- - мy aяcнιvεs

[- - la nuit blanche]

Adela let her thumb graze gently across the man’s cheek as she timidly caressed his marred face, but before she could become more certain of her own touch her damaged angel drew her hand away, coiling back into himself once again. The young woman breathed a small sigh of lament and lowered her gaze. Even in the dark her disappointment was somehow tangible. How she ached somehow to touch him, to reassure him. Why she was so compelled to mend this embittered specter, she scarcely knew. He was only a figment of her past life at the Opera Populaire, a shadowy, intangible apparition and by all rights, something of a menace. It was the theater she should love, not him. She had memories of the stage, the dormitories, the exquisite marble lobby – she’d never been personally acquainted with the infamous Phantom, and so presumably, she could not be expected to offer him any nostalgic sort of sympathy. He was as much a stranger to her as she was to him. And yet, she wanted above all else to help him. In some way he’d become more of a project to her than the restoration of the opera house itself. This distrusting brute was all she had, all she wanted even, in her entire existence. Suddenly nothing mattered so much as he, nothing could compare. It was as if the moment she entered that damp, candlelit cavern, the rest of the world simply fell away.

And to feel this man, her only care, draw her touch away, as if he could hardly stand to accept the feel of her flesh… It wounded her in a way she’d never expected. However, she knew somehow she could not blame him for that injury. He’d been given so many reasons to recoil, so many reasons not to trust. It had become his nature to be wary, Adela considered. That cold apprehension was his only defense. And how could she ease it down? Was she to repeat again and again the sentiment that he should have more faith in her? Would he ever truly believe her? Should she crawl up nearer to his side, nestle herself under his arm and beg him to hold her? If she offered herself so willingly into his embrace, would he understand how dearly she cared, and how explicitly she trusted him herself? Or should she draw him into her own arms instead, cradle his mottled cheek against the warmth of her heartbeat and coddle him like a child, whispering soothing reassurances into his ear? He’d never believe any of it, she thought. He would refuse her affection, consider her kindness merely coy, feminine deception. And perhaps he’d be right to do so. How could he understand that it was safe for him to believe her, when all his life he’d been accustomed to lies and rejection?

“I understand…” she whispered at last, by means of quietly retreating; she could push him no further tonight. “I’ve exhausted you… I’m sorry. I meant only to relieve you of that mask’s discomfort,” she explained, sighing lightly as his fingers stroked and combed through her hair. Her head tilted a little and she leaned welcomingly into his hand. “Truly, I do not wish to force your trust. But here, sightless in the dark, let me stay and be your relief… Depend a little on me, not on that unfeeling disguise. Perhaps then you’ll begin to believe in me.”

As the man coughed into his sleeve, Adela rested a hand gently against his arm, biting her lip worriedly. Even through the darkness her eyes carefully surveyed him, and once the short spell had passed she followed his arm down to his fingers and clasped them gingerly in her own. “Come,” she whispered softly, lifting herself carefully to her feet then easing him up as well. “I shouldn’t have provoked you so… You ought to be resting.” Helping them both to move carefully through the shadows, Adela brought her charge back to his bed and drew away the covers so he could get himself comfortable. She parted from him only briefly, announcing her momentary departure with a warm squeeze to his hand before letting him go to walk to the other side of the bed. It was difficult to see in the darkness but a faint glimmer of stark white caught her eye; kneeling down, she retrieved the neglected mask. As she straightened, she looked pensively into that colorless plate. She held it gingerly in her hands and the delicate pad of one finger lightly stroked the alabaster cheek. It was cold, hard, expressionless as stone beneath her touch. No, this was not her dear musician. And whether the smooth, shining white surface was more attractive than the flesh usually hidden beneath it, Adela wanted no part of that mask. Even when she touched the stained cheek of her disfigured companion, there was a comforting warmth there, something real, something beautiful in its own bare sincerity. While others hated the Phantom for his true face, Adela placed her loathing instead upon his mask, because it barred her so fiercely from the man she held so dear. If he felt it so necessary to conceal his face, she wished he’d hide it against the palm of her hand, within the smooth crook of her neck, the warmth of her bosom. It was no pleasant thing to feel in competition with an article so hard and inhuman as that cold disguise.

Nonetheless, she returned to the Phantom’s bedside with the mask in hand and as she settled lightly upon the edge of the mattress, she set it down upon the surface of the nightstand with care. It was close within reach of its owner; if he desired it over the comfort she claimed she would offer, Adela would not withhold it.

[- - la nuit blanche]

▇▇▇▇xxthe doctor is

»» a bit of a tease

As the remaining currents of the Joker’s outburst finally ebbed away, so did the doctor’s thrill of exhilaration. The tension in the room subsided and as he no longer looked ready to snap her delicate neck, she felt much less excited But, not in a bad way. The frantic tripping of her heartbeat quieted and she watched the man sedately, no longer quite so eager to provoke him. She was simply too interested now to feel so hysterically delighted. She was interested in how he spoke, repeating so eloquently the diagnonsense that had been fed to him by all his past doctors and therapists, talking as if they were all right about him. “Too little credit” he said she gave her predecessors; so did he think all those shrinks had the right idea? Or was he merely toying with her, urging his fabricated perception to fit her reality? Either way, she knew what she thought. She didn’t equate his rational to mean the same thing as her human. Rationality didn’t interest her all too much. Most lunatics were rational. They had their reasons, their motives, just like any other thoughtful beast. It was this brute’s humanity that interested her the most, because – even if it was something of a longshot – she was determined he still possessed it. Maybe just a shred, maybe a fragment that hadn’t been used in decades, but it was there, somewhere. She was sure of it. And if she was wrong, she'd still have an enjoyable time searching for it.

“It doesn’t matter to me either way,” he said. So why hadn’t he just killed her then? She guessed he’d have felt an immense amount of satisfaction if he’d just strangled her, rather than listen to her explanation. Even if he was pleased to hear her own admission, that she’d drugged him almost entirely out of spite and malice, wouldn’t it have been more fun just to kill her? She’d been asking for it, ever since the moment they met, but he was still restraining himself. And why? Perhaps she was presuming too much, but Vivienne suspected that he quieted his anger, suppressed the urge to murder her, for her sake. Who else would benefit? Sure, he could argue that he wanted her alive to simply keep his own personal plaything, a pretty toy to charm and manipulate and lie to. But that still meant he wanted her, and would show her mercy – a very human sentiment, Vivienne pondered – because that desire was, at least currently, more important to him than killing her for pleasure. So when he commented that it didn’t matter to him whether he decided to keep her alive or to not, Vivienne had to suppress a small smile of disbelief. It mattered. For some reason, it mattered.

Of course, part of that smile came from sheer amusement: right after explaining that he didn’t care whether he killed her or not, he extended his arm, beckoning her closer. If she believed him, obviously at that point she would’ve kept her distance. But Vivienne didn’t believe him, not quite, and so she accepted the invitation. After nudging off her high heels and discarding them on the floor, she crawled close to his side and nestled herself beneath his arm. Her head tilted into his shoulder and one arm idly settled itself around the man’s torso. She vaguely wondered how he would reciprocate the easy embrace. Would he stroke her hair, try to grope for her breasts, finally give in and make a grab for her throat? He had her entirely within his power now, relaxing much too trustfully in his arms, and she wondered what he’d do.

So far, he’d only decided that it was now his turn to ask questions. So, Vivienne waited comfortably for him to choose the right inquiry. Her head was tucked somewhere beneath his chin and like a child, she absently fingered at a small tear she’d found near the neckline of his hospital gown, amusing herself through the brief silence. When at last he gave his question, the woman couldn’t help but crane her neck up to look at him, grinning thoughtfully. “That’s a funny question,” she stated pensively. “At least, it’s funny that you should ask it, seeing as you don’t care whether I live through our little friendship.” She squirmed a little beneath his arm, not for a moment pulling away, but shifting only to make herself more comfortable against him. She seemed to treat him like a longtime beau or a protective older brother, cozying up to him and seeming simply to know that she was safe. This confidence was naïve, if not downright idiotic, but the risk made for an interesting test. What would the killer do, now that he had a pretty young woman clasped in his arms, a woman who offered explicit trust, even affection? Would he be offended by her boldness, irritated that she seemed not to fear him? Would he take advantage of the vulnerability she appeared to show? Or, most shocking of all perhaps, would he simply play the part with her? It was difficult for Vivienne to sit still, so eager was she to see how he’d respond. But then, she still hadn’t answered his question.

With a long sigh, the woman pursed her lips and thought. “I guess it's because you don’t repel me,” she answered at last, looking away from him to right her head back on his shoulder. She subconsciously snuggled a little deeper into his side, not as part of her daring little act, but in search of some kind of assurance before she continued. She was honestly considering this question of his, going over it thoughtfully in her mind. It was too familiar to get under her skin; she’d been asking herself the same thing for days. “I know you should…” she continued slowly. “But you don’t. I’m not afraid to be with you. You make me feel…” She paused, struggling. Suddenly the articulate doctor was an awkward teenage girl, trying with difficulty to lend words to new emotions that felt utterly beyond her. She sighed uselessly and shook her head a little, as much as she could move it while still pressing her temple to his shoulder. “…less numb, I suppose. I feel better knowing that someone else has probably been in more pain than myself.”

“Or maybe I’m just waiting for you to go ahead and kill me.”

❝ neurosis is only a substitute for legitimate suffering ❞
[ neurosis neurosis neurosis ]

people are strange when you're a stranger
faces look ugly when you're alone
women seem wicked when you're unwanted
streets are uneven when you're down.

[- - la nuit blanche]

The cell was dirty and dim, as it always was. The concrete floor was stained and discolored and the only source of light, a naked bulb that hung above her head, pulsed faintly, affording somehow more darkness than illumination and not a shred of hope. She was alone, dreadfully alone, bound to a splintery chair. It felt like hours that she’d been left there. Her clothes were torn and she ached, trembling and shivering uncontrollably. For a while the only sounds she could hear were her own pained whimpers and choked sobs but then a metallic shriek came as the heavy, industrial door was wrenched open. Her vision blurred through her tears and the scent of blood – her own blood – made her dizzy with nausea, but when she looked up she could see the silhouette of a man standing at the threshold, only a brittle shadow obscured by the light shining behind him. That light vanished as the door was pulled closed but the man remained faceless in the murky cell; she closed her eyes before she was forced to see him and she hung her head with another injured sob.

“Sophie…” a cool voice crooned. It was meant to sound soothing but the light, falsetto cackle that followed made the young woman want to scream. Whether out of terror or furious hatred she wasn’t sure, but she proved unable to do more than weep as the man came nearer. She closed her eyes tighter but heard his footsteps still, leading him closer and closer until finally he bent to peer into her bloodied face. She shriveled pathetically into herself as a puff of his breath fell across her brow and she flinched away. “Sophie…” the man cooed again. “Such a pretty girl shouldn’t cry…” The warmth that suddenly oozed from his voice was false to be sure, but the shuddering captive loosened despite herself. Her next sob quieted to a quivering sigh and her damp eyes opened warily at last. But she couldn’t see the villain that had been standing before her just moments ago, the man who had murdered her father earlier that very night. He had moved to stand at her back. The dim light cast his shadow cast over her, swallowing up her own and extending away into the darkness. “If you’d only cooperate,” he offered softly, his tone gentle and almost fatherly. She felt his hands lower to lay upon her trembling shoulders. “I wouldn’t have to hurt you anymore…” From her back he brushed away her matted hair and she shuddered as his cold lips pressed to the base of her bared neck.

With a hoarse gasp Sophia started from her sleep and struggled to lift herself upright. Her heart was beating fast and she was shaking all over in fright, but in the instant that she came back to herself, she gave a breathy giggle into one hand, laughing girlishly at the horrifying vision. Considering that the nightmare wasn’t only a fabricated dream but a remembrance of a very real history, it was strange that she should react so carelessly. With a tiny smile, she laid back down in her bed and closed her eyes again.

It had been some five or six years since the night of which she’d just dreamt. She’d been only a girl then, twenty-one and carefully sheltered all her life by a gruff but loving father. Her mother had died early in her childhood and Monsieur Auclair was keenly aware – certainly through his line of work – of the atrocities men were capable of; little Sophie was restricted to a life contained within her papa’s London penthouse or otherwise the family’s French chateau, pampered and spoiled and incredibly naïve. She was generally happy in her coddled seclusion, a little restless maybe, but nonetheless content to keep her innocence – until the night her father was killed. He had been retired from duty for years but certain enemies knew that he was still privy to the secrets of MI6 and French Intelligence, and supposed that he would be easily threatened. There was one who was supposed to prevent this sort of attempt, an up-and-coming agent called Bond, but the enemy’s hand eluded him through the genius of Auric Kristatos. Sophia's father was speedily killed when he refused to give up information and his daughter was stolen away to be interrogated and tortured in his place.

Kristatos held her for nearly two years, evading every pursuer, until Sophia finally made her miraculous escape. Battered and bruised, though surprisingly well-adjusted, she emerged from her imprisonment to take over her father’s fortune while MI6 struggled to locate and trap her malicious captor. For years now Kristatos had lain quiet; the organization only recently identified as “Quantum” conducted their terror without him, or so it seemed. Meanwhile Mademoiselle Desmarais remained close to MI6 and a dearly protected charge of M herself. Sophia’s abduction was perhaps the most intimate failing of the struggling organization, her father having been an agent himself, as well as a loving friend to the now double-0 status James Bond. Looking after Sophia seemed the most appropriate compensation M could offer, and the young woman seemed gracious enough to accept it.

Unbeknownst to all, Sophia was hardly what she appeared to be – a lovely girl, all grown up now, and forgiving friend to James Bond and his employer. After passing several months as the psychological plaything of Auric Kristatos, the impressionable girl had been quite easily broken. She’d fallen in love with her brilliant captor and worked under his agenda now, proving herself a truly valuable asset. For years now she helped him to slip beneath M’s radar and used her government connections to aid in his missions with Quantum. She shielded her lover in every way, and no one had the faintest notion that she was anything more than a sorry victim of MI6’s negligence.

Recently however, Auric had decided that it was time to come out from hiding. While he prepared operations to sell weapons through Quantum to other terrorist organizations, he led MI6 to believe that he remained a threat to Sophia, knowing quite well that they would not wish to fail her again. They would protect her with someone she knew, someone she was comfortable with, an old friend. James Bond. While 007, the best operative MI6 had these days, was kept occupied with Sophia, Kristatos would be free to continue work as planned. Sophiagrudgingly accepted her recurring role as “damsel in distress,” and decided she’d enjoy her time with Bond. He had failed her father, he had failed her, and now she could get back at him. After detesting him quietly for years, she could now be the one to betray him.

xxx xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Ever since M had been spooked into upping MI6 protection of the Desmarais villa, life for Sophia had been dreadfully tedious. In the days before Bond could arrive to protect her himself, she was caged in by at least half a dozen other faceless agents. They stationed themselves in dark corners at night, loped through the shadows with guns at the ready; dutiful they were indeed, though entirely unwelcome. Sophia felt cramped by these unfamiliar bodyguards, ill at ease and often moody. It was unnerving, being so constantly watched this way by so many unknowing enemies. Things would be better, she thought, when only James was there to look after her. Fooling six strangers was becoming horribly taxing; she would be far more relaxed when only one man need be convinced of her act. And convincing him, Sophia considered, would be an all but effortless endeavor.

It had been years since she’d spoken to Mr. Bond. Since she’d “escaped” from Auric’s captivity, she might’ve seen him briefly once or twice, might’ve heard his name in passing through her work, but they’d never really had any chance to visit since the night her father was killed. From what she’s heard, he was rapidly honing his skill as a double-0, had been at least marginally successful in every mission since the woeful failure of his first. When it was mutually suggested that Bond be the one to guard her until Auric was detained, M assured Sophia that he would not allow any harm to come to her again, that he’d proven himself a talented agent and was currently one of MI6’s best. But to Sophia, he would ever remain the strapping prodigy who used to run errands for her father, who sometimes visited for dinner and pushed her on the rope swing outside their country house. She’d eyed him with blatant yearning for most of her teenage years, and subtler admiration as she grew a little older. She’d trusted him explicitly until the night she was kidnapped, and before then, she might’ve called them friends. They were close at any rate, in one way or another, and Sophia intended to use this former intimacy to her advantage. If James could still see her as a precious young woman in need of his protection, the same girl he’d known so many years ago, she doubted he’d ever even conceive that she might someday betray him.

Upon the night that he was finally meant to arrive, Sophia sat up in her bedroom, peering out the glass of an aged window and down upon the front courtyard. She watched his car pull into the drive, watched him exchange a few brief words with the other agents present, and smiled vaguely to herself before turning away from the pane. His features were indistinguishable from the two-story window but even from afar there was something familiar and nostalgic about him, detestable though he was. But Sophia couldn’t stand there and ponder this feeling for long; a small party was beginning to disperse below and her guests would be missing her. Since early in the evening the decadent chateau had been softly bustling with the little gathering of business associates, financiers, and close friends. Of course she was advised not to host such a gala, exclusive as it was, at such a time when her very life could be in danger, but Sophia was a charming and determined girl and she received permission from her rabble of bodyguards without much fuss. They were employed to protect her, not to rule her. And anyway, it was imperative that this little meeting be had – one guest had come to deliver information concerning Auric’s activities and whereabouts, and Sophia was breathless to hear it. But by now that man had come and gone, slipping casually beneath the armed hounds’ noses and off again under the pretense of having another engagement elsewhere. Only a few innoculous last guests remained and as Sophia returned to the first floor sitting room to rejoin them, she was glad to see them sipping off their last glasses of champagne and gathering their coats.

Precisely as the doorbell rang, announcing the presence of a rather different guest, Sophia was walking the suitably intoxicated and good-natured party-goers to the door, amiably shaking hands a kissing cheeks as they said their goodbyes. When the door was opened, they filed past Mr. Bond in a light chatter of conversation, seeming entirely unaware of the next visitor seeking Sophia’s attention. But when she herself noticed him, she didn’t look away. While her guests tittered and gossiped their way to their cars, Sophia looked quietly at James, standing silent in the doorway a moment until her friends were out of earshot, once again wearing that same vague and pensive smile. She was dressed for that night’s soiree in a tastefully sequined gown of grey-blue. It matched her eyes and draped with simple elegance over her graceful figure, accented by the silver jewels that dangled subtly from her ears, neck, and wrists. Her coffee brown hair was tied loosely back away from her face except for the bangs that swept softly over her eyes – a fashion she’d preserved since her childhood.

“James,” she spoke at last, breathing the name easily through her smile as she stepped forward to him. As though they’d never been parted, and as though she simply couldn’t restrain herself, she hurried to greet him with an easy embrace and when she withdrew, she kept one of his hands clasped in her own to lead him inside. Hoping that his presence would give the other agents a suitable and obvious cue to take their leave, Sophia closed the door at their backs and offered Bond her full attention. With little shame she turned to look him over, deftly releasing his hand as she continued her appraisal. “You look so…” There were a hundred complimentary adjectives with which she might’ve chosen to conclude, but as her gaze roamed the length of his lean stature and up to his handsome face and lovely blue eyes, she gave the impression that not one could really do him justice.

“…Just as I remember you,” she finally amended. Her charming smile broadened and she lifted a listless hand to brush those childish bangs from her eyes.

xxx xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

As soon as Sophia’s eyes fell upon James, they scarcely looked away. He was a handsome man, to be sure, but that wasn’t the reason – at least not entirely – she gazed at him so steadily. She was quietly sizing him up, appraising him, taking him in. While her expression was serene, never betraying for an instant the mind working behind her curious eyes, she was scrutinizing him as her adversary, searching for his weaknesses. She looked inquisitively into his face as he complimented her, her gaze uninterrupted even as a juvenile agent entered to address Bond. Something about him seemed… weathered. He was now a seasoned killer, one of Her Majesty’s most well-trained dogs, but it had taken its toll on him. It was only perhaps because Sophia had known him in his youth, known him before he’d become so hardened, that she could detect this subtle change. But as she looked at him, she knew. He was different now.

There was something else she sensed in him, something she quietly pondered as he walked away with his co-worker. Guilt. It still lingered. For all his successes, for all his merits and heroic exploits, he’d still failed her once, and he remembered it. Good, Sophia thought, smirking bitterly to herself as she wandered towards a half-emptied bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice nearby. He should feel guilty. He’d ruined everything for her. He’d failed, miserably failed on all accounts. He’d let her father die, let her be taken away, and then let her rot in the possession of a villain for the better part of two years. And she’d trusted him. She’d never forgive him for that, never.

And yet, Sophia was surprised at the ease with which she was able to suppress this enduring hatred. It was simple, thoughtless. She’d greeted and embraced James with genuine warmth, led him inside her home by the hand as if she were again a little girl simply tugging him out to play. And when Bond returned from his brief conference with the younger man, she looked over her shoulder to smile at him, her eyes warm and keen as they admired him once more. She’d greeted his companion with notably less hospitality however; as he passed through the room, looking entirely attentive and benign, Sophia simply eyed him warily and without a smile. When he’d departed, she turned back to the bottle of champagne and emptied what was left of it into two crystal flutes, one of which she handed casually to James.

“Unfathomably dull.” She responded to his question with an impish little grin, returning easily to her character. She perched idly on the arm of an elegant sofa and took a small sip from her own glass of champagne. “It was mainly a business engagement, to see to my family’s investments. A tedious obligation.” The explanation came with a weary shrug and Sophia sighed as she set her glass aside. Eager to rid herself of the formalities of this tiresome event, she reached up to unfasten her stylishly tied hair and combed her fingers through the loosened auburn locks. She did not seem to dwell on the subject of her party for long, however. Her eyes wandered back to the door from which that other agent had just recently exited, then flitted questioningly back to James. “Will those other men be staying much longer?” she inquired somewhat moodily. She was obviously none too impressed with their constant attention. All undisclosed motives aside, she did feel rather stifled. And for obvious reasons, she didn’t like the idea of being caged. “I thought they were going to leave once you arrived…” She looked irritably away and sipped off the rest of her drink. With the notice of a roaming flashlight upon the lawn outside, she glanced curtly through a window and watched the beam of light almost anxiously until it finally faded away. After all, a young woman who had spent endless months as a terrorist’s hostage may well have had reason to fear a band of unfamiliar men with guns. Anyone could predict that these past few days, being so constantly monitored as though she were again held captive, were likely to have been rather uncomfortable for her.

“I asked for you specifically, you know,” Sophia added after a time, smiling bashfully as her nerves quieted. Deft fingers absently traced circles around the rim of her empty champagne flute and her eyes danced back up to James’ face. “I was so relieved when M agreed. I was sorry I never saw you after…” Her words trailed away but not awkwardly. She merely chose not to speak the obvious, and her shy smile remained to soften any bad memories for them both.

Once she’d set aside her glass once more, she slipped gracefully off the sofa and stepped a little nearer to her protector. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” she murmured, looking meaningfully up at him. This was more an obvious, perhaps lamentable statement, rather than a question, and his confirmation wasn’t necessary. It had been a number of years since she’d last seen James. Upon their last meeting she was still a girl, twenty-one and much inexperienced with the world. She was twenty-eight now, and significantly matured. “I’m not a child anymore…” she commented, softly voicing her thoughts. Her meaning was plain: she was no longer helpless, no longer sheltered, no longer innocent. And she didn’t want him to treat her as he used to. She was a woman now.

One hand strayed to toy gingerly with the chain of diamonds about her neck and she looked earnestly up at the assassin. “Tell the other men to leave…” she requested, her voice falling almost to a nervous whisper. “I don’t want them here… You’re here now. You’ll take care of me. I don’t need anyone else.” Apprehension fluttered in her eyes, a certain and obvious fear of trust. While it was plain enough that she trusted Bond, still felt she knew him well enough to confide in him – even if he’d failed her in the past – after her ordeal it was perhaps too much to ask that she offer half a dozen strangers the same reliance.

xxx xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Camille very well would have tried to stubbornly march herself all the way off into the next town, if her knees hadn’t gone all wobbly before she made it more than fifty yards away from the bed and breakfast. With her hands clenched into angry little fists and her lips set in that childish pout, she stomped onward with her mind hazy with anger. But anger at what? She wasn’t even sure. Why had that woman’s helpless flirtation with James set her off in such a way? Jealousy perhaps played a small factor, but that certainly wasn’t the full reason for her practically demolishing the dining room and storming away in a frenzy. Something else had troubled her more. As Camille contemplated it, her eyes growing a little damp with gathering tears, she sighed irritably. The vague conclusion was finally beginning to dawn on her. After talking to those benevolent old-timers, becoming just for an instant part of the normal world everyone else belonged in, she saw James, as usual, drawing attention to himself. That stupid woman had been sitting at her table, doting on her husband and her two darling children, happy and content until James captured her gaze. And then she’d looked at Camille, as if she wished they could simply trade places so she could be seated across from the blonde bombshell at breakfast, miles away from the monotonous charges of housewife and mother. That was when Camille realized it – she might’ve taken that trade. If given the opportunity, she’d leave her life behind for an honest job, a functional relationship, maybe even a family. But it wasn’t something she guessed she could ever have, and for that moment, she’d put the blame on James. Maybe for that moment, she’d realized that he was the only thing holding her back from that kind of life, because she simply wasn’t willing to leave him. She loved him too much.

She’d heard the footsteps approaching at her back, quickening as soon as she’d begun to waver with fatigue, and even though she knew precisely who was following her, she abruptly yanked away from his offered hand. In doing so however, she stumbled a little off balance and suddenly her head was spinning, aching and throbbing all over again. Luckily Bond steadied her before she could fall and she was reluctantly obliged to lean into him as her vision grew somewhat fuzzy. While she began to recover, quivering a little as she held onto him, she allowed the man to perch her up upon the picturesque fence lining the road and, as soon as she’d righted herself, drew her hands back from him and crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest. With a small sniffle, she hastily rubbed the unfallen tears from her eyes and looked down, evidently unwilling to give James the pleasure of her warm hazel eyes.

Cross and defiant as ever, she scoffed bitterly when he suggested that it was the offer of a new assignment that had set her off. She still refused to look up until at last the man muttered something that sounded true – “I missed you.” Warily she glanced properly into his face and suddenly felt those tears welling back into her eyes. As he continued, and with some difficulty, her arms uncrossed and her hands settled themselves timidly upon his shoulders. She didn’t bother to respond but by the time James turned to offer an impromptu piggyback ride, the flush of anger was gone from her cheeks and she seemed happy enough to humor him. She slid into his back, draping her arms down over his chest, and hugged herself warmly to him. As she laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes, absently tickling the back of his neck with a few soft kisses, she considered that maybe sticking with James was worth all this trouble.

Once they’d sat down at the well, the brooding girl seemed much recovered. She talked idly with her beau, apparently having forgiven him for whatever it was he’d done, and when he boldly tricked her into peering worriedly down into the shaft of trickling water, all feeble shreds of motherly instincts suddenly turning on in full, Camille answered the trick with at least some good humor. As she shoved James almost into falling back into the well himself, she giggled and pleasantly received the kiss he finally pressed to her cheek. “I can think of a few ways we could spend our afternoon…” she answered coyly. With a small grin, she nestled into his side and brushed her lips up the hard line of his jaw until she reached his ear for a playful nibble. “And none of them even require that we leave our hotel room…”

Laughing softly, she lifted a hand and gingerly turned his face towards her own, if only so she could kiss him better. She leaned in almost too eagerly, her soft mouth suckling gently around his lower lip, but before the gesture could grow any more heated Camille tugged away and smiled. “Take me back inside?” she requested a little breathlessly, peering up into his handsome eyes. Though she evidently had no intention of walking back into the hotel on her own; when James stood to accompany her, she reached her arms up to him like a little girl begging to be picked up. When he’d consented to her obvious request, she grinned delightedly and attached herself again to his back, urging him to piggyback her on towards the inn with a small dig of her heels into his legs.

As they paraded up the stairs, Camille holding on tight just in case the ride turned out to be a little bumpy, the young woman looked aside and saw the pretty blond housewife from earlier, just leaving the dining room with her husband. Oddly though, only the woman’s son was tagging along behind his parents; the little girl Camille had seen earlier was not with the party. But Camille wasn’t bothered too much by this – being that she was already too busy fending off the other woman’s slightly offending gaze as it followed her and James up the stairs. But soon enough, the pair reached their room and Camille slid off James’ back to hurry inside with him. She nudged the door closed at her back with the frantic smile of a girl much too eager to get out of her clothes. With one hand still clasped in James’, she tugged him to her and stepped up onto her tip toes to steal another kiss. After all, so far as she was concerned, he still owed her after abandoning her that morning.

However, just as she was about to tear open the buttons of his shirt and devour his lips again, she heard a soft whining coming from outside the door, which she’d apparently neglected to push closed all the way. The sound of frail weeping and soft calls of “Mama!” brought Camille to draw suddenly away from James and for a moment she looked almost accusingly into his eyes, as if he were again just playing on her softer emotions and staging some sort of trick. However, he looked perfectly innocent and as Camille drew gingerly out of his arms to open the door, she found the small girl from the dining room worriedly pacing the hallway in search of her family. With anxious tears streaming down her cheeks, she paused outside Camille’s door and looked nervously up at the unfamiliar woman. “Mama,” she sobbed. “Ou est-elle?”

“I’ll be right back,” Camille murmured over her shoulder to James. Then, after tugging that old stuffed bear from her small assortment of luggage, Camille stepped out of the room and towards the small lost girl. She offered her a few soothing murmurs and knelt down by her side, also offering the teddy bear, which the tiny thing warily accepted and hugged tightly. Then as Camille straightened, she held onto her fingers and let the woman lead her off in search of her mama. It was not long before the two came across the toddler’s family and her lovely blonde mother even gave Camille some heartfelt show of gratitude, despite the fact that the French brunette still had that gorgeous blue-eyed man in her clutches. But finally Camille waved goodbye to the family as they prepared to check out of the hotel, and when the little girl offered to give back the borrowed teddy bear, Camille insisted that she keep it. With a smile, the tiny thing hugged the toy harder and skipped forward to embrace its former owner as well before Camille headed back up towards the room where she’d left James.

With a nostalgic, satisfied sort of smile on her lips, Camille stepped back into the bedroom and closed the door again at her back, making sure it fastened all the way this time.

[- - la nuit blanche]

While Camille hadn’t exactly rushed to find the parents of her abandoned little orphan, she expected James to still be conscious by the time he returned. After all, he hadn’t seems particularly fatigued when he’d held and kissed her just moments before. But once the little girl’s family had been found, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after Camille parted from her fellow assassin, the leggy brunette sauntered back into the hotel room to see James slouched on the sofa, fast asleep. She’d contemplated waking the man with a soft prod or, more likely, a sharp slap across the face, but she grumpily withdrew into her own disappointment and left him to his rest. Whether she liked it or not, the vacation was over.

She moodily gathered her clothes and belongings together, tossing James’ suitcase together with notably less care, then stepped down to the lobby to pay their bill. When she returned back to the room, she took a seat across from the dozing blonde and sighed quietly. She eyed him pensively until he began to stir, wearing a subtle glare and her usual pout when at last the man returned to consciousness. Their eyes met for what seemed a long moment but Camille said nothing. She broke his gaze as she stood, coolly grabbing her things and stepping out of the room alone to tromp down the stairs and call a cab. While she didn’t seem particularly livid with James himself – she had to admit that the poor man had every right to be tired; after all, he’d been nursing her fever all night – the temperamental woman couldn’t help but cold shoulder him throughout their journey.

She simply wasn’t ready to be back on the job. She was reminded of atrocities only very recently passed by the scars still visible down her arms, and a lingering soreness behind her eyes prompted a stinging recollection of all her recent bouts of crying. She felt shaky, nervous, and anything but eager for this job in Italy. Truth be told, she could’ve used about a year holed up in that quiet country inn. Twelve months might’ve been enough time for her nerves to settle, for her to outrun the sordid ghosts of her past, get over all that awful history. But two days? It was hardly even enough time for her to get over a fever. And while perhaps it wasn’t outwardly evident, she knew she wasn’t ready for a new assignment. But because James was going, she couldn’t stop herself from tagging along. It wasn’t really his fault that she resented him for it.

So, when they at last reached the Italian hotel and James caught her by the arm to quiet her fuming and present her with a handful of lilies, Camille was fairly easily won over. She tentatively accepted the flowers, inhaling the refreshing bouquet, and smiled timidly up at James. With a nod she agreed to go for a bit of sight-seeing, and amiably slipped her arm through his.

While their luggage was brought up to their room, Camille let herself settle into a calmer state of mind, walking about the city attached to James’ side. She was fairly quiet at the start of their stroll, but not in an unfriendly way. She was merely thinking to herself, and every once in a while she’d look up towards Bond and smile a little – making it clear that she was thinking of him. But soon she’d accustomed herself to the idea of beginning a new mission and she relaxed into her stubborn, boisterous self once again. With James’ acquiescence, she slipped into a high-end clothing store to do a bit of shopping. Being that she’d left the inn with only a few sets of clean clothes, she’d need to invest in some new outfits, that is, if she were to look the part of some high roller’s squeeze. But what began as a practical spree for a couple sensible garments rapidly turned into something of a fashion show, with Camille slipping into only the most expensive of skirts, gowns, and lingerie, and parading out to James for an appreciative critique. And while Camille frequently balked when she caught sight of the price tags, Bond assured her that M would have no problem footing the bill – since all these expensive clothes were, of course, necessary for the completion of their assignment.

Gradually Camille’s spirits grew ever lighter, and after dragging James into the dressing room to steal a few good kisses, she trotted back out with him to continue their sight-seeing. With a cheap camera in hand, the girl was almost too willing to mimic all the other wide-eyed tourists, snapping pictures at impressive cathedrals, charming little walkways, a couple local musicians playing outside an amiable café. And of course she was obliged to now and then catch a few of James too, and when she argued that she was fully against being in any of the pictures herself – she claimed she was anything but photogenic – Bond had to wrestle and grope the camera out of her hands. He had his fun torturing her with the metallic little device, tauntingly posing her as he got his revenge for the pictures she’d managed to sneak of him.

But as the afternoon dimmed into the twilit evening, Camille stopped playing tourist long enough to walk back to the hotel with James. Subtly snugging up to his side as the air grew cool, she slipped her hand into his and tilted her head to his shoulder. “You know, there’s one thing I don’t understand…” she murmured at length, stepping through the hotel lobby with him and towards the elevators. She thought back to the words he’d spoken to her on the plane and smiled curiously. “If I’m only to sit with you and look pretty… why did you even bother bringing me along?”

Once the elevator doors had closed behind them, Camille slipped away from Bond’s side and leaned against one of the walls, grinning knowingly as the little cell began to ascend towards their suite. “If you wanted me to come with you, you could’ve just asked…” A soft laugh parted the girl’s lips and she motioned James closer. As soon as he was within reach, she pulled his arms about her waist and peered up into his face. "But… You’re not the type to really ask for what you want, are you, Mr. Bond?”

[- - la nuit blanche]

ooc; added a couple little pictures in the description of her room; just found them when i was formulating how and where she'd be living, and decided to include them for you. :] hope you like the starter. it was surprisingly fun to write.

It was the summer after her senior year in high school when Camille first traveled to France. Her affluent, Californian parents indulged her desire to study art in Paris, but after receiving word about a few of their daughter’s dalliances about the city – endeavors that had nothing to do with the expensive art classes her parents had paid for – the Auclairs were disinclined to continue funding their daughter’s exploits; the money that paid for her classes, her apartment, and her meals, suddenly ceased to arrive. When Camille realized that her parents intended to starve her into returning home, she defiantly scoured the town for a job. But much to her disdain, even the most promising positions couldn’t pay for the lifestyle to which she was accustomed. She would have to significantly downgrade her expenses and move into some dingy flat, probably with some unfamiliar roommate, if she could even hope to remain in the city. And anyway, a full-time job would take away the opportunity for her to exercise her artistic skill. She may have to give up her painting just to earn enough money to live. Fortunately, before she had to do anything so drastic, one of her professors came to her with a profitable offer: a friend required an au pair for their two young children while the family vacationed in the country. Camille would have to leave her beloved Paris behind, but the pay was fantastic and she decided she could do without the city. It had grown stifling and dry anyway, and she was feeling dreadfully uninspiring. A change of scenery, the seventeen-year-old decided, would do her good.

And yet, two weeks into her countryside occupation, Camille still wasn’t feeling the inspiration she’d hoped for. The town was charming, the scenery green and picturesque, but she couldn’t bring herself to paint any of it, or even attempt a really decent sketch. Perhaps it was the work that made her feel so taxed. Five days a week she was a slave to the will of two tiny schemers -- the seven and eight year old son and daughter of Monsieur and Madame Dubois. The two spent all their energy testing the resolve of their new nanny. When Camille wasn’t cleaning up their messes or trying to wrestle them into a bath, she breathlessly locked herself into the three-room guest house she’d been given on the family's property. She felt perpetually exhausted; these were by no means the proper living conditions for a budding artist.

When a new Saturday came, Camille couldn’t have been more relieved. She woke to her rustic little bedroom when the first rays of lavender sunlight filtered through the lacy shades. The bedroom was horribly cramped by a tiny bed and doubly diminutive desk. The mattress, which could only barely fit even one so slight as Camille, was sheeted in plain white and accented by faded floral coverlets and a couple lumpy pillows. Shoved in one corner was a wooden easel, who’s various products – vastly unfinished sketches – littered the surface of the little white desk as well as every bit of floor space. Except for the place upon the desk occupied by a small lamp, plastic cups of pencils, paintbrushes, and bits of charcoal decorated the room like flower vases, some overturned with contents flooding out. But crowded and besieged as the place was, Camille liked it. There was no phone, no television, no computer. Just the wares of her art surrounded by rustic simplicity.

Through one door was a tiny kitchenette, equipped with only the most ancient of appliances, and there was a small bathroom as well with an antique claw-footed tub. Many of the family’s useless antiques had been abandoned in the little house. The place may have actually seemed significantly larger if it weren’t for the dusty statuettes, yet-to-be-hung paintings, clocks that no longer ticked, and stacks of books that cluttered every nook and shelf. But it was part of what Camille loved about the place. Her little home was timeless with all its ancient heirlooms, and somehow she was comforted by that. It seemed the perfect shelter for an artist in the making.

In fact, she loved it so much that she hadn’t yet been inclined to leave. During her languid weekends, she’d stay holed up in there, soaking in a bath until the water went cold or sitting for long hours before her easel, attempting a new sketch. However, her seclusion was beginning to worry the unnecessarily concerned Madame Dubois, who liked to check in on Camille a little too frequently. She’d urged the young girl to leave the family chateau and journey into the seaside town, but Camille seemed stubbornly reluctant. Her French was well, non-existent – the surname Auclair made everyone assume, rather unfairly, that Camille must have had French-speaking relatives, but if she did, she’d never met them – and while it hadn’t been so much of a problem in the city, she wasn’t certain her English would be reciprocated in such a small, conventional little town. Nonetheless, Madame insisted, and with the promise that the fishermen would offer a lovely scene for her to sketch, Camille dressed and headed into town on an old, borrowed bicycle.

Dressed in loosely fit, cutoff jeans, a half unbuttoned flannel blouse, and bare feet, Camille left the bike against a lamppost at the wharf and sat down upon the dock. Squinting in the summer sunlight, she shaded her eyes and dangled her slim legs over the water, peering out towards the fishing boats in the distance, then back onto land where a few salty old men chortled and joked in that language Camille had no hope of understanding. A sketchbook was unloaded into her lap along with a few pencils, but as soon as the lead touched the paper, the girl paused and moaned glumly through a wearied sigh. She could draw the boats, the aged wrinkles upon the faces of those briny old men, but she didn’t want to. Since she left the city, she hadn’t been honestly compelled to draw or paint anything. Too proud to believe that she was simply losing her touch, Camille had to conclude that she was uninspired, restless. As she pressed her pencil into her sketchbook with increasing fervor, the supple wood broke in her fingers. With a childish pout, she cursed beneath her breath and furiously tossed both halves of the implement off into the surf.

[- - la nuit blanche]

While the afternoon had been a decidedly pleasant one, Bond – as usual – had to go and ruin everything much too soon. Camille was still on something of a high after having spent the day arm-in-arm with a handsome man, touring a charming city, and being showered with compliments as she tried on a bunch of expensive clothes. She grinned delightedly as she stood in the elevator, awaiting the man’s response to her coy little question. She suspected he would answer with an equally sly retort, and maybe try to see how many kisses he could plant on her before the elevator reached their floor. But no. He had to go and be stupidly honest with his answer, and thereby piss off his pretty little accomplice once again.

As soon as Bond commented that M had told him to keep an eye on Camille, the girl’s slender brow creased with displeasure and she slid lithely out of the arms she’d only just drawn affectionately around herself. Retreating to the other side of the elevator, she pondered his words and answered tentatively, “Why? Is she that worried?” But even as she spoke, Camille sensed that the matriarch of MI6 wouldn’t concern herself so intimately with the condition of an unpredictable defect of French Intelligence. After all, Camille had never really been properly introduced to the infamous woman; she had no reason to believe M to be so compassionate.

Her anxiety mounted to a frustrated peak when James confirmed her uncertainties: M was suspicious of her. Camille crossed her arms around herself and paced irritably within her end of the elevator. “She doesn’t trust me…” she muttered beneath her breath, sounding half hurt, half infuriated. So MI6 thought her some sort of liability, some novice who needed a big boy like James Bond to look after her, to reign her in before she screwed up any more of their careful little plans. Chewing her lower lip, the insides of her cheeks, the brunette was on the verge of fuming when the elevator doors slid open. She walked out, nudging past James and twisting a lock of dark chocolate hair around one slim finger. As she waited for him to unlock the door to their suite, her gaze turned accusingly up to his face. “I suppose you don’t trust me either, then?” she spat at him, doing all she could to keep her voice down. She was nothing less than livid as she stomped into the lavish hotel room; James should’ve considered himself fortunate that she didn’t plow one of her newly purchased stiletto heels right through his foot on her way in.

Her arms were still crossed around herself as she turned when Bond closed the door behind them and spoke. “She says you encourage me to do bad things,” he said, and Camille smirked wryly. “Bad things?” she repeated with a cold laugh, raising a brow before turning away. She made a beeline for the generously equipped mini bar and wrenched open the door of the wine cooler. Without any regard for the horrendous price on each bottle, she glanced with hasty contemplation at each of the labels, and pointedly chose the most expensive of the reds. Pulling out a fragile wine glass, with much less care than the crystal deserved, she uncorked the bottle with thoughtless expertise – after all, her family had owned a vineyard – and dumped a generous helping of the wine into her glass. She needed something to steady her nerves.

As she glanced reproachfully back at James, taking a lengthy swig of her drink, she considered precisely what he was referring to with the comment about “bad things.” Well, he had indulged her will to avenge her father’s murder; M probably hadn’t liked that very much. And he had broken into French Headquarters to drag Camille away from her employer. Maybe she was something of a bad influence on him. But it wasn’t as if it was her fault he did such naughty things for her. Lowering the glass of wine, now nearly empty, she looked venomously towards the man, wearing a cold, mocking smile upon her lips. “And since when do you care about all her rules, James?” she challenged. “M thinks a little girl like me could force her favorite dog to misbehave? I didn’t ‘encourage’ you to do anything. You disobeyed her on your own, you know you did. You may have done it for me, but not because I asked you to. I never asked you for anything. The only thing she can blame me for is making you love me.”

When her feverish rage concluded, Camille found herself almost short of breath, and slightly startled by her last words. Claiming that James was in love with her was rather presumptuous, but Camille showed no signs of taking it back. She simply turned away to finish off the glass of wine and pour in another wave of the ruby colored alcohol. “But you didn’t answer my question…” she continued, her voice a little softer now though still practically quivering with frustration, especially now that it’d dawned on her that even after her irate criticizing had ended, James remained notably silent when it came to the question of whether or not he trusted her. “Though I suppose you don’t have to… You don’t trust me, no more than she does,” Camille bitterly assumed. But by now she was simply on the verge of feeling sorry for herself. She wasn’t quite to the point of tears, but her voice had lowered to a hurt murmur and as she turned away as she ungracefully drank down her second serving of wine. Now she quietly realized that James hadn’t brought her along because he wanted her with him, but because he was supposed to be following orders. Though one thing didn’t seem to make sense…

On her way off towards the attached bedroom, probably to lock herself in, she paused and glanced skeptically back towards Bond. “If M’s so afraid of what I’ll encourage you to do… Why did she want you to be the one to keep an eye on me?” she inquired warily. Camille didn’t understand, but neither did she want to wait for a sensible answer. She turned away from him to go into the bedroom, yanking the door closed at her back.

She didn’t have time to lock it before turning forward, looking towards the bed, and giving a sharp, audible gasp of shock. The wine glass slipped from her hand to shatter on the mahogany wood flooring, splattering red all over a nearby rug and generally staining anything within a three foot radius. The sound was enough to bring James in hot pursuit, nearly tearing the bedroom door off its hinges.

As it turned out, however, there was little cause for alarm. He’d find Camille rushing into the arms of a man who had been idly sitting upon the bed all this time, no doubt eavesdropping with great amusement upon the bedlam the leggy brunette had been raising outside the door. “Christian!” Camille joyfully squeaked as the man gracefully caught her in a warm hug, lifting her a few inches off her toes. He chuckled and exchanged an amiable kiss on the cheek, “Camille,” he returned, setting her down and holding her at a slight distance, only to better take in her lovely shape. “It’s been too long,” he spoke in their shared French, speaking through an easy, handsome smile. Camille hugged and kissed him again, as though there was no one in the world she’d have rather seen at that moment. Bond, standing in the doorway, was entirely forgotten as she pressed half a dozen repeated kisses to his cheek and jaw. “Mais, qu’est-ce que tu fais ici, cheri?” she inquired, slipping back to look up at him with a delighted grin. The man lightly smoothed his suit and draped an arm snugly about the woman’s waist, exchanging a glance with James before looking down to Camille. “I was sent to look after you,” he commented, pressing his forehead affectionately down to hers then giving a warm chuckle. “M says you’ve been making all sorts of trouble. I should’ve expected as much,” he teased, giving her side a ticklish squeeze. Camille laughed and clung to his arm; apparently the thought of this man keeping an eye on her was much more palatable than Bond doing the same.

Looking towards the other male agent, the one called Christian Lefevre smiled and raised a brow. “And this is Mr. Bond… James Bond, is it?” He gave another low chuckle and cuddled Camille a little closer to his side. However, Camille was not one to be caged so near, not even by an old friend, and not even by one so sickeningly clean and handsome as Christian. She slipped out from beneath his arm and sauntered back towards James, stepping deftly over the broken wine glass as she reached for him. “James, this is Christian Lefevre,” she explained, clasping onto his arm – a gesture that made Monsieur Lefevre’s smile wilt just a little – and leading him forward. “I’m sure you know him. We worked together before in France…” Camille’s voice trailed slightly as she began to wonder about her former employer, and she looked questioningly back towards Christian. His smile became more reassuring than ever.

“French Intelligence has since changed management, and your various… misdemeanors,” the man’s warm brown eyes flicked warily towards Bond, lingering upon him accusingly for a moment before pulling back to Camille. “…have all been forgotten. M merely sent me to be sure that you wouldn’t be too much of a distraction to Monsieur Bond here. If you can help it.” Christian smiled playfully to the brunette, then looked back to James, his expression growing slightly more serious. “I will also be your contact here in Italy. I’ve been keeping track of Lorenzini for weeks now. He arrived here two days ago. He’s been spending most of his time in the casino. They say he is very good at cards, but M tells me Mr. Bond may be able to give him a run for his money, perhaps provoke him into making a mistake…”

[- - la nuit blanche]

With Christian there now, along with the amusing possibility of a British versus French cockfight, Camille scarcely recalled what she’d been so fired up about ten minutes ago. Something about M’s suspicious nature, Bond’s minimal trust in the woman he may (or may not) love… But as hot and bothered as Camille had been, those quarrels seemed sort of trivial now that James was thrown in the very awkward – and for Camille, immensely gratifying – position of meeting one of her former beaus. She was absolutely reveling, watching James turn green whenever Christian touched her, then going out of his way to touch her himself. The potent fragrance of violent competition hung heavy in the air; it was too bad Camille didn’t know which team she was rooting for. But then again, the referee was supposed to be impartial.

This being so, when James’ fatigue was called into question – a suspicion which he immediately turned to his advantage by suggestively pulling Camille close to his side – Camille was perfectly clever enough to get the gist of his ruse. She knew quite well that she’d done nothing more than shop and argue with him all day, and that he had no reason to be tired on her account. She thought it sort of counted as cheating to suggest something so entirely untrue. Had this suggestion been really based in fact, she’d have reacted somewhat differently. But since she was annoyingly aware of the fact that they’d spent very little time in the sack together – and not always by her choosing – Camille rebelled a little. Smirking slyly, she wriggled out from beneath his arm, but for now said nothing more to elucidate the fact that they’d never done so much as he suggested.

However, when the friendly man-to-man rivalry had simmered down a little – enough for James to address Camille more privately – the young woman shuffled back into his arms and idly twisted a finger into one of his belt loops, listening pensively as he spoke. “I suppose now that you’ll be in another man’s care, I can worry a little less about your safety.” The brunette nibbled her lip and her brow furrowed in subtle annoyance. Her head shook a little as she objected then looked up into his face. “You don’t give yourself enough credit…” she argued stubbornly. “I’m safe with you.” Her voice lowered a little, not audible enough (she hoped) for Christian to hear. Her eyes peered towards his but his attention was held elsewhere, upon her wrist as he scribbled a little heart into her skin.

As much as she liked Christian, she didn’t enjoy the thought of a babysitter. She liked being the personal responsibility of James Bond, liked being the little monkey on his back all day long. No one handled her as well as he did, and no one could tame her the way he could. Camille didn’t like the idea of having a new master, even one with whom she was already intimately familiar. But when she caught sight of the little symbol etched into her skin, she decided not to argue any further. After all, James didn’t seem too keen on the idea of Chrstian’s presence either, but it seemed there was nothing either of them could do. They’d simply have to follow the rules, at least this once.

After peeking down at the inky heart, Camille smiled rather sweetly and looked back up at James. As soon as he leaned in to kiss her, she took advantage of their proximity and made sure that the gesture lingered. She gave his lower lip a lengthy suckle and nibbled down rather hard when he moved to withdraw. She evidently wasn’t finished with him just yet. And even when she allowed their lips to part, she still nestled herself in his arms, burying her face against his shoulder. As livid as she’d been at him when they first entered that room, her mood had changed yet again. Suddenly she was a needy child, clinging to the big teddy bear some grown-up was trying to take away. Her second plaything – Christian, standing grumpily near the bed – was for now, entirely forgotten.

“I want you back tonight,” she murmured against James’ neck. It was as much a command as a compliment. “…in one piece.” She couldn’t pretend she didn’t worry about him, but she knew better than to outright say as much. Neither of them were prone to such sappy professions.

Camille gingerly withdrew at last, trying not to look too reluctant as James turned and stepped away, allowing Christian to smoothly take his place. Camille felt his hand wrap warmly around her own and she couldn’t help but feel comforted. Nonetheless, her eyes didn’t leave James for a minute, not until he’d finally exited the hotel room. “Quite an intimidating man, isn’t he?” she heard Christian comment with a chuckle. Camille laughed softly as well, but perhaps for a different reason. Maybe there was a time when she saw something intimidating in James Bond, but that had been somewhat eclipsed by his other qualities. He still remained irritatingly impenetrable and secretive, but Camille knew him well enough by now to know that he was more than just intimidating. “I suppose so,” she answered Christian vaguely, watching as he dutifully covered a towel over the spilled wine and shattered glass. She smiled a little to herself, oddly intrigued by the gesture. But that was the sort of man he’d always been – gentlemanly, polite, the clean-cut, stable sort who never wanted little Camille to hurt herself. In some ways he’d take care of her just as much as James ever had. Just in different ways.

And as Camille reflected upon this, she knew there was no way in hell that she could ever turn down his offer for a date. She smiled at the suggestion of dinner and a movie, and feeling like a giddy teenager again, grinned and grabbed onto his hand. She walked from the bedroom with him, and once he’d helped her into her coat, followed him down to the lobby arm in arm. They talked easily as they left the hotel, reminiscing and laughing about their former escapades on their way through the quaint Italian streets. Since Christian had been in town for some time now, he knew all the best restaurants and allowed Camille to choose the one she thought sounded best. On the way he pointed out bits of architecture, told Camille a bit about Italy’s history – apparently he’d had an Italian uncle who taught him all the best parts – and commented on other nearby attractions he wanted to show her. He was the perfect host, cultured, refined but unpretentious. Camille couldn’t help but feel charmed, and as the evening wore on, she spent less and less time wondering about what James was up to, and how soon they could be back in their hotel room together.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Adela sat upright in her bed, suppressing shivers and quivering as though from cold. As soon as Erik’s name left her lips, she gathered her knees into her chest beneath the covers and hid her face miserably in her hands. She wished now that she hadn’t called for him at all. If he came to her, she would only feel more guilty for the subject matter of the dream that had prompted her cry. And what would he think if he knew? She recalled how furious her phantom had been when he discovered she was married. How much more disgusted would he be if she was forced to explain the many other men of her past? Adela curled tighter into herself and pressed her palms into her tearing eyes, biting her lower lip to quiet any hoarse sobs. Perhaps if she was quiet enough, Erik wouldn’t bother to come. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her at all. Then he’d never have to discover her in such a state, never have to wonder what nightmare could wake his precious, pure little dancer. But somehow even before she heard him drag back the curtains and voice his concern, she knew he’d come.

At last she lifted her head from her hands and looked up at the Phantom with damp, red-rimmed eyes. She registered the familiar side of his face first, and then as candlelight continued to flicker, she noticed that the mask was absent. Her expression wavered between shock, pity, even fright for the very briefest of moments, but all in barely recognizable subtlety. It was only clear that when she saw the usually hidden half of his face, she’d looked upon something different, something that surprised a tiny gasp from her lips. And for a moment, she was silent. Her eyes inquisitively covered that portion of mottled disfiguration, studying with some selfish gratification the flesh that had always been so ardently kept from her. But when the surprise wore off, she regarded him as she usually did, vastly unaffected by the absence of his mask. She wondered if he’d be disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, looking down as she remembered what she’d called the man for in the first place. She struggled to right the cotton gown that covered her; it was twisted and crinkled in her nighttime struggle and one sleeve continued to slip half off her shoulder. While one pale, trembling hand reached to fix it, the other anxiously smoothed some tousled hair away from her face then wiped again at her eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “It was just a dream…” she added, though her voice sounded plainly uncertain. A dream implied some fabrication, something fictional. Her terror had stemmed from something too real to be called a dream.

With a feeble, wavering sigh, she looked back up at the unmasked specter and offered him a weak and pleading half smile as she reached for him. As soon as her fingers found his they clasped down and needily tugged him nearer, guiding him until he sat with her upon the bed. Unable to think of anything more than her own desire for comfort and reassurance, she shuffled into his arms and coiled herself within them. Her head settled in the crook of his neck, her brow pressed gingerly to the cheek usually protected by his mask. “Your warm,” she commented softly.

[- - la nuit blanche]

At eight ‘o clock, bright and early, Sophia Champney woke to the abrupt buzzing of her cell phone, vibrating its morning alarm on her bedside table. With a soft grunt of protest, she reached over to turn it off, then sat herself up in bed. Immediately she hissed in pain and drew a hand to her forehead as a familiar throbbing seared through her temples. Her vision was hazy, she felt completely ******** disoriented, and her body ached all over; another hangover. Sighing heavily, the brunette therapist rubbed at her eyes then gingerly shifted herself to sit at the edge of the mattress, trying to move herself as gingerly as possible until the ringing in her ears quieted down. She sat still, eyes closed, but then shivered as her covers fell away. Upon glancing down, she realized why she was so cold: she was totally, and quite unexpectedly, naked. While her eyes followed the trail of discarded clothing across her bedroom floor, she presumed the happenings of the previous evening – events she couldn’t very well remember due to the amount of alcohol she’d evidently consumed. But, warily peering over her shoulder, her suspicions were verified. Beneath the pristine sheets of her bed was the form of another, a man. One whose face she sort of recognized, and whose name she was sure she knew the night before. It was lost on her now.

Instantly tearing the top sheet from the bed, Sophia wrapped herself up in it then leaned over to roughly nudge the man’s shoulder. He gave a quiet groan then lifted his disheveled head from the pillow to squint up at her. He mumbled something that sounded like a vague “good morning” but Sophia had already turned away, starting towards the door to the master bathroom. “I’m going to work. You should leave.” Without even glancing back at him, she walked into the spacious bathroom and closed the door behind her, locking it after brief consideration. She didn’t want him to follow her, and yet she guessed he wouldn’t. The poor man would gather his clothes and dress, trying to remember the night that had passed and the less than hospitable woman he’d spent it with, then he’d escort himself out of the apartment like all the others. It was always the same. A different, faceless man, a different drink maybe, but the awkward morning-after routine never changed.

Sophia knew it wasn’t well… good. She shouldn’t drink so much. And it was even worse when she went out to get drunk. She fell in love with the first man to buy her next cocktail, and what seemed like a good idea at the time became a mist of strange memories and silent regrets in the morning. She knew what her problem was. She was upset, vulnerable, depressed, and unfathomably angry. Angry at herself, at the world. But none of it mattered when she drank. She was able to forget, to relax. And if she could get a night of decent sex out of it, well, that was a perk. But everything was always the same when the sun came back up.

After a searing hot shower and a strong cup of coffee, Sophia tugged on a pair of jeans, boots, and a black blouse. Rubbing the remaining sleep out of her eyes, she started down the hall of her luxurious and well-equipped apartment to make her journey to work. On her way though, she paused abruptly at a door that was pushed slightly ajar. This was strange because this particular door was always closed. Always. More than likely, she thought, her forgotten visitor had accidentally opened it on his way out. Stupid b*****d. Through the half-open door, Sophia was forced to lay eyes upon a lovely, perfect nursery. The walls were painted light sky blue, accented by puffy white clouds, and a pastel pink crib was placed opposite the door. The little bed was filled with the softest of teddy bears and cozy, quilted baby blankets. Above the crib hung a little sign that spelled out the would-be occupant’s name: R-O-S-L-Y-N. Roslyn. That would’ve been the baby’s name, had the poor thing lived long enough to merit one.

Before her heart could begin breaking all over again, Sophia slammed the door shut and strode out of the apartment, fumbling for a cigarette from her handbag as she went.

By ten ‘o clock that morning, Sophia was walking through the heavy doors of Arkham Asylum. Every time she passed that threshold, she remembered her first day there as an inexperienced, enthusiastic intern. Her superior at the time, a Doctor Joan Leland, had greeted her there at that door. She asked Sophia of her motives, why she cared to work at the infamous asylum, to which Sophia had explained quite sincerely, “I want to help people.” God, how trite. "These people can’t be happy… I want to help them. I want to understand them, to know who they really are.” Dr. Leland had smiled a little grimly and cautioned her, “You shouldn’t get too close though, you know. Some say insanity is contagious.”

“Insanity is contagious.” Maybe she was finally catching the disease.

At twenty-seven years old, she’d been working at Arkham for a few good, rigorous years. And she felt like maybe it was beginning to take its toll on her. Or maybe that was just how her life had gone. Her brother being killed, her fiancé up and leaving, the miscarriage… Either way, she wondered how long it would be before she was crossed into Arkham as a patient, not a doctor. She could already feel herself beginning to lose it. The motives she’d valued so highly at the beginning of her career were beginning to ebb away. She didn’t care about making anyone else happy now. She didn’t care who these people were, how they felt, what they thought. It was all just a job now. Even further, she’d grown increasingly cruel since she lost the baby -- a severely traumatic event that had become well-known by doctors and patients alike around the asylum. She no longer socialized with her fellow therapists and she was downright malicious when it came to her patients. If they dared so much as mock her current misery, well, Sophia wasn’t one to hold back. And if one of the psychos turned up with a black eye or ended up drugged into a coma, no one bothered to question it. No one seemed to question anything Dr. Champney did. At this point, they all preferred simply to keep their distance.

Today, especially, was one of the days when the other doctors knew better than to hassle Sophia about even the most trivial sort of issue. Her eyes were dark, rimmed in red, and she walked down the halls with a clear “don’t ******** with me” look about her. The intern who scurried up to her on her way to her office surely feared for his life. “Uh, Miss Champney? You have a… a new assignment. The Batman returned the, uh, the Joker to Arkham last night. Dr. Leland thinks you should be able to, er, to handle him.” After passing the brunette a clipboard of forms and records, the young man flushed beneath a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and hastily scuttled off again.

Without a word, Sophia turned away with the clipboard and flipped through the notes Leland had left her. She’d never worked with the Joker before. Truth be told, she’d never been allowed to. After her policeman brother had been killed during the endeavors of one of the maniac’s former schemes, Sophia had been told to keep her distance from the Joker. Things weren’t allowed to be so personal. But competent doctors were getting hard to come by these days, and it was even more difficult to find one who could manage a high profile criminal like the Joker. Sophia supposed that Leland had simply run out of options, so the chore was forced onto her. No matter. He’d be just like all the rest. A few good drugs and a bit of electroshock therapy would straighten him out, if he proved to make a nuisance of himself.

Apparently the Joker was already settled into his cell, cozying up to a nice straight jacket no doubt. Maybe even strapped to his bed. When Sophia entered however, the two armed guards standing just within the door came as a surprise. She supposed they were just keeping an eye on him until she arrived, but as she settled down in a nearby chair and the two men still refused to budge, Sophia started to get a little annoyed. She’d never be able to proceed with her work… freely, if she was being watched. Glancing back at the pair, she narrowed her eyes a little. “You can go now,” she informed them quietly, though there was a definite edge to her voice. One of them protested but before he could explain himself further, Sophia’s eyes flared. “I said, leave!” After exchanging nervous glances, the two shuffled quietly out of the room and closed the door behind them. Feeling far more at ease now, Sophia shifted to sit herself backwards on the chair, straddling it and resting her arms atop the wooden backing. She peered across the room at her new patient quietly, an almost sadistic smile creasing her ruby-tinted lips.

“So. They caught you at last, did they?” she inquired quizzically, and yet something about the way she grinned said she was mocking him. She dug into her bag for another cigarette, lit it, and blew the first stream of smoke gracefully into her new patient’s face.

[- - la nuit blanche]

As soon as Erik came into view, forcing Adela to look upon the expression she’d already become to fear, she knew at once that she’d had no reason to worry over his reaction. The history she’d kept bitterly locked within was now known, and her Erik received it with graceful compassion. When his hand came to her cheek, the tears that followed his touch were of relief, emotional ease, not sorrow or regret. She sighed into the thumb that pressed her lips and her eyes fell closed for a moment as she relished that release. Her hand still trembled as he drew it from the mahogany bedpost but it came willingly into grasp, as did the rest of her petite form as he slipped to her back. The warm breadth of his chest offered a much more comfortable support than the rigid pillar of her bed and she relaxed easily against his frame.

While he held both hands before her to see, she looked down into her own white palms and stood quietly as he murmured into her ear. And yet despite his forgiving words, she regarded those hands with some coldness in her eyes. Perhaps they were not stained with blood or gore, but they were tainted nonetheless. All of her was. Every inch of bare flesh had once been used and paid for by more patrons than she’d have cared to remember. The thought of it made that skin crawl with disgust, disgust wholly reserved for her own self. Perhaps she’d been desperate, perhaps her motives were not even immoral, but somehow she still felt appalled. However, when the man who excused her murmured a gentle, lingering threat against her self-hatred, Adela could only answer with a tiny laugh, and by the time he explained that her only offense was her abandonment of him, that sordid past was all but forgotten, washed from her tortured mind. With his arms coiled about her, she turned slightly and clung herself to one of them, hugging around the strong bicep and hiding her face in the joint of his shoulder. The last of her tears were dried by the fabric of his sleeve and she nuzzled her lips into that arm, savoring his nearness, the strength of his hold, the tenderness of his voice as he murmured once more to her ear.

As he coaxed her to face him, she peered up into his dark, handsome eyes and smiled wryly in response to his words. “Shall we escape like young lovers and elope?” she murmured, half teasing. Her arms drew about his waist and she brushed her lips to his unmasked cheek, acting like a young girl who would seem quite happy to be made his bride. She wondered briefly what sort of priest would marry a murderer to a whore. And yet, something in the tone of her voice made it sound as though the escape he offered was not so simple.

“Erik…” she cooed a little chidingly. “You know I am unafraid. You know I would be happy to run away from this, to be with you always… To nurture you, love you, quarrel with you.” Standing on tiptoes, the brunette smiled and pressed a kiss to his jaw, then laid her head in the crook of his neck. “But have you forgotten your Opera House? Your inspiration, the home of your artistry, your creations?” Her voice grew a little more somber, more serious now. She could not imagine her beloved without his artistic domain, the safe haven where he could create his masterpieces and bring them to fruition. “If I were to leave Michel, it would never see its restoration… Would you so soon abandon it to ruin?” Lifting her head, she peered back into his face. Suddenly her little grin had wilted into a sad sort of fading smile. “I won’t let you…” she whispered, laying a hand gingerly to his cheek. “You are a genius, Erik. And the Opera Populaire is your home, our home. If I do not force the Count into funding its repair, it may be lost to both of us, forever.”

She would find no joy in remaining with her husband, that was certain, and she would be tormented infinitely more by her duty to him now that she was certain of Erik’s affection. She could tolerate no other man but her masked angel, and yet it seemed a necessary evil. For a brief moment her eyes drifted from his face to glance about her gilded bedroom. The lovely furnishings, her handsome, comfortable bed, the sparkling arrangement of jewelry upon her vanity... All luxuries she could cast away so easily. They were as colorless and dry to her as ashes, stale and meaningless. She seemed to glare coldly at them all before returning her eyes to her beloved and breathing a long, mournful sigh. “My Erik…” she whispered solemnly, withdrawing her hand from his face only to nestle deeper into his chest. How she loved to call him her own, even in so sad a voice. “Hold me again…” As she deliberated her return to life with the Count, she needed his embrace more than ever.

“We must see this through, cheri,” she spoke with quiet determination. “If after the theater is renewed and reopened, you decide that you can leave your operas, your music, I will follow you anywhere you like. To the ends of the earth, if you wish it.”

[- - la nuit blanche]

He was disappointed. Somehow she could tell. The less than graceful pause, the almost awkward silence that swiftly followed her less than ideal response, his handsome eyes, which looked expectantly, imploringly down into her face… He wanted more. He wanted other words than the ones she’d offered, something more meaningful and direct, perhaps, than “Let’s sleep together tonight.” And why hadn’t she given it to him? Camille’s eyes shied away from his as she contemplated this question. Why couldn’t she have just said yes? It wasn’t her style, maybe. Or, that’s the excuse she could’ve easily given herself. She may have delighted secretly in sappy moments of tenderness, may have been easily won over by silly romantic gestures, a vase of roses, a box of chocolates. But when a man caught her off-guard with a presumptuous marriage proposal, she simply wasn’t plain enough to agree outright. She was the sort of woman who would play hard-to-get, who would bring a man to his knees before allowing him to know what was going on in her head. So that’s why she didn’t give poor Christian the answer he’d hoped for. She just wasn’t that easy, and she prided herself in being so complicated.

But that was a bunch of bullshit. She didn’t answer as she had in order to play the coy mistress, to keep her beau on his toes, eager to please his infallible goddess. In all honesty, she answered unsurely because she was, in fact, unsure. The sly little minx didn’t know what she wanted. She no longer had all the answers, no longer felt content or even able to keep her man guessing. The game was over, her pretenses shattered. She was honestly conflicted, and when he’d offered marriage, she didn’t know what to say.

She must’ve been a lunatic not to simply agree and let him sweep her away. Here was a man who was willing to give her everything, and who had it in his power to do so. A former sweetheart, a longtime friend, it would be so convenient to just suck it up and marry the man. He could give her an easy, sensible life, a comfortable home, even children if she decided she wanted them. But she refused. And why? Because of James ******** Bond. And Christian knew it too. Despite her time away from the mechanical killer, he still had some hold on her. She was waiting for him, achingly impatient, but determined enough not to give up. She knew perfectly well that they were hardly a match made in heaven, but that didn’t matter. She wanted him, even if he couldn’t make her happy. She wanted their arguments, their make ups and misunderstandings, their constant tension. This love was no doubt misguided, if not downright idiotic, but it was a reality she had to either own up to, or reject.

And the more time she spent with Christian, the more she was inclined towards the latter. He was second best, but he was a compromise she could surely live with. And when the man finally mustered the gall to lean in and kiss her, she felt over the moon. She all too willingly parted her lips for him to take, and sighed a tiny hum of delight that quieted just as he drew away. She pouted a little in response to his withdrawal, already leaning back in for another taste, until she noted the grumpy expression on his face. With a smile she teased him, remarked that he was so easy for her to read, and melted when he leaned into her palm and pressed a lengthy kiss to her wrist.

And then she was heaved up into his arms to be held like a honeymoon bride, clasped close against his chest. She laughed girlishly at the gesture, though when she guessed that she was fatiguing him, offered that she’d be more than happy to stand on her own two legs. With her arms loosely draped about his neck, she prepared to be set down when he commented that she felt a little too light, and promptly froze, looking into his face with an expression that showed too clearly that he’d struck a nerve. She smiled bashfully and gave an uncomfortable giggle. “James teased me for being too heavy last time he held me like this…” she admitted. “I guess I took the comment too seriously… I’ve been starving myself ever since.” She laughed again, but it was a dry sound that suggested “starving” wasn’t so much an overstatement as it should have been. The joke was utterly killed when she saw the sad concern in Christian’s eyes – he knew he had legitimate reason to worry about her. And yet, flattered though she ought to have been, Camille didn’t approve. She looked away from him with a sort of scowl. She didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her.

“If I’m holding anything in, it’s not because I’m trying to be a man.” Her voice came somewhere between a whine and a biting snap. She felt as though he were condescending to her, suggesting that she ought to be a weepy, emotional little thing simply because she was a woman, and that was how women were supposed to act. James never made her feel like that. He suited her up with a gun and let her fight by his side, and conversely, held her when she needed a good cry and allowed her to lean on him only when she wanted to. She was truly irked by Christian’s silly observation that she was trying to act like a man. But while she pouted sourly, she didn’t struggle as he carried her to the bed. Apparently his irritatingly conventional view of gender roles didn’t really provoke her all that much. Nonetheless, he’d ruffled some feathers – that much was clear – but as he settled her on the bed and soothingly began to massage one dainty foot, those feathers were smoothed down again. Camille sprawled herself out across the mattress, gathered a pillow into her arms, and sighed softly against the cool linens.

By the time he’d finished his massage, she’d forgotten her irritation and was halfway to dreamland. But when he released her ankle, she was lulled back into consciousness, if only to grumble something muddled and meaningless as she kicked off her other shoe and struggled to sit upright. With a grateful smile, she wiped at her sleepy eyes, kissed the man’s cheek, and stood up. Casually she slipped out of her fashionable skirt, letting it bunch about her ankles before stepping gracefully out of the flouncy garment. A pair of ivory panties were revealed, but they remained half-hidden by the white button-up blouse that fell a bit low past her hips. But the impromptu striptease ended there; comfortable in just her top – and most importantly, freed from her itchy skirt – she scurried back onto the bed then took Christian’s hand. “Come on,” she coaxed. “My turn.” With an impish grin, she scooted to sit back against the headboard of the bed, then parted her legs to pull Christian between them. She situated him to sit with his back to her chest, his waist framed by her bare legs, and let him lean back into her as her hands began to massage across his shoulders.

“Why on earth do you want me..?” she murmured pensively, her lips brushing the edge of his ear. She nuzzled affectionately into his hair, her fingers still working and kneading the taut muscles across his upper back. “I can’t make any sense of it,” she added with a quiet giggle. “You know I’m only trouble.”