Summer. Past noon, post bath. Three days before a man in Mustique needs a long, low-cut dress and a dagger shoved well up beneath the bone of his jaw. And she decides, sipping away at a fresh cappuccino , wrapped in plush cashmere and little else (cool wooden floors serving as a comfortable contrast to the heat between her fingertips) that she'd rather be there instead of her spare flat in London, watching the rain come down in buckets.
Bad weather has little to do with it.
There are letters on the coffee table. Ten months' worth, opened with so much care that they're neither torn nor wrinkled; handwriting inside as unfamiliar as the names-- save for one: Cutter.
Odd thing about it being that it's all old news. Registered data. Well beyond the point of being useful, but Frazer pins them all to paper. Catalogues the time stamps the way they're burned into the back of her mind. That he's lasted ten months when it ought to have been four. That the last time they had tea, she never once went for the bangle at her wrist--
That she ought to put a bullet through the delicate, woven tissue of his throat just to watch him bleed out and cut short how much trouble he's become.
AU
Summer. Past noon, post bath. Three days before a man in Mustique needs a long, low-cut dress and a dagger shoved well up beneath the bone of his jaw. And she decides, sipping away at a fresh cappuccino , wrapped in plush cashmere and little else (cool wooden floors serving as a comfortable contrast to the heat between her fingertips) that she'd rather be there instead of her spare flat in London, watching the rain come down in buckets.
Bad weather has little to do with it.
There are letters on the coffee table. Ten months' worth, opened with so much care that they're neither torn nor wrinkled; handwriting inside as unfamiliar as the names-- save for one: Cutter.
Odd thing about it being that it's all old news. Registered data. Well beyond the point of being useful, but Frazer pins them all to paper. Catalogues the time stamps the way they're burned into the back of her mind. That he's lasted ten months when it ought to have been four. That the last time they had tea, she never once went for the bangle at her wrist--
That she ought to put a bullet through the delicate, woven tissue of his throat just to watch him bleed out and cut short how much trouble he's become.