47. Once Upon A December/1.

The splashing sound of the shower hissed to a stop from the bathroom next door. 

 Mira snuggled under the cedar-scented quilt. The early winter sun slanted languidly through the floor-to-ceiling window, shrouding her feet in warmth. Only half awake, she buried her face in her arms, her eyes closed. Unbidden, a smile crept onto her lips, and images from the night before flashed behind her eyelids. She flushed and winced. 

"Dear god, what did I say?" She whimpered, clamping a hand to her brow as her mind grew clearer. It all came back to her now how she confessed with a stammer when he brushed his lips on her neck and down. 

Taken aback, he halted for a second, his elegant brows a quizzical arch, a smile undulating in his eyes more obsidian than the night. "Well, I wasn't going to go that far, anyway, not tonight," he crooned, his lips found hers again. "Physical exertion isn't safe for you just yet with your condition. But thank you for letting me know, darling. I'll be gentle when the time comes and you're ready." 

 Banging her head on the cushion, Mira purred with a long cry. "He wasn't even going to, so what did I tell him that for? Idiot!" 

"Who are you calling an idiot now?"

Wide-eyed, Mira gingerly peered out from under the quilt. 

Sitting on his heels, Warshon crouched by the crouch, his shirt unbuttoned, his chest bandaged, his smile melting her away. 

"Good morning," he whispered, leaning close, the tip of his nose grazing her brow. 

She raised her head a little, distracted by the sharp contour of his face in the shadow of his still-damp hair. Her hand grazed his bandaged chest. "Aren't you supposed not to shower?" 

He faltered for a second, his onyx gaze narrowed by a half smile tender like the morning sun."I used a waterproof cover, don't worry."

"I didn't even know such a thing existed."

He chuckled, "Now you do." Grabbing her hand and putting it to his lips, he continued in his lazy croon, "So, darling, what would you like to do today?"

Still unfamiliar with the endearment, she blushed to her ears. "Don't you have work?" 

"I do," he said, nestling beside her as he scooped her up to his chest. "But it's also Saturday, so the schedule is more flexible, and the work can be done remotely."

Giddy and daunted by the idea of spending a whole day with him, Mira nodded. "I could use a shower too," she mumbled, chewing on the seams of her lips. "Haven't had one since Nonna drew me a bath."

Lowering his head, he nibbled her earlobe, "Aw, I knew I should have waited." His chest heaved with a short laugh upon seeing her blinking helplessly at a loss. "Go," he said. "Just don't take too long and tire yourself out. There is a fresh shirt hanging on the door for you." 

She lifted her incredulous eyes only to meet his burgundy red lips. 

A little lightheaded as she rose to her feet, she scurried to the bathroom and took another peek at him before closing the door. Detaching the watch screen from the wristband, he immediately got back to his work. His furrowed brow belied any trace of warmth still lingering on her lips. Mira couldn't shake off the feeling that he needed to be alone, that she was somehow in the way. 

Turning on the faucet, she stood under the square showerhead. The water fell on her like tropical rain. She closed her eyes behind her hands, contemplating the story she told him. The Old Man and the Sea. In the end, the marlin was no more than a quarry to Santiago, or a quest, so to speak. Did Warshon keep her alive and around only because he couldn't let her walk free now that she knew who he was like he had told her quite blatantly the first time they met, and letting her die seemed boring to him? Or was he just so assured that she wouldn't be able to survive on her own should she dare turn him in? Or perhaps he only pretended to like her so she would willingly offer her oath of omertá?

A quid quo pro and nothing else, like he said from the start. 

Spreading from her heart was a pang for which she knew her myocarditis wasn't to blame. 

She pumped the shower gel. The familiar cedar scent filled the steamy air and clung to her skin. Everything smelled like him, and she hated herself for having liked it too much already. 

Wrapping a bath towel around her, she stood before the fog-free mirror, the heated floor warming her feet. Think, she commanded herself as she went through the shit hand she had been dealt of late. She took a cologne bottle off a tray of toiletry and placed it on the sink top. 

Say, this is the Party of the Commonwealth. And this – next to it she put a tube of toothpaste – this is the Utopianists. For almost two decades, the Utopianists were the opposition party, ridiculed for their socialist dream. Until one day, the people all woke up and clamored for facts to be grounded in that dream. While it all seemed to take place in a blink of an eye, nothing as dramatic could happen overnight. 

She unscrewed the lid of the cologne bottle and pressed. The cedar scent bewitched like his lazy, velvet croon in her ears. She slapped herself across the cheek and winced. 

Focus, you idiot! 

Turning her eyes on the cologne bottle, she gnawed at her bottom lip. Say, if I squeeze the toothpaste all over the floor, then spray the room with cologne, will the next person walk in take a sweet moment and enjoy the air, or will he scowl at the floor and try to put the blame on something for the mess? 

The toothpaste wouldn't have been all over the floor without the incentives. Too deep in the thick of the turmoil, she didn't get a chance to distance herself and look at the full picture of what happened at home, if she could still call it her home. 

She picked up the toothbrush and put it next to the cologne bottle. While the cologne kept a nice environment at large, it couldn't sate what a toothbrush needed. And if all that people heard everywhere they went was the toothbrush, it wouldn't take long for them to chant that something must be done about it, as if the toothbrush was the only thing that mattered, rendering the rise of the toothpaste an inescapable destiny in its wake. 

Mira lowered her head, her hands coiling into fists. 

Starting from her parents' passing ten years ago, quite a few of their friends died one after another either from illness or accident before the Utopianists, who later called themselves the Reds, launched the Revolution that brought down the rest, including Reynold. 

A purge in the name of the revolution. 

Mira sank her teeth into her lip. Even without evidence, she knew it couldn't be the work of the idiotic Reds alone. Down with the hierarchy! – as their slogan went. They turned the pyramid upside down, forcing the best intellects, the scientists, and the scholars alike to the bottom, while everyone else clamored to be crowned. To further fulfill the illusion of the masses, all the social resources went into building a scaffold that kept the pyramid on its tip. But for how long before it all toppled to the ground? Or, was such toppling the endgame? Who would benefit from that? 

Upturning two glasses, she laid the cologne bottle on top and studied her rickety structure. 

With the vaccine scandal, voters in the Third World had gravitated to the Republican candidates even before the result. Chances were high that the Commonwealth would lose this election. But a scandal without proof would soon fade out of public attention, morphing into a rumor, an urban myth, doomed to be a distant memory. She deliberated on accessing Reynolds's private cloud. 

During his last days, Reynold gave her the code and asked her not to access it until she had built herself a safety net and was fully prepared. Now definitely was not a good time. But letting the momentum go to waste also set aflame her angst. She clutched at her chest, her breath a wheeze. 

"Mira?" A gentle knock on the door jolted her around. 

"Yes?"

"Darling, you alright? You've been in there for a while." Even through the door, that lazy croon wobbled her knees.

"I'll be out in a second." She threw on the crispy shirt he left for her and opened the door. 

Folding his arms with his back to the wall, he stood on the cusp of shadow limned by the late morning sun, his sharp features contoured like the alabaster of an aloof god with an air of gravitas. 

She averted her eyes. 

But he leaned in for a kiss. "Have I mentioned how I love seeing you in my shirt?" Then, he roamed his eyes over her shoulder. A hint of amusement flickered in his frowning smile. "Were you playing building blocks or chess with my toiletry?"

Mira batted her eyes, her hands grasping the hem of his shirt she wore like a dress. "Forgot to put them back," mumbling to herself, she swiveled to the sink only to fall in his arms as he grabbed her hand and spun her back to him. 

"Leave it," he crooned, putting his forehead against hers. "The fever is flaring up again. We need to give you the IVs, and while we're at it, you can tell me where you want to go for dinner." 

Lifting her up in one arm, he eased her down on the couch, and as always, he remembered to turn on the infusion fluid warmer before the medicine began dripping into her vein. Mira tucked her cheek to the shoulder, every pulse of her heart a whisper, trembling for her to take a leap of faith.

"What's wrong?" he asked, locking his gaze on her. "You seemed distraught. Did you beat yourself in the chess you played in the bathroom?" 

She swept her eyes to meet his but said nothing. 

"Well, I have chess here. Should we play?"

"I suck at chess." 

Feigning shock, Warshon gasped, "And I thought there isn't a game the enchanting Mira couldn't master!" 

She scowled, "Tease me all you want."

"I wasn't teasing," he said as he went over one of the bookshelves next to the whisky cabinet. 

"Someone close to me said I'm too impatient, that I always win battles to lose the war," muttering, she could almost hear Reynold saying that as he sat across the chess board while he played the violin. 

"Well, if you really suck at it," said Warshon as he returned with the chess, a suave smile tilting his lips. "More reasons to practice." 

"Fine," she bleated while he set the board. "I want black. I'm feeling dark today."

Warshon chuckled and turned his side of the board to her. "Wait," he said, pulling open a full drawer of chocolates at the bottom of the alabaster coffee table. "A game with you mustn't be easy, and I can't be lightheaded. Do you want one?" A smirk flashed in his onyx gaze. 

Mira gaped, remembering his chocolates in the pantry. "For a doctor, you sure eat healthy." 

"I'd love to enjoy my food more often had I got the time. Chocolates are efficient and taste far kinder than energy bars. So," He shrugged, picking one out for himself. "Which one do you choose this time?"

"Dark."

"Because you're feeling dark?" He handed one over. 

"And bitter."

No jest, or question, or a comment to tease, he didn't say another word but watched her tear open the packaging. As she took a bite, he leaned over and kissed her on the lips. "Hope it's sweeter now." His velvet croon was dripping in honey indeed. 

Wide-eyed and giddy, Mira tasted those burgundy red lips, her head droning. 

"Why do you seem stunned?" He ruffled her hair before he turned his gaze to the board. "You need to get used to me kissing you, darling." 

Then, aiming for control of the center, he started the game with the King's Pawn opening from e4. Exhausting all her will to focus, Mira responded in kind and mirrored his move, until she could transition into a different opening that put pressure on his knight and reached a tactical skirmish. Mira leaned on her side against the backrest of the couch, her patience gnawed by her angst. 

Having sacrificed a knight to open the kingside, Warshon forced her king to move, which she retaliated by threatening his central pawns—back and forth, the careful maneuver of sacrifices and retaliations that seemed to never end. Amid complexity during the midgame, Mira began to blunder. But other than taking his chances and beating her, Warshon kept their positions materially balanced and dragged it out to a stalemate. 

"Well, I guess you're right," he let out a sigh, the side of his head propping on the back of his hand. "This is no fun."

"Because you didn't win?" Lifting her eyes, she snuck a glance at him. "There're a few times you could have crushed me." 

"Yes," He removed the board between them, putting it away on the coffee table, and scooted over to her. "I don't play when I can't win, and I realized there's no winning playing against you. So, how about this," He swaddled her with one arm, his other hand interlocking with hers. "We play only when you're on my side?"

Flushed, she ran a hand across his chest. 

He chuckled, "What are you now? A kitten, trying to scratch me?"

She shook her head, gingerly meeting his smiling eyes. "You didn't seem to want me here when I was in the shower. Yes, I was the one who asked for it, but you tricked me into asking." 

"Is this why it took you so long?" He squinted, his head tipping aside as he pulled a little distance, his smile rumpled into disappearance; his chest heaved, sending up a long sigh. "You know who I really am, Mira. And you know it isn't pleasant, which means there are times I must tend to dirty businesses. But you're right, smartie, I didn't want you to be in the same room with me earlier because I was blackmailing an innocent man. And it was stupid of me to think the trick that would work on others would work on you. That said…" For the first time, he stumbled, his hand squeezing hers while his voice trailed off. 

She saw that he was hurting, and she wanted to kiss where it hurt, but instead, she blurted, "Did you only pretend to like me so that I wouldn't turn against you or turn you in? Seems like an easy solution and more entertaining for you this way." 

Raising his chin, he loosened his grip, his breath heavy. "Do I look like I have nothing better to do?" 

"I…" She dipped her head and squirmed to the other side of the couch as his watch vibrated with an incoming call. 

He answered and put it on speaker as if he wanted her to hear every word. "Hello, Teddy," he grunted. 

"Hey, man, listen, I'm in Konstinbul," said the man over the speaker, his voice strained and strangely familiar. 

Warshon cocked a brow. "Already?" 

"Yeah," he let out an awkward cackle. "Sorry about the change of plan. But can we meet tonight? I'm staying in your VIP room at the Reign Hotel. I hope you don't mind. All the other rooms are booked for the week."

"So you flew in last minute?" asked Warshon, his face stern, his eyes even darker than usual. "What's wrong? Why the rush?"

"I, I mean, about that," the man stuttered, "I'll explain in person." 

Warshon took a sidelong glance at Mira before turning to the IV bags. "Let's meet at Constantine in an hour."

"One that's right across your tailor?"

"Yep."

"Sure, see you in an hour." 

Upon hanging up, silence enshrouded the space between them like plastic, thin yet suffocating, until he severed it. "That's Telesphore," he said, his voice gravelly. "My business partner."

"Go," she hummed, jamming herself into a corner of the couch. "Don't mind me."

A cold smirk narrowed his gaze. Scooting over to her side, he leaned his weight against her, "Oh, I don't think, Mira," he whispered by her ear. "Didn't you say that I only pretended to like you so I can keep an eye on you? How can I leave you alone now knowing you can amble freely and turn me in? And look," He glanced up at the IV bag running empty. "Perfect timing." Grabbing her hand, he pulled the catheter. "You're coming with me."

***