Chapter 3: They always find me.

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31 December 1969
Paris, France

The deluge of snow pauses for a few minutes, long enough for her to hail a taxi from the steps of her apartment. Time, normally inconsequential and meaningless, seemed to blur that year. Cool wet spring and hot baking summer. Warm sunny autumn and now cold snowy winter. Through it all, a single thread loops around, knotting the months together. She feels the sting of bitter despair when she contemplates the fact.

After all these years, of running and hiding and starting from scratch again and again – here she remains.

Forgotten. Alone.

It feels exceptionally poignant tonight, as the end of another decade arrives. Clawing her way up from the self-loathing pit of her past feels utterly impossible. Why should she move on? The memories caged in her heart are more vital to her survival than anything else she owns.

Right there, that's the key word - survival. This is not living; she knows that. The simple truth is that she's forgotten and alone, because she chose this life. Self-imposed regression, isolation in the purest form. To live, feels insurmountable because she has no clue how the hell she's supposed to simply let go.

She knows though. She knows she should. For him.

This is not the life he wanted for her.

She owes him more than the hollow shell she's become.

Maybe this is it, she tells herself. Maybe this will be the year she rediscovers what it means to live. Maybe this year she can exorcise the ghosts of her past and finally move on.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. A fool's mantra.

Lifting the hem of a black satin evening gown away from the grey slush, she steps carefully through the shoveled path to meet the driver. Sliding into the backseat, she adjusts her long, billowy black coat, tucking it under her knees.

"Moulin Rouge," she requests and her voice is resigned.

How she allowed herself to be roped into a party tonight, she's not sure. New friends, still bursting with sheltered optimism, insisting on making the most of their youth.

Youth. What a funny idea. Her youth disappeared long ago, but the hallmarks of age refuse to visit - no grey hair, no wrinkles around her eyes. Nothing to mark the passage of time, other than the ancient ache fused to her bones. She appears much the same as she did back in 1943, which is soul destroying all on its own.

The world keeps moving forward, but nothing about her wants to follow that same trajectory.

Foggy car windows obscure the lights of Paris as the taxi navigates the crowded streets. From inside, the world resembles a watercolor painting, dabs of muted yellow, smears of soft black. Rolling down the window, she tips her face into the night, letting clean, cold air fill the car. The world returns in sharp relief, the smell of the city filling her nose, bringing a sting of wistfulness; chestnuts roasting in buckets, the heady scent of champagne from the tippling glasses toasting on the sidewalks, the piney smell of decaying needles from Christmas trees piled on street corners. The noise is deafening, as the whole of Paris flocks to the streets, celebrating the end of the 1960s. Even now, 25 years after the Nazi occupation, the city remains hell bent on squeezing every last bit of living from the hours in their grasp.

Part of her wants to encourage them to calm down, to take a breath – it won't happen again, it can't happen again, the world won't let it. But that's what they said in 1918.

Instead, she smiles at the excitement, at the unwavering lust for life. Although she doesn't partake, she still understands the desire. She just wishes she could feel the same.

The ride takes longer than usual, but that's okay. She's in no hurry to arrive and feign excited smiles through the long night. When the lights of the Moulin Rouge appear, the giant windmill flashing white and red and gold lights, she tries a pep talk, psyching herself up.

You can do this, she tells herself. It's only one night. You can do this.

The driver pulls up and the attendant rushes for her door, offering a white gloved hand to help her exit. Stepping from the car, she adjusts her coat, lifts her chin and curves her lips into a reasonable replica of a smile.

Glancing to the attendant, she offers her thanks.

The words die on her tongue.

Above the sea of people clogging the sidewalk, she sees the back of a tall man striding away, shoulder length hair brushing broad shoulders. The shade is so perfectly familiar, a glossy chestnut hue she can see wrapped around her fingers, her breath stops.

Hope stabs her, so viciously consuming, she staggers and grips the car door tight.

Was that -

But in the next heartbeat, he turns the corner and disappears, and reality crashes down. She saw nothing, because there was nothing to see. Nothing more than her traitorous brain playing tricks, because that part of her life no longer exists. Sometimes there are just so many memories crowded inside, they have no where to go but back into the world. Some days she sees ghosts everywhere, their shadowy footprints stomping through her heart.

Stop. Please stop. Let him go, she pleads with herself. You have to let him go.

The impossibility of the request weighs her down, but she vows in that moment that she will at least try. Perhaps this will be the year she turns over a new leaf. The year she finally lets him go.

Resolve vibrating through her, she lifts her chin once again and marches into the club.

*****

Just a few more hours.

The refrain plays on repeat in her head. Louder and louder, the words throbbing in time with the headache she feels brewing.

In all fairness, she's trying. The room overflows with bodies, stuffy and hot, and she swears to herself that she's trying, she really is, but she can't stop peeking at the gigantic clock situated in the middle of the ballroom. Just a few more hours until she can take off this gown and ditch these heels and crawl under her covers with a bottle of wine.

And contemplate how the hell she plans to survive another decade like this.

Plucking a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray, she gulps down the delicate fizz. Touching the cold crystal to her damp forehead, she closes her eyes and she smiles wryly when she considers one very important point.

If she has nothing else in this world - at least there will always be bubbles.

Minutes creep by, the crowd getting drunker and more exuberant as the clock ticks closer to midnight. She makes small talk, keeps the smile glued to her face, laughs at jokes that are thoroughly unfunny. All the while, counting down the minutes until she can make her escape.

Beside her, a group of Americans are telling a story, full of imitations and boisterous laughter. Leaning away, she tries to tune them out, focusing instead on the one highlight to the evening. There, from across the room she hears lush, beautifully complex melodies floating from ivory keys. Piano music dances above the melee and the sounds of big band classics are nostalgic and comforting. The pianist is exquisite, rotating easily through a medley of old favorites, and she lets herself relax.

Contentment steals over her for the first time the entire evening. Maybe it's not so bad here, she admits to herself.

But she really should realize - the world is not on her side. A jarringly familiar chord rings out.

And she freezes.

Oh god. No, she thinks. No. Move. Get out of here.

It strikes something broken deep inside and she wonders if the ghosts of her past are really, truly intent on wrecking her tonight. Whipping around, she searches desperately for an escape, but the ballroom is filling further, a veritable barricade of merrymakers preventing her from fleeing.

Like musical ivy, the mocking notes float around her, winding and twisting and tangling inside her head, wrapping tight around her throat. Around her heart. Although no words accompany the song, she fills the blanks perfectly fine by herself.

We'll meet again...don't know where...don't know when...

For all her earlier promises to move on and forget the past, this party's not doing a god damn thing to help. The song slices apart her tenuous resolution, opening up that place in her brain where she keeps them all, those priceless memories from her past.

On and on it plays, and she feels the hysteria begin to choke her.

Keep smiling through...Just like you always do...'Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away...

There are no smiles for her. No blue skies. Only black clouds and black dreams and black death, waiting to consume her.

Get out, get out, get out, her heart screams. She shoves harder, fighting to break from the crowd and panic descends.

"Only sixty seconds until midnight!"

Climbing to a pedestal on the bar, a garishly dressed performer in a black top hat and high heeled boots screams and the waiting crowd roars in return. In the next moment, the music comes to an abrupt halt. The memories are still hot electricity crackling over her skin, but the harsh reality of the present floods back in and she breathes a shaky sigh of relief.

Party horns and streamers and bags of confetti are passed around and she accepts one distractedly.

Too much, she thinks. This is too much.

And from nowhere, too much, becomes something far worse.

Like the undulations of the sea, the crowd shifts and from afar, she glimpses the piano player who fired the bullet into her heart. Even seated, she can see he's tall and broad shouldered. She feels a strange twist in her stomach and a shiver goes down her back.

Because from behind, she recognizes him from earlier this evening. When the light from above shines down on shoulder length, chestnut brown hair, her teeth begin to chatter.

He stands from the piano then, stepping around the seat. As he moves, she feels her body follow, as though he's a puppeteer and she's the marionette on his strings. The rapid flutter of her pulse hammers a staccato beat in her ears and she tries to push forward, her eyes trained on him. When a waiter stops next to him, offering a glass of champagne, he accepts it and takes a long drink. She notices he wears black gloves, a peculiar accessory in the swelteringly hot room.

Sweat drips down her temples and she wipes it away, ignoring the light smear of make-up transplanting onto her fingers. The words are dancing in her head, rising from the surface, as she feels herself saying it out loud, although she cannot hear the sound of her own voice.

"Turn around, please, turn around."

In the next moment, her wish is granted.

The man turns to the side. Perfectly straight nose. Plush lips lifted in a disdainful curve. There in the ballroom of the Moulin Rouge, while 1969 takes its dying breaths, she sees the profile of a man who has haunted her dreams for as long as she can remember.

Her entire world goes silent.

The last moments of the countdown begin.

10...he steps to the side of the piano...

9...carefully sets his drink on the shiny black lacquer and buttons his tuxedo jacket...

8...and picks up his glass to drain the remaining champagne...

7...he hands the empty glass to a passing waiter...

6...and she sees a woman reaching for him, vying for his attention...

5...but he moves his arm away, ignoring the insistent appeal...

4...he glances up to the massive clock on the wall...

3...and his cold eyes fixate on her...

2...he remains utterly still, eyes narrowing as he holds her shocked stare...

1...then sharp elbows are jostling her from every angle and suddenly she stumbles...

Happy New Year!

When she regains her balances, she pivots wildly, searching the blurry sea of faces, hoping, praying, shouting for him. The crowd swells and parts again and again, but it's no use.

He's gone.

Black and silver confetti rains from the ceiling and gold balloons bounce around the laughing guests. People are kissing, hugging, laughing, welcoming 1970 with open arms. In the middle of it all, she stands frozen. Confused tears slide down her cheeks and in the thunderous roar of happiness, she hears nothing but the familiar shatter of her heart.

*****

In her apartment, there is a juliette balcony in the small living room. The home is basic and utilitarian, nothing special, except for the view. It overlooks the city and the sparkling lights of Paris satisfy her desire for beauty like nothing else.

Curled in a worn armchair in front of the balcony window, she shivers against the icy night air, drinking a glass of gin.

You're insane, she thinks, gulping down the burning liquid. It was the song, nothing else. It's not possible. It wasn't him.

No, it's not possible. It can't be possible.

But still – she waits.

And in that dark hour before dawn, someone does arrive.

Nothing more than a soft footfall, alerts her to his presence. She sets the glass carefully on the floor and rises slowly to her feet.

Behind her stands a dark shadow, holding a rumpled tuxedo jacket by the tips of his fingers. A beam of light strikes his chest and through the crisp white shirt, she sees hints of luminous silver, a tinge of blood red at his shoulder, silver plated fingers balled in a loose fist. The top few buttons at his collar are undone, and through the gap she sees streaks of red marring pale skin.

Somehow, there is a metal arm bolted to the man's body.

Blinking slowly, she looks him up and down.

"Is this a dream?" she whispers, searching for clues. "Are you real?"

He simply stares back, regarding her dispassionately.

"Jimmy?" she asks softly and he twitches at the word.

"No," he growls, his voice pitched deep. Where she expected a lazy Brooklyn twang, she hears nothing but clipped consonants.

"Okay," she agrees softly, while her heart splinters. "What do I call you?"

"My name is Soldier. That's all you need to know."

He looks like him. God dammit, he looks exactly like him.

With two steps, he closes the space between. A mocking smile plays across his face as she stands her ground. When she reaches a hesitant hand to touch him, he catches her wrist, twisting it in a cruel grip, not allowing her fingers to find his skin. Jerking her roughly to him, he turns her around, her back flush against his chest and shoves her forward until she hits the wall. Wrenching her other wrist up, he pins both above her head and leans into her. The metal fingers pinch her skin and his breath is hot in her ear. She feels every hard inch of his body pressed against her, and he smells like dust and sweat and something tangy she doesn't want to know.

"I saw you watching me earlier," he rasps in her ear. "I could see it in your face. Tell me yes. Tell me I can have you."

She tries to turn, but he won't permit it. The sinister edge in his voice stirs something buried inside and when she whispers her answer against the wall, there's no hesitation.

"Yes. You can have me. You can have everything."

At her submission, his lips trail greedily down her neck to fasten on the skin over her pulse. He sucks hard, drinking up the heartbeat he finds thrumming against his lips. A faint, purely unconscious purr leaves his throat as he remains there, his tongue occasionally massaging the flesh he seems determined to ruin. Dragging a warm, calloused palm down her chest, he tugs insistently at the sheer lace covering her breasts. Baring them to the freezing air swirling through the room, her nipples tighten as rough fingers skim over them.

Sucking hard at her skin, brushing gently over her breasts. Softly licking the tender spot at her neck, cruelly pinching her nipples. Each feeling elicits a sharp gasp of confusion, a strange contradiction of sensations.

The languid pace confuses her. He could take everything if he wanted, she'd accept it without question. But for some reason, he doesn't. Instead, he seems content to stay there, tasting her skin, teasing her breasts, until she begins to beg.

"Please."

Something snaps when he hears the word. It lights up something feral inside him and a low snarl rips from his throat.

"Good. I like that," he grits out. "I like begging. Say it again."

The blistering heat of his touch brands her skin when he grabs her hip, impatiently rucking up the flimsy nightgown. The patent leather of his dress shoes feels cool against her skin when she feels him nudge her calves, spreading her open and the metal grip on her wrists tightens as he slips his hand between her legs.

She stutters out a moan at the feel and he gives a growl of approval at the discovery, how wet she feels. He strokes back and forth, maddeningly slow, until she's bucking her hips, chasing his hand. Hot breath fills her ear and the sound of his voice sends chills racing up her spine.

"I said, say it again."

With no warning, he shoves two fingers inside her and sinks his teeth into her shoulder.

Tears sting her eyes and she cries out. It's been so god damn long since she's been with anyone, the harsh treatment does nothing to temper the need coiling in her belly. Just the simple feel of him, his thick fingers, blunt and rough, sends her instantly close to the edge. The moment his teeth release her, he licks over the deep indentions and starts fucking her with his fingers.

"Oh god," she chokes out. "Please. Please, please, please."

His heavy body keeps her captive against the wall, her cheek pressed to the cold plaster, allowing her to do nothing more than take what he gives. Faster, harder, he moves his fingers inside her, stroking his thumb over her clit and she relishes the way each sharp thrust forces her up onto her toes. It comes quickly and suddenly she's close, so close, so precariously close, her body clenching around his fingers and she closes her eyes, holding her breath.

He stops.

Thick fingers buried inside her, the Soldier waits, curious for her reaction. She pants harshly against the wall, a brief rush of shame rolling through her, but heavy want grips her and she can't help herself. Pushing back against him, she wordlessly begs him to continue. Casting a heavy-lidded glance behind, she sees him peering down between them. Remaining motionless, he watches as she circles her hips, mesmerized by the way her body swallows his fingers as she rocks herself back and forth. He allows her to continue, taking her pleasure from him, until he looks up and meets her eyes.

Abruptly, he removes his fingers and her body jolts at the loss.

Mouth curling into a sardonic smile, he drops his hand to the front of his suit pants and she feels him fumbling with the button on his trousers, hears the ting of his zipper when he yanks it down. Her entire body shivers, waiting. He tugs the suit pants just low enough to free himself, and she feels velvet softness brushing against her skin, an intense contrast to the unbreakable steel of his body. The heat is immense, his skin feels like fire against her and she basks in it.

She's been so cold, for so damn

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