The Color Blue
A silver lined ear fell lopsided at the appearance of Owen Hart on the lit screen of her phone vibrating loudly across the kitchen counter. It was odd to Drusilla to see his name there. Odd because she had spoken to him not a half hour ago in his office which was but a few yards from where she was standing. Odd because he had a habit of opening his door and saying her name with that quiet insistence that she come to him. Odd because he only ever called her phone when she was on base or when he was on base.
He never called from inside his own house.
Something like worry coursed down her spine. She stood on her toes and peered with suspicion through the kitchen window. The yard looked as it ever did. When she picked up the line she did not have a chance to greet him before he was saying. “It’s me.” Even though she knew full well who it was. Which never stopped him greeting everyone with that same phrase. Even her. Always it’s me.
“Lieutenant Colonel.” She greeted him with a slight question in her voice. Why are you calling me, sir.
“What are you doing right now?” A demand in his voice. He already knew that she was meal planning in the kitchen.
“I’m -”
“Nevermind,” He interrupted her. The baritone of his voice was clipped and sharp over the line as if she’d done something wrong. “Do me a favor. Go upstairs to my bedroom and stand in the west facing window.”
Drusilla pulled the device away from her cheek for a moment to frown at the phone. Frown at his name since he wasn’t standing in front of her to frown at. He had a way about giving strange instructions at times. Better not to question him. Better to just do as he asked. She still wondered if he knew how he came across. If he was aware of the tone of his own voice.
“Yes sir.” She said finally.
Neither spoke as she moved.
Owen could hear her transitions as she moved through the house. He pictured her in his mind in each room as the sounds clued him in as to where she was. Clipped heels on the tile of the kitchen were muffled by the rug in the hall. A creak of the fourth stair from the top. The latch of his bedroom door as it opened and closed.
If Drusilla had any question before as to which window faced west, she wouldn’t have any more questions as it had already been shoved open. A slight breeze through the open window teased the dark masculine curtains which were pushed to either side. Owen’s bed was made. Drusilla had made it herself earlier that morning but the window had not been open then. Had he left it open for her?
She hesitated before crossing the room and stood before the window. “I’m here, sir.” Her clear voice broke the silence which fell again as Drusilla awaited Owen’s response. The other line was quiet almost as if there was nobody there.
From his position in the yard, Owen watched Drusilla through his new holographic rifle scope with the most advanced magnifier on the market, side and top mount capabilities, a quick detach mechanism, and high definition digital recording capabilities.
She pulled the phone away to check if the line was still active. Her ears fell against her scalp and she ran her finger self-consciously along the window frame. Rubbing at whatever her fingers had collected, perhaps some dust, she spoke again. “Sir?” Drusilla heard the other line come to life. A slight change in the quiet from nothingness to a subtle white noise. And his voice filled her ear.
“I know. Just stand still a moment, Miss Haven.” Was all he said before the line returned to that dead quiet. Is he muting himself, she wondered. Owen was indeed muting his side so she wouldn’t hear the sound of his breath or the rustle of the leaves coming over the line. He had positioned himself on his belly in the far corner of the yard in the unkempt bushes. He knew he couldn't be seen. The rifle was mounted on a tripod as he watched her through the scope. A black rim around the peripherals of his vision and the view of his window with Drusilla standing in it in the center of the cross hairs.
At times Owen felt that Drusilla looked on the verge of apologizing for her appearance or her presence. She held herself before him with a sort of timidity. It was subtle to him. Just a slight raise to one of her shoulders and a tilt of her chin downwards. At times she sat with her neck resting on her hand. Protective of herself. He wondered at what went through her mind. Was he intimidating? Was it the way he spoke to her? Was it something else entirely? At times he felt this desire to shelter her with his body against whatever ate at her when she wasn't aware he watched. Or to lift her chin with his finger. Or to touch to her shoulder to tell it to relax. To brush his fingers over her neck.
He watched her ears spring to attention when given the task of being still for him. She let her hand drop to her side, staying it from fiddling with the window sill. It fell out of sight in the frame of the scope. Her back was straight with determination. Or it seemed to him that she stood straighter when he’d given her the instructions. And she seemed to hold her head up confident in her ability to comply with his demands. Did she know he was watching? Or was she just that determined to obey?
He magnified the image of her which changed the placement of the cross hairs to the level of her chest. She wore this black top with a peep hole. The shape of the shirt accentuated the curve of her breasts. With a near imperceptible adjustment of his rifle he could line the center with that little exposure of her skin. A slight movement upwards and it lined with the hollow where her collar bones met. Shadows from her jaw cast a delicate v-shape down the sides of her neck around her throat. Strands of her hair fell around her shoulders covered in a deep blue blazer. He demagnified the image by several powers to confirm his theory that the shade of her jacket matched the trim of his house.
The trim brings out your eyes Mr. Hart. Has anyone ever told you that you look good in blue? The words of the flirtatious middle-aged realtor echoed.
Yes.
You look good in blue. Drusilla had reluctantly complimented him over a soup lunch recently. Green eyes had been shrouded briefly by lids framed with thick lashes as she glanced down at her meal. I was under the impression that you liked blue.
She wasn’t wrong.
He did like the color and the range of emotion it could provoke. He liked the color of his eyes in the mirror when he put on a blue shirt. He liked the trim of his house. He liked the royal shade she wore today; it made her skin look extra warm.
Owen placed the magnification of his scope back to the original setting and settled it again on her face. They were both still enough that the center of the cross hairs landed neatly between her eyes exposing to him the perfect symmetry of her sculpted eyebrows which were slightly hidden by the ends of her bangs. Her green eyes moved in a lateral motion to track something in her line of sight and Owen pulled his face away from the weapon in time to watch a grey warbler fly by.
He closed his eyes and pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose. Of course she would have let herself become distracted by that little bird. If he had been standing next to her, she might have touched his arm and pointed it out to him smiling as she identified the species. He would have bent down to be at her line of sight with the smell of her perfume overloading his senses.
When Owen moved into position again, he noticed that Drusilla seemed to grow weary of her stillness. The resoluteness in her shoulders had faded. She blew at her bangs with impatience sending them billowing upwards until they settled again slightly askew. She didn’t rake her fingers through the hairs to correct them, but left the wayward hairs sitting there charmingly out of place. He had often had the urge to run his fingers through her hair to correct strands that found themselves going awry.
Owen was mid-sigh when he unmuted himself again. The sudden sound of his breath like wind across the microphone of his headset made Drusilla blink in surprise. “Miss Haven.” He was more quiet than usual, the last syllable of her name was almost a whisper as it crossed the line. He almost breathed her name into her ear over the line. Her ear twitched reflexively as if the hairs had actually been tickled. “Turn around please and step away from the window five paces.”
She opened her mouth as if to protest or clarify the intent of his instructions but it snapped shut and she obeyed his instructions. Her height left him with only the tips of her ears in his view. Five paces was too many from his angle to keep her head in his sights.
“You’re too short.” He muttered. The insult caused her ears to fall disappearing from the frame. “Back towards the window two paces.” The back of her head with ears fallen against the crown of her head reappeared in his frame.
It was supposed to be easier this way. When he didn’t have to see her face. Owen’s finger tightened against the trigger. Just a flex away from ending her life. A moment he’d waited for a long time. A moment he’d imagined for a long time. But he started trembling. She was so trusting. She obeyed his every command without hesitation. He was almost purposefully signaling to her that her death was eminent. An open window? His voice over the line giving her exact instructions as if he were watching her. She must know.
His finger fell away from the trigger when he imagined picking her lifeless body from his floor. She wouldn’t feel like much when he moved her. She was light and small. He knew the curve of her waist would fit his hands. There would be pool of blood spreading out beneath her. A dark stain on her blue jacket.
If he shot her from behind the exit wound would be her face.
He couldn’t be the one to ruin the delicate symmetry of her face. The sculpted brows, those green eyes and high cheeks, that gentle curve of her nose, and fullness of her lips. The thought sent his hand to the safety mechanism on the weapon. An ominous click over the line that Owen had neglected to mute again. He sighed in relief. A heavy and emotional breath.
He had so many more questions to ask Julianna. He had yet to call her by name. He had yet to solve this nagging feeling that she wasn’t who he thought she was. That there was no guile in emerald eyes that tracked a warbler as it passed by his window. There was no guile in lips that blew at bangs that tickled at the bottoms of her eyebrows when they grew too long.
“Sir?” She asked as she twisted around to face the window again sensing that she would be speaking to him if she faced that way. Her eyes searched the yard. “Are you alright?” There was no guile in her melodic voice cautiously asking him if he was okay. He the one with the deadly weapon.
Owen pulled his face away from the gun and let it fall to his arm that rested on the ground. “Yes. That will be all Miss Haven. Thank you. Please close the window.” His voice was muffled against the fabric of his sleeve.
The line went dead. Drusilla frowned at her phone as it glowed. Owen Hart. Call ended. Duration 0:05:13. She closed the window and pulled the curtains over it casting his bedroom in darkness. Drusilla crossed the room and exited into the hallway. She pulled the door closed behind her and leaned on it momentarily. Her fingers pressed against the side of her neck to feel her pulse racing for a reason unknown. What had just happened? She shivered involuntarily.
A familiar squeak downstairs signaled the kitchen door opening. Drusilla descended the stairs to meet Owen who was angrily pulling attachments from a long rifle. A tripod had been abandoned in the middle of the kitchen. He released the round from the chamber of the weapon, grasping it between thumb and index. It disappeared into his pocket. Owen refused to make eye contact as Drusilla hesitated in the doorway of the kitchen.
When he moved towards her grasping the rifle in one hand, her tail curled up towards her spine and she resisted the urge to step away from him. Her heart pounded anew. His free hand engulfed her shoulder and he stopped in front of her. Her eyes rose from the level of his chest to meet his. Something like desperation seemed to brew in grey eyes that stared down at her. She felt a pang of fear but also worry. Not for herself but for him and whatever he seemed to be doing to himself.
When she opened her mouth to ask him what was the matter, he gently pushed her aside and disappeared into his office.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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