2010-05-11: Iris

Starring:

Vasha_V5icon.png

Date: May 11, 2010

Summary:

I just want you to know who I am….


"Iris"

Sol's Penthouse Apartment

And I'd give up forever to touch you

Cause I know that you feel me somehow

You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be

And I don't want to go home right now

The large bedroom is dark, save for the flickering light of a few candles lit for ambiance. Sol had been waiting for her when she returned home, but she has a headache. He is old, fat, decadent, everything that makes her sick to her stomach. With a sneer, she sent him off. She may be playing the part of a mistress, but she won't be his.

Though she wouldn't be taking advantage of him tonight, she is taking advantage of his gifts. The perfumed bath, the chocolates, the Cape Ruby, the cigar… He really did think of everything for a romantic evening. It's very unfortunate that she'd be spending it alone.

Immersed to the chin in fragrant bubbles, Vasha has her arms balanced on the sides of the porcelaine basin. The lit cigar smoldering between two fingers on her left hand. Slowly, she brings it to her lips for a long puff.

And all I can taste is this moment

And all I can breathe is your life

Cause sooner or later it's over

I just don't want to miss you tonight

The aromatic smoke lingers in a lazy ring around her head for a while. With a small smile, she blows at it, trying to disperse the white gray vapor. The air in the room is hazy, relaxing, and with a long breath of relief, Vasha closes her eyes to the outside world.

He is there.

His smoldering eyes, the dark hair, the little flip of curls when it comes unkempt. The cigar is lifted again, a long breath inward before a series of little puffs dissolve into opaque rings in the air. In the bubbly water, she is completely relaxed. In heaven, with him.

And I don't want the world to see me

Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

In the past few days, she's studied his every move, every detail of his life. He's not so much a mystery as an enigma or riddle to solve. What makes him so special, so important, so valuable that people would lay down their lives for him? Even kill for him?

There is a knock on the door.

Her private time interrupted, she draws herself up from the bath, lays the cigar into the crystal ashtray and pads across the marble tile, leaving a trail of wet footprints toward the door. Pulling a silk robe over her body, she wraps it snugly around her willowy frame and pulls a loose knot into the tie. Then she opens the world to her personal sanctuary.

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming

Or the moment of truth in your lies

When everything seems like the movies

Yeah you bleed just to know your alive

Through the door, a manila envelope is passed. The information she requested too long ago is finally here. Forgetting the bath, Vasha picks up the cigar and glass of port and drifts into the sitting area of her suite.

Sol would give his eyeteeth to see her like this. Her hair piled into a messy bun at the top of her head, a few loose curls escaping to frame her face and wisp down her neck. The short silk robe comes down to mid-thigh, showing off her long tanned legs. She turns her head to gaze into the full length mirror, then pivots from side to side, examining her various battle scars and recent bruises.

How would he look at her?

And I don't want the world to see me

Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

Vasha turns from the mirror and settles down in a plush chair. She crosses one leg over the other and points her foot, bouncing it lightly in time to some melody in her head. The ember at the end of the cigar fizzles and glows as she takes another puff, then the rich flavored thing is set into the ashtray beside her.

One fingernail is used to slide at the glue keeping her from her prize. The ripping sound is almost music to her ears, one more obstacle overcome on her way to success. She blows softly into the opening to widen the envelope and then tips it, allowing its contents to slip out onto the table beside her.

Multiple black and white photos, surveillance gleaned from various sources. All carrying the same face, those same eyes, that same hair. Most of them even the same expression.

I don't want the world to see me

Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

She finally takes a sip from her glass of port; the robust liquid slides down her throat, warming her insides. The glass is placed onto the table, the corner of one of the photos staining with a droplet of the rich drink. Clucking her tongue, Vasha pulls it from under the delicate goblet.

His eyes. She's thought about them for days.

Plucking another one of the photographs from the table, her hazel eyes sweep over it as she memorizes his form. She even goes so far as to draw a finger down the black and white chest. So close, she's gotten so close so many times. Her eyes narrow slightly.

«Who are you?» Her mind races with that same question.

I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am

…. Archibald Anderson Wheeler.

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