Permission to archive any old place, just e-mail me to let me know. Thanks
to Portia for her comments, and to Kelly, Dulcey, and Chris. :)

But I fear
I have nothing to give
I have so much to lose...

--Sarah McLachlan, Fear

"Anatomy of a Kiss" (1/2)

by Eve

I've been turning it over in my mind. I'm a trained investigator, after
all--and a man with centuries of experience in these matters, to boot. I
should have been able to see this coming. But I didn't. How did I miss it?
Why didn't I stop it until it was too late?

She went home about an hour ago. I wanted to go with her, but we're supposed
to be finishing up the paperwork on the case. I say "we", but I get to do
most of the honours, since I made the arrest. It's going to be interesting
trying to explain how I managed to toss Roger Jamison (AKA Terrence Banister
AKA Frank Usher AKA about a dozen other guys) as far as I did. As for how I
just *happened* to be in the area of Humber Nurseries--on foot--I ended up
telling people my car broke down and I was looking for a phone, which means,
on top of everything else, that I now have to ride in Schanke's car, who
claims he's lost what little trust he ever had in my "sea-green
rust-bucket". He's waiting for me to finish up so we can leave. He keeps
flipping paperclips at me every time it looks like I'm not toiling away.
Which, I suppose, is fairly often. But I can't get this off my mind.

As a mortal, I believed in love at first sight even before I knew there was
a term for it; I think I always managed to cling to that belief, just a
little. Maybe... maybe I'm just a shallow person. When it comes down to it,
there are very few reprehensible traits I can't lay claim to--what's one
more added to the list? Ever since I can remember, I've had a tendency to
fall in love from the outside in. I learned as a child that beauty and
purity are supposed to go hand in hand, and, despite the fact that
experience taught me otherwise, I wanted to believe. Janette called it
naïveté; Lacroix believed it was merely a stubborn refusal to let go of the
last vestiges of my mortality. Whatever it was, my obsession with Sylvaine,
and its catastrophic result, enabled me to see things more clearly than I
had in centuries. Which isn't to say I ceased to be shallow--or, if you
prefer, to be a connoisseur of female beauty. I had my lapses in judgement,
both before and since. But there was never anything quite like this.

Natalie was pretty, I'm not trying to say she wasn't, or isn't. But she
wasn't what I considered to by my ideal woman. I always thought of myself as
a chivalrous man, simply because of the pleasure I took in freely
capitulating to women who could wield their femininity like a weapon.
Natalie, however, chose to quietly set that weapon aside, and instead
attacked me with her intellect. I found her persistence and her cold, hard
logic annoying and--I admit it--unladylike. She would be overly literal,
taking me at the letter of my word, and she would then infuriate me by
suddenly disregarding my advice and challenging my assertions at every turn.
How do you know you can't survive without drinking blood? Have you tried? If
the sun will burn you, why doesn't the moonlight do any damage? Why would
wood hurt you but not metal? Each time we met, I swore it would be the last.

I wasn't sure at first if she was extraordinarily brave, incredibly
dedicated, recklessly self-destructive, or simply insane. I reasoned that
she would have to be the latter to continue the association, especially
after I made it as plain as I possibly could that it would probably end in
her death. But, gradually, I found myself looking forward to our meetings,
even as I dreaded them. I hated her scrutiny, but I enjoyed her company;
Natalie brought a passion and wit to any discussion that I admired, whether
she was discussing quality of life or the quality of the movie she'd seen
last weekend. Raw emotion made her radiant, something I never would have
realized if I'd dismissed her at a glance--or taken her life, as I no doubt
would have done if we'd met earlier. I could quite easily have done it; she
made it easy for me by meeting me in private, by according me her implicit
trust. I could tell she found me attractive. I'm not bragging when I say
that most women do. It's not something I'm exactly proud of. They're drawn
to this monster, this predator inside me. Ever since science discovered
pheromones, I've been wondering if there isn't some sort of special vampire
pheromone that produces this effect.

She loved people, loved humanity, the same way I did--only her vision of
humanity included me as well. I was both grateful and ashamed. And, slowly,
I grew to know her and even to appreciate her. Still, it wasn't what I would
have called a romantic attachment. Even after we became what might be called
friends, Natalie didn't strike me as my type of woman at all; she wasn't
always graceful, and she did her best not to seem delicate. She was
straightforward; I liked women who were coy, and modest. She rarely wore
makeup, couldn't be bothered to do more to her hair than pin it back, and
often had chapped skin on her hands; the women I had always preferred were
those who put time and energy into cultivating their beauty, their softness.
Natalie considered excessive time spent on her appearance to be time wasted
if she was going to work; after all, as she so often remarked, her patients
rarely noticed. She didn't seem to mind if I saw her looking a bit scrubby,
because she considered me enough of a friend that she was able to let down
her guard. Rather than feminine solicitude and soft caresses, she dealt out
wisecracks and jocular punches to the shoulder. The kind I've seen her give
her brother, when he used to tease her. That was her kind of affection. She
was fiercely independent, and resented any attempt I made to take care of
her or shield her--even from myself.

But even though she refused to play the delicate flower, she did have a way
of convincing me to do things I never would have dreamed of agreeing to
otherwise; not just the garlic pills and the sunbed, but everyday activities
I'd been denying myself. Outdoor concerts, plays, picnics, parties, and
holiday events--all those very mortal things I usually managed to get out
of. She didn't cajole, plead, cry, or sulk. She simply refused to believe me
when I said no. I could be at my most charming, and she'd just smile up at
me. "What time are you picking me up?" she'd ask. Never mind that I'd just
given her thirty different reasons why I would rather be eaten alive by wild
dogs than go to Don and Myra Schanke's house for New Year's. And, in the
end, I would go. I wouldn't admit it then, but there was something to be
said for having a mortal friend I couldn't persuade to see things my way.

The first one was the Christmas party at the station; that was the year I
started working here. She came along with me--although I suspect it wasn't
so much to lend moral support, as to ensure I wouldn't try to duck out
early. Which, I confess, I would have done. Eating, drinking, bad music and
worse conversation--not my idea of how to spend a fun evening. Not to
mention all those warm, trusting, slightly intoxicated bodies...

Some ambitious soul had tacked mistletoe in every corner of the room, and it
wasn't long before my co-workers were spreading holiday cheer (and lipstick)
with alacrity. It was my habit to stand a bit apart from the crowd, and that
made me an easy target, but my quick reflexes saved me more than once.
Still, the ease and good humour with which they went about it was enviable,
in a way. I watched in amusement as Natalie left her mark on a fair sampling
of the population. I'd never really thought of her as the type who went
around kissing people, but there she was, in the thick of it. I wondered how
much she'd had to drink, and if I might be able to sneak under her radar and
get away for a bit of down-time. She and Grace got Schanke on both cheeks at
once--the self-styled "chick magnet" didn't even see it coming. It was the
first time I got to see Myra in action, employing the time-honoured remedy
for lipstick removal. She took a tissue from her purse, wet it with her
tongue, then briskly scrubbed Natalie's stamp of approval from her husband's
face, teasing him all the while.

Somehow or other, Nat and I met in the middle of the room and ended up
having a conversation that necessitated a bit of privacy. She was pestering
me to eat something, to be more precise. She practically dragged me off to
the nearest corner and began reminding me how important it was that I
co-operate with her if this was going to work, and how I had a lot more time
to waste than she had... there was only one thing I could think of that
might possibly make her stop talking. So I kissed her. It wasn't much of a
kiss, really, but it kept her quiet long enough for me to change the
subject. And she didn't try to feed me once the rest of the night.

I never thought much about it until recently, but that was our first kiss.
It wasn't exactly a big deal to either of us; she was a bit infatuated with
me, but it seemed relatively harmless. Natalie wasn't the type to let that
sort of thing get out of control. It wasn't as though she sat up late every
day thinking about me--occasionally she'd even date, although most of the
men her friends introduced her to weren't particularly taken by her chosen
profession. Those who were found themselves put off by  her morbid sense of
humour. I know that must have hurt her, but she'd always laugh it off with
some well-timed witticism and turn with renewed dedication to her work, her
research. Once in a while, I would catch her looking a bit wistfully at me,
and I'd find an excuse to get out of whatever outing she had planned for us
that weekend. I knew how to handle myself in these situations. After all,
I'd been getting myself into them for centuries.

All of which is a very roundabout way of saying there was no one particular
moment when my feelings for Natalie changed from friendship into something
more. But they must have, or I wouldn't have spent the past few days trying
to convince myself that it was brotherly protectiveness I was feeling. It
may have been a long time, but I know what it feels like to be an older
brother, and that's not how I feel about Natalie at all.



"Anatomy of a Kiss" (2/2)

by Eve

I'd like to say I just had a gut feeling about Jamison--that somehow,
instinctively, I knew he was the killer--but I didn't. I wasn't thinking
clearly at all, about the case or anything else. All I knew was that this
jerk, whoever he was, was definitely not good enough for Natalie. It really
got under my skin that she seemed so happy with him, when she deserved so
much more. And then I realized that I'd never really liked any of the men
she went out with. Even though I'd never met most of them. I wasn't sure
what to do with that information at first. I didn't want to follow that
train of thought to its logical conclusion: that I was jealous.

I've never really been a jealous person by nature; over the centuries,
Janette had her affairs, I had mine, and there were never any bad feelings
between us for it. On one memorable occasion, for absolutely no reason I
could fathom, she took one of my paramours on a rather costly shopping trip,
skillfully guiding the poor bewildered young woman in selecting the types of
undergarments Janette knew I'd enjoy seeing her in. Oh, there were some...
occasional faint stirrings after the first time she left me, but it was more
envy than jealousy--envy of whoever could have her when I couldn't--and I
never acted on it. Probably because deep down I knew we would always be tied
to one another in some manner. I knew that she would always be there.

But I had absolutely no claim to Natalie's affections, and suddenly that
really bothered me. Watching movies on the couch while she dozed against my
shoulder; sneaking up behind her and feeling her wriggle in my embrace; the
light in her eyes when I walked into the room; all those teasing liberties I
took, knowing they embarrassed her; all those times she'd allowed me to be
her comfort, her strength. Those were gifts, and now she was going to bestow
those gifts on another. And why shouldn't she? I asked myself. What business
is it of yours?

Then, when I saw him kissing her... that was it. I didn't want him touching
her--I didn't want any other man touching her. I saw the scene flash through
my mind: I would step between the two of them, breaking the happy little
tableau, throw him out into the hall, pull her inside, and slam the door. I
would to take her in my arms--not the way I normally did, not the gentle
embrace of a friend, but urgently, recklessly. And then, I would... I wanted
to... I wanted...

I wanted Natalie. Not just her help, her compassion, her understanding, and
not just her friendship... all of her.

I didn't act on my feelings, of course, then or later on. How could I? What
could I possibly have to offer her? An eternity of darkness? A lifetime
spent searching for a cure that might not be within our reach? Just as I had
done with the men she'd dated, I weighed my own faults and good qualities
and found myself coming up short. She deserved better than someone who would
always be afraid of hurting her--and with good reason. She deserved more
than I could give her. So I determined to be noble. I told her how happy I
was for her, which just seemed to irritate her--probably because she could
tell I wasn't being sincere.

But in the back of my head, I kept replaying that kiss at Christmas. That
kiss that wasn't much of a kiss, probably because she hadn't been expecting
it--even I hadn't really been expecting it. It was nothing like the
passionate exchange she had with Roger. Her face was upturned; I just dipped
my head a little bit, and then a little more, and then we were so close that
backing away would have made it into more of an issue than it needed to be,
so I kissed her. It was over in a second, but the warmth of her lingered
pleasantly on my lips. I could taste a little bit of what she'd been
drinking, although she hadn't had nearly as much as I'd suspected. Not
enough to facilitate an easy departure--but that was all right, because
suddenly I felt I had the strength to endure the evening.

She kept her eyes closed for a moment afterwards, then looked up at me and
smiled. I smiled back.

"Merry Christmas, Nat."

"Merry Christmas, Nick."

She was a little flushed, a little careless, and very, very warm. She was
beautiful to me in that moment, and then a rare flash of insight rendered
her just as beautiful in my memory, in all the other moments we had shared.
I wondered how I had ever missed seeing it before. I remember being
incredibly aware of how delicate, how fragile her entire existence was, and
how much danger I placed her in simply by being so close, by allowing myself
to feel these stirrings of affection for her. And yet she wasn't afraid of
me. She knew what I was, what I had done, and she chose to be my friend in
spite of it all--even because of it. Because I needed her in my life.
Because I'd forgotten how to be human. And I never once thanked her for all
the time and effort she put into my cure. All I did was complain that the
tea made me sick and the shakes didn't taste good. I wanted to thank her, to
show her that I cared.

I'm having a difficult time wording this report properly. It was hard
enough, having to maintain some semblance of detachment while we took her
statement earlier; Stonetree and Schanke did most of the talking, while I
sat next to Nat, holding her hand, wanting to kiss the fading bruise just
over her eye. Hearing how easily he'd ensnared her--knowing how I could have
stopped it if I'd just shown her a bit of attention on the night of her
birthday--that was painful. I hadn't realized how little it had taken for
him to get his foot in the door.

I almost kissed her afterwards, once they'd left, but I didn't. Couldn't. I
kissed her forehead instead, held her tightly. Almost as tightly as I had
the night he nearly took her from me. She smelled wonderful, spicy and
sweet. Suddenly, I wondered whether she remembered that first Christmas,
that first kiss. If she thought of it fondly, or at all. I love you, I
wanted to tell her, realizing the essential truth of the words even as they
came to me. I've loved you since that moment at the party when I kissed you
and you smiled at me. I love you for all the times you yelled at me and for
all the times you let me hold you in my arms. I never understood what a gift
that was until I thought of it being ripped away from me.

I wanted to say all these things, but I didn't. I was her safe place--the
one man who was there for her, in all the ways she needed me, without asking
anything of her in return. She needed my friendship and devotion far more
than any complicated romantic attachment; I couldn't take that away from
her, no matter how badly I wanted to tell her how I really felt. And that
was a revelation for me: love, real love, is selfless.

I could buy her a palace, if I wanted to; I could take a bullet for her; I
could spend the rest of her days obeying her least command. I could even
make her immortal. Gifts of time, of strength, of material value--I could
give all of that to Natalie, without it really meaning anything, because it
would come at no cost to myself. But this... this cost me. Knowing this and
knowing I couldn't tell her that hurt me far more than a bullet possibly
could.

Schanke is tapping his watch. I've told him to go without me, but he won't,
so I'd better stop drifting and finish these forms. If I can get done with
enough time to spare, maybe I can make it over to Natalie's, in case she
needs me to spend the day.

I've cut this up from all directions--done as thorough a dissection of it as
Nat herself would have--and in the end, I'm right back where I started. I
can't stop this. I don't want to stop it. I feel like I've been awakened
from a centuries-long sleep by this amazing person, and no sooner have I
found her, than it's almost time to say goodbye. But maybe I won't have to.

Maybe I won't have to.

But I fear
I have nothing to give
I have so much to lose here in this lonely place
Tangled up in your embrace
There's nothing I'd like better than to fall...

FIN

Eve
umdutto3@cc.umanitoba.ca