Ramon Salazar

It's felt awkward, to him. And he's kept his distance seeing as she was obviously upset and didn't want to talk about it anymore. He's confused, because he thought he was offering her what she wanted, and a bit put out that she dismissed the idea out of hand. Or so it seemed to him.

So he'd gone for a swim and read a book and almost took the boat out but, in the end, didn't. And now it's evening and he has another book, which he's skimming through on the sofa in the lounge. Another warm evening, no sound out there but the waves and breeze. This place is getting too quiet for him.

It has been a long month. A long, boring month of healing and don't touch and being forced to exercise some self-restraint. He's spiked his drinks, taken drugs and painkillers and lately, those pills that Fi got from bar. They seemed to do the trick but left a problem - if his body literally can't respond to desire, how will he know when it's fixed?

He's so bored of waiting. And everything looks practically normal. So after that conversation on the beach and the lazy, intimate day that followed he decided to risk it. If he wakes up hurting, fine, he'll give it a bit longer.

He wakes up...hurting. But not much, not much at all. It's the middle of the night, pitch black because there's no natural light on an island in the middle of the sea, no sound but the waves hitting the beach below them. He's drowsy and hasn't opened his eyes but then, he doesn't have to to know what roused him from sleep.

It aches. But he doesn't know if that's because of the injury or because he's so hard he could hammer nails with his cock. He does know that it doesn't hurt enough to stop him and without even thinking about it, he's turning, sliding a leg between Fiona's and kissing her neck, her jaw, collarbone, chest; small, wet, open-mouthed kisses that are as gentle as they are insistent.

'Fi.'

Perhaps it wasn't really the manly thing, letting Fi deal with getting her out. Under normal circumstances, he'd just give her a smack and be done with it. But isn't shock bad for unborn kids? He doesn't know and he's still struggling with mixed emotions about the baby - on one hand, he wishes it had never happened. But on the other...it has. And it's going to be born now, no matter what so shouldn't he start getting used to the idea?

None of this is easy. He's glad of the half-minute or so that Fi is out of the room because it gives him just a little space to breathe and think about what he's going to say, if he has to say anything. He really had no idea she'd show up here.

When Fi comes back, she'll find him sitting on the bed with his back against the wall, smoking a cigarette and staring at nothing in particular.

The evening had proved to be as fun as the day. The new boat was amazing, especially after he remembered how you're supposed to drive one. They'd gone for a long ride and then stopped off for dinner and drinks before heading home. Idyllic, really.

Except there was...something. Lots of somethings, really. All evening - and then all night - he kept being assailed by conversations he never knew he'd had before. He vividly remembers Teja putting him in the cells after he stabbed him...except if you'd asked him about it an hour before, he would have sworn that it never happened at all. And yet there it is, in his head. It's not clear, parts seem to have faded but it seemed so real.

It had got worse in the night. He'd dreamt that he was in bed with Mary Anne, only to wake up and find Fi. When he tried to shake the dream off, it wouldn't go. The next time, it was Saffron. Then he was in the Milliways cells, doing endless pushups to pass the time. Ramon's not the type that dreams much but what worries him - not that he'll admit it out loud - is that its happening when he's awake. Last night it had got to the point where he couldn't work out what was real or not, what the time was, who he was with or whether he was sleeping.

It was a restless night. Which is why dawn finds him sitting out on the balcony, smoking and drinking coffee, wearing just a robe and trying to work this out. Last time something similar happened, he nearly lost his mind and then his life. He'd really rather that didn't happen again.

He sleeps late. It was a long day yesterday and it had taken longer than normal to drop off, after the uneasy way they ended the day.

When he wakes, it doesn't seem to matter. It's Christmas and he's determined not to purposefully spoil it with problems that are miles away right now. So his arms reach for her and he closes his eyes, smiling a little, trying to doze off again.

It had taken three attempts to get Bar to open the door to where he wanted to go. Three times he looked out on a truly scummy bar filled with sweaty, running men and the sounds of choppers bearing down in the distance; Hell on the edge of a jungle.

Not where he wants to be right now.

On the fourth attempt - it's warm. Not hot, but pleasantly mild and the view is of a comfortably lived-in sitting room, with child's toys in a corner and overstuffed sofas and armchairs dotted around. The first thing his eyes rest upon is a glass still half full of Scotch; the second a stone block on the table, a sculpture with a woman's face looking out of one side. He pauses for a moment (so long since all that), then wanders in and puts his bag down, goes to the French windows to look over the garden that ends in beach and then, nothing but sea. Three thousand miles of sea standing between him and home.

But it's alright. It's nice to see the place again. He'd had mixed feelings the night before, wondering if it would be unpleasantly strange to have Fiona here. But it's not. He wants her to see it. For some reason, letting her see the places he lives is like letting her see himself. It's not even about showing off, this time. The house is not small but still modest by his standards. And it was a real home, for a while. Maybe he wants her to know that he can live normally, sometimes.

'Want a tour or do you want to head straight off? I just need to make a couple of calls before we go.'

It's been a long evening. Ramon aches from all the places she hit him and he's tired and still no further along to understanding anything they talked about. But that can all wait for now. They've been to the infirmary and Fiona's got her hand strapped up and then he'd brought her up to her room and put her to bed. She was pretty spent.

After she'd fallen asleep, he'd considered going back to his own room for the night. But it felt like a trek and anyway, there are things to talk about. So he'd taken a shower, winced at the bruises starting to form, found some clean soft jeans and a white T shirt. Then he'd poured a whiskey over ice and sat in a comfortable chair, watching her sleep and thinking. It's a lot more peaceful up here than it was downstairs, that's for sure.

He's not sure how long they've been asleep for but it feels like quite a while. The air is noticeably cooler on his body, though still warm enough. Fi feels comfortable pressed against him and he's content to lie like this for a while. But it's not long before the thoughts of shower, smoke and then coffee start permeating through his brain.

He doesn't move though. Not yet. She's sleeping and he can't decide whether things will be weird or not when she wakes up.

Fiona

I'm no good at writing letters, I'll start off with saying that. I tried to find you earlier - were you just refusing to answer your door? Doesn't matter, I'll leave this with the bar for you to find at your leisure.

So, I understand that you were angry with me this morning. Can you see why I was angry with you when you did the same thing to me on the beach? I suppose it was a bit different, seeing as we'd just had a good week together and I'm sorry if I upset you.

He sits back from the desk to light a cigarette and think about what he just wrote. Is he sorry? Well, yes. Though he's not quite sure why she got mad enough to pull a gun on him. Didn't she know that he'd have come back to bed after that shower?

I don't know what I'm supposed to say but I do know that I don't want to never see you again. I like being with you. Am I supposed to dress this up in flowery language? I can't do that in Spanish, let alone English. What is it you want to hear? I like being with you and I don't want to stop seeing you. That's the truth, no matter how much you don't seem to want to believe it.

You keep saying 'this is going to end badly' or 'this'll never last' and I've gone along with it but seeing as I can't ask you to your face right now (where are you, anyway?), I'll say it here - I've never understood why that's not true. Alright, I have Random but you have this Michael guy and I'm not complaining. It doesn't mean we can't enjoy being together and there's no reason for us to end every little argument with a gun or some threats.

That's going to get old for him really fast, he can tell. After the initial adrenaline from the argument had worn off yesterday, he'd had a nap and woken up just feeling deflated. He doesn't get what went wrong.

I was offended by what you said. It sounded like you were critisizing all the sex we'd had. And I fucking know you enjoyed it at the time so where did that come from? If there's another reason you were upset, just tell me what it was so I can fix it. I'm not good at writing letters and I'm not good at putting right things I don't know are wrong.

You may want me to be gone for good but I'm telling you now, I'm not buying that. And if you think I'll just let you go, you're wrong.

He thinks about that statement for a while - is she going to get pissed and think he's treating her like property? Or is she going to take it in the spirit he means it, ie, he thinks she's worth the effort? Hopefully the latter but you never can tell with her.

He lights a cigarette and tries to think of what else to say.

Lets try again. I've left some flowers and chocolates with this letter...

Girls like those, right?

...and I'm going to take you to Portugal for a holiday when I find you. Find some European shops with nice dresses in for you. And I want think can't believe I'm going to say this, but I think we should talk about...fuck, I don't know. What people talk about when things are messed up when they don't need to be.

If you don't come find me, I'll come for you. To find you, I mean.


R

With the letter, Bar produces a beautiful orchid and a large box filled with a selection of the world's most expensive chocolates.

Now that he's found this beach, there's possibly not a thing in the world that'll drag him away from it. He is tired to fuck of shitty Scottish weather - but this. This is perfect.

...possibly even more perfect is wandering on to it and discovering a prone Fiona, her bikini unfastened, doing exactly what he was planning to. Of course, given their last conversation, 'perfect' could possibly turn into 'perfect nightmare' after a few minutes but he's willing to take his chances.

'Need some sun cream on your back?' he asks, slouching next to her with a smirk.