{ interlude } our foundations were built on all the things we never said
2AM, London, two and a half weeks after he left it.
Not exactly, James acknowledges wryly, unpacking the cases out of the trunk and locking the car behind himself. He stops to collect his mail before he goes up to the flat, still favouring his right side a little, and sorts through it as he fits the key into the lock. (Bill, bill, bill, letter he'll ignore, invitation, bill.) After months in Cancun - after today, the explosion at his back and the woman in front of him - the stillness that greets him here in Chelsea is almost surreal, and he turns the light on as he closes the door to ward it away.
The polaroids go in the safe next to pearls, diamonds and something small and silvery that he can't name, there glinting some shade of his own blue-grey eyes. The postcards he drops on the table with his keys, and he decides to worry about the rest of it tomorrow, leaving the briefcase where it falls and tucking Q's leather portmanteau into a corner. It's late, and he's tired; it's over, and he has so much to do.
(In the morning, he stands at the window and doesn't think about her, turning away to get himself a drink before he calls home office.)