the world is on fire

Ramon had spent a week in the cells, and she'd visited him every day.  Security had let her through the barrier to check on him, but only for a few minutes.  It'd been enough to see to it that he had enough pills to keep him set.  And a book or seven.  (She knows he likes to read, even if he'd never admit it out loud.)

She spent the week sleeping in her flat.  Well, not so much sleeping as doing battle with unconsciousness.  She'd barely eaten anything at all, and had taken to running like a woman possessed, doing ten miles a day easily.  She spent the other hours shadowboxing or working the heavy bag, anything to physically exhaust herself.  And in the end, it didn't matter.

Without him here, she had her first run of nightmares in a long time.  Once they had their teeth in her, they didn't seem to want to let go.  She dreamt of the cold dark hole, of feeling her fingers and toes go numb and grey with gangrene.  She dreamt of Michael McBride, laughing as he boarded a helicopter, taking off and trailing a stream of cash behind him over the dull brown rooftops of Dublin. 

She dreamt of making love to Ramon, of being beneath him, lost in that slow coiling ecstasy, when his body began to shift, grow heavier above her.  She felt her hands smoothing over the muscles of his back, feeling his skin turn into thick black fur.  She dreamt of the panther's jaws against her throat, felt the blood dripping off his teeth.  She felt the caress of his hands turn into the slice of his talons, felt him sink those teeth into her throat, felt her body jerk like a rag doll as he tore into her flesh.  That dream made her wake up screaming.

She dreamt of kissing his younger self, of looking into his dark eyes and seeing the depths of her heart there, reflected back to her.  A moment of real hope.  She dreamt of watching that light go out, and seeing him smirk at her, cold and distant. 

She dreamt of holding the infant Emanuel in her arms while he slept, her fingertip stroking his cheek.  In that dream, he slowly became transparent and faded away, leaving her holding nothing but an empty blanket.

So by the time he'd served his week and was done, his desire to return to the island was very much welcome.  She was drawn thin and tired from lack of sleep.  All she wanted to do was swim and doze on a beach towel in the brutal summer sun. 

"Actually it's two islands, not just the one, but they're close enough together it doesn't matter.  You'll see."

Fiona sets her bag down in front of her door and tucks a strand of hair back behind her shades.  She's got butterflies in her stomach, but she won't let him see that. 

It's an island in the Caribbean.  It's a twenty minute water taxi ride to the nearest town with a bar nice enough to carry his brand of tequila (she checked), and if he doesn't like it, they find him another one.  Simple as that.

(She wants it to be perfect.  Some place for the two of them, free of any history.  Free to write their own history.)

Her heel bounces in her stilettos and she smooths her dress down for the umpteenth time.

"Go on.  Try the key."