discomfort. And yet she was in her own bed, dressed in a night gown she did not remember putting on. Her hair was loosely scattered over the pillow, and she did not even have that sticky feeling of a previous day's makeup on her face.
How did she…
"I see you did finally wake up."
The voice that suddenly spoke up effectively shooed the last remnants of her sleepiness away, acting like a bucket of ice cold water being poured over her head.
She sat up abruptly, her heart beating faster as she noticed the man sitting in her armchair. Red suit gone, he was sitting there in his crisp, white shirt, long and slender legs stretched across the floor, mask taken off his face revealing a gentleman in his fifties that usually hid underneath, with a tired face and slowly greying temples.
She jumped out of bed, running up to him. "Corentin, you're… I thought I only dreamt of you. I did not expect you to…" She made a vague gesture before wrapping her arms around his shoulders. A shuddering breath left her parted lips as she felt him reciprocate the hug, pulling her onto his lap.
"You've been gone for so long."
"I know, ma chérie. I'm sorry." He whispered into her dark hair, holding her close. "My job was… Well, a lot, lately. But I'm here now." His gloved hands were travelling up and down her spine, and when she pulled away one of his hands began to gently stroke the edge of her jaw.
"I hate you. You left me again, you…" She looked away, unable to keep her emotions in check. A wave of sadness and anger rose abruptly within her chest, but simmered down when she felt him touch her face again. This time the glove was gone, his hand that used to be so delicate and manicured now showing signs of ageing, blue veins protruding through his thin, pale skin, pale scars wrapping around his fingers from years of fighting.
"You know how my job is, I… I can't stay with you, no matter how much I would love that." There was no cockiness in his voice, no coldness, only what felt like genuine sadness and guilt. "It's for your safety. Yours and the boys'." He reminded.
It was rare, seeing him like that. And that was why Donna knew she couldn't hold it against him, all those years of longing and loneliness, the trouble the boys gave her when she fought to stay afloat and the tears in her eyes when she felt his cologne linger in her clothes she was putting in the wash. She breathed deeply and kissed the hand caressing her face, then leaned in and placed another kiss on his jaw covered with a faint shadow of a stubble.
"Will you stay with me this time?" She almost didn't want to ask that question, the words heavy on her tongue. She knew the answer beforehand, of course she did; it still didn't help the heartbreak she felt when she saw her lover shake his head.
"Non." His reply was short and curt, but new hope filled Donna when his lips touched hers. "But I am here now. And I will be back." He muttered into her skin, holding her close.
"I will always be back, mon petit chou-fleur."