One thing had eventually led to another, and it wasn't long before Lydia had found herself in Varian's arms. He'd been warm and passionate, and when at last he had led her to bed, she'd made no argument.

No words had been said, no words had been needed. At that moment in time, nothing else had mattered. Everything else had simply faded away. All their worries and cares. All their sorrow and pain. They were lost in the moment, and lost in each other's arms. Nothing else existed, but them.

Without even realizing it, he'd sparked something in her. Passion, desire, perhaps even affection. She'd always found him somewhat elusive, but perhaps her own vulnerability was wearing him down. He'd opened up to her somewhat, told her things he'd probably rarely if ever spoken of, and her heart had gone out to him.

They'd spent the better part of the night discovering each other. Every soft curve explored, every line and angle traced. He'd been surprisingly gentle with her, like no one she'd ever known before, and when they'd finally made love, it had been slow and tender, like his kiss. He'd taken his time with her, never rushing, every soft moan of pleasure leading the way. He'd made her feel like a woman again. She hadn't felt that way with a man in a very long time.

When she'd finally fallen asleep, it was in his arms, their bodies tangled together in a lovers' embrace. She hadn't planned on anything happening between them and was probably just as surprised as he was to find something blossoming. Something neither had expected or looked for.

What was it people said about friends, that they often make the best lovers? They'd known each other for years, had flirted for years, teased and cajoled each other. How long had there been a mutual attraction between them that neither would admit, but could no longer deny?

The last thing she'd wanted was to fall in love again, and yet, she found herself lying in another man's arms. The arms of a killer, no less. But who was she to judge him? She was no innocent. There was plenty of blood on her own hands. It was for that very reason she'd come to him, in the first place. If anyone could help with this situation, she knew it was him, and she knew she could trust him.

To fall in love again was dangerous, not only to herself, but to him, and the closer she got to him, the more she felt she might have to leave him. She knew he wouldn't like it. After all, she'd asked for his help, but it was her they were after, not him, and she suddenly couldn't bear the thought of losing him, like she'd lost so many others in the past.

Lydia knew she would have to decide, and she would have to decide soon because the way things were going, pushing him away was going to be prove more difficult with each passing day.

Varian awoke in the room, unaware briefly of his surroundings. For months now, years even, he'd been alone. Crashing in safe houses he'd set up in false names, eating on the target's accounts after he'd left them lifeless, and in general letting people back on Earth, and even back in the space port think him dead, but one person never really believed that.
At first it was self preservation, then it became what he wanted. No one really knew him in either place. There was only one person that ever really knew him anyway, and that person was gone.

Dead.

Gone.

Her choice.

She always spoke of choices.by saying that a lot could be shown to a person by another person's choices.

Hers was made, as was his.


A soft purr like sigh reminded him that he was not alone in his bed. He turned and in the soft light that glowed from the port below, to his own cybernetic eyes he could see Lydia, laying there beside him. She was at peace, for now. Her dreams were hers alone, and he wondered momentarily what they could be about. A frown then, thinking how there was a time that he'd helped friends of Asher. One, a girl that her strange family called 'The Dreamer' and how they feared her power. She'd come close to Varian, and he got close to her. A weird girl that she was, but yet a loner like he was. He wondered what she would be able to do with his training, and her power. He always liked the idea, but his wife warned him to never play with that kind of fire.

He rolled slowly over, to study the feminine form that slept beside him. She was long, lean, but not overly so on either account. Even though he didn't want to, he found himself comparing the two. Lydia was taller, with longer hair. Her form was long, a lean tone, nice muscle formation, but not bulky. Asher was bulked slightly more, but also about four inches shorter. He saw an attraction in both women, but they were like comparing night and day.
He smiled then, thinking of the nights spent with Lydia. The nights past in the bar they used to frequent. The flirts, the laughter, and their leaving...alone. The times he'd wondered what she would be like, what they would be like both as lovers, and better friends. He remembered thinking that in his line of business, friendships usually were more of a hindrance than benefit, and he knew that getting close to anyone other than Asher would wind up costing him in the long run. He knew that most people would see what he did as it was, illegal, and not see how he could do it so easily. He'd been labled as a Sociopath, and he did show some of the Sociopathic tendancies, but would a person like that be able to be married, or to have any friends at all, and truly call them a friend. All he'd known really was her, and she him... and that had all changed.
Now he knew what Lydia was like as a lover, the things they'd joked about became reality, that neither of them fought.

Everything was perfect.

Friends.

Lovers.

The inevitable.


For the first time that he could remember in a very long time, Varian was comfortable with who he was, what he was capable of, and who he was with. A new trust while not easily given, was had between two people burned by pasts.

Friends.

Lovers.

Second chances.

A fresh start.

(Re-posted for The Assassin.)

It was late in the day when the call had come summoning her to the club, and she and Varian had arrived to find it trashed and one of her girls dead.

He hadn't had much to say about it, probably hadn't known what to say. It had, after all, been a long time since he'd been called on to comfort anyone, but in that moment, that's all she'd really wanted. She hadn't wanted to discuss the situation or hear about what they should do next. She had just wanted him to put his arms around her and tell her everything would be all right, but that wasn't why she'd sought his help, and he knew that wasn't what was going to keep her alive.

It wasn't like she'd never witnessed death before, but this time had been different. This had been someone she'd known and cared about -- this time it had been personal. He'd immediately assumed professional mode, knowing by instinct alone what to do, but she wouldn't listen. Shaken to the core, she'd sent him away, insisting on calling the cops, insisting the girl deserved better than to be brushed under the carpet, insisting she was fine, when she clearly was not.

A few hours later, she'd emerged from the club into the darkness and the rain, weary beyond words, her heart heavy with grief and worry, and he'd been there waiting. He'd been right about the cops. They weren't going to do anything about the situation, but at least, she had a clear conscience. The girl would get a funeral. She owed her that much. The club was a total loss, but that was the least of her problems.

"I thought I told you to go home," she'd told him as he'd pulled up alongside her, asking if she wanted a ride. She knew he'd been there all along, watching and waiting, but all she wanted in that moment was to be alone with her grief.

"I never really listened well, Lydia," he'd replied with a grin, but she was in no mood for his jokes.

"You're not my bodyguard, you know, Varian," she'd snapped. "I can take care of myself."

"Didn't say you couldn't."

"Why are you here, then?" she'd asked, knowing he wouldn't admit the truth, knowing he wouldn't tell her he cared.

"'Cause it's raining, it's cold, and you need a ride."

"The fuck I do," she'd spit the words out before realizing what she was saying. It wasn't him she was angry with really, but it was too late to take them back.

"You want me to beg you? It's your flu."

She almost laughed. "You're funny, you know that? You think a little rain is gonna hurt me? I'm a fucking were-tiger, Varian, or have you forgotten?"

"Okay, enjoy the walk," he'd retorted as he'd peeled out into the night, leaving her behind to find her own way home.

In the end, it hadn't been so hard to push him away, after all. It had almost been too easy, but maybe it was better this way. At least, he wouldn't end up like the girl in the club.

(Re-posted for The Assassin.)

Even in the rain, it should have been a short walk from the nightclub to Varian's apartment building, but Lydia never made it.

Not far from the club, she'd caught their scent, masked by the rain, and had time to shift, but there were at least six of them, probably more. She hadn't had time to count, and the beast within she always kept carefully at bay was let loose. There was nothing cute or cuddly about that form. It was a thing born of a child's nightmares, but Lydia knew there were worse things in the night.

Had she shifted to the primeval form of the saber-tooth, she'd have torn to shreds anyone or anything that had gotten in her way. Even after all her years of practice, she'd never quite mastered control over that form, and she'd warned Varian to never risk tangling with the saber-tooth. But in her moment of need, that form had failed her.

The pack came at her from all sides, intent on the kill. Three of them were dead before another three finally took her down, dragging her into a nearby alley to finish the job.

The alpha male watched as the others tore her open, only then moving forward with a growl, claws ripping her insides to shreds, ensuring that even if she lived, which he sincerely doubted, she'd never bear children again. He'd hoped to hear her scream in pain and terror, but as she slipped back into her mortal form and tried in vain to put herself back together, he'd only snarled in satisfaction.

"Save me a place in Hell, bitch," he hissed in her ear, and then he and the pack were gone, leaving her in a pool of blood among the trash to die alone with only the alley cats to bear witness.

"Varian..." she'd called for him feebly from her comm link, trying desperately to hold onto life just a little bit longer, and he hadn't wasted any time in finding her, but it was too late.

He found her lying in a pool of blood surrounded by three deaGarou, their blood mingling with hers to run in a crimson river down the alley and into the Spaceport sewers.

"I... I'm sorry," she stammered between labored breaths, each one more painful than the last, her face wet with tears and deathly pale in the moonlight, green eyes glassy and losing the gleam that gave them life.

He tried to focus on what needed to be done, but was finding it difficult. Damn her for letting him care again. It had been a long time since he'd cared about anyone. She remotely felt the needle of a syringe sinking into her flesh, but it was nothing compared to pain of her wounds. He was saying something about nanites, but she barely heard him. He took off his coat and wrapped it around her, but he knew it wasn't the cold that was making her shake. The wounds went too deep, and she'd lost far too much blood. There was little he could do but pray, and he wasn't the praying kind.

"It's... too late," she told him, her voice barely above a whisper, struggling for each word, blood-stained hands falling limply at her sides, surrendering herself to whatever fate Seline had decided for her.

"No, it's not. Shut up," he replied, gathering her gently into his arms. She was beyond his skills; he needed help, if only she could hold on just a little bit longer. "I'm here... And you better stay with me."

She called out his name, struggling to get the words out. "Let me... Let me go."

"Like hell."

Her vision was fading, the edges going black, and she knew she didn't have much time. "Varian..."

"Don't you die on me," he warned, nearly in a panic.

She had to tell him before it was too late. He had to know, and hopefully, he would remember. "I love you," she whispered softly, hoping he'd hear, and then she was gone.

It wasn't so much death that Lydia feared, but leaving those she loved behind. She'd almost died twice before -- once to werewolves and once to vampires, both bitter enemies. This time, there was no escaping death.

She had told him she loved him with her last dying breath. She had made no mistake. She had known who he was. He had tried to save her, but they'd both known it was too late. Her blood was everywhere. Fatal wounds, too deep to heal. She'd taken three of them with her, but not the one who'd mattered, and he'd reveled in the kill.

Varian's face faded from view, and darkness took her at last -- the kind of darkness that threatened to drown her in its cold cruel emptiness -- but then there was a light, like the light at the end of a dark tunnel, and she willed herself toward it. A figure stood silhouetted in that light, and she knew without being told who it was. Though she was no longer flesh and blood, she felt her heart leap at the sight of him.

"Father," she said, and he smiled. He looked just as she'd remembered him -- before he'd been killed, before he'd left her forever.

"Lydia," he replied. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," she told him, her voice breaking.

"I know it's hard, but you have to go back."

"But, Father... Why can't I stay here with you?"

"You need to go back, Lyds," he insisted. "It's not time for you to go yet. There are still things you need to do, people who love you and need you."

"Yes, but I love you," she argued. She'd lost him once; she didn't want to lose him again.

"I love you, too, Lyds, and there but are people who need you. Your children, your friends, and that man who tried to save you. What's his name... Varian? He's just learning to care again. You're teaching him that."

"But, Father... It's so hard. I want to be with you..."

"It's not going to be easy, Lydia, but you have to go back. Your body needs your guidance to heal itself. It's the only way. I've always loved you, and I always will. Remember... I'll always be with you in spirit."

She reached for him with ethereal arms, not ready to lose him yet again, but his form slowly faded from view, and the light once again turned to darkness.

They'd torched her home, leaving it in charred ruins. Varian poked around the rubble, finding a few things that he could use before they left the place. The woman on the back of the bike was quiet on the way back to the port and when they'd gotten back to the apartment building, she'd gone straight to the shower.
Varian walked into the living area and poured himself a glass of Remy, thinking over the events, and how that this mystery Garou she'd talked wasn't far from thinking as he would, if he were hunting Lydia. He knew they'd been watching her, researching her and knew where she lived as well as worked from time to time. He knew that it wasn't going to be long before they got a call, one call that brought her to either a trap, or a message. It all depended on how creative the man was willing to be.
He walked to the work room, and began cleaning his pistols. Thinking of how the night's events had unfolded. The house in flames, the leaping of werewolves from shadows, the flash of reddish orange as the Tiger leapt from her own hiding places. The sounds of ripping flesh as her claws ripped into the wolves, the gnashing of their teeth and claws ripping through the air, and his own voice trying to raise above it all to get the attention from her to allow clean head shots with silver bullets.
"Superstition or not, one to the head, two to the chest and they were down quickly," he'd said with a grin as he finished cleaning pistols. "This will be an easy hunt."

That night they'd opened up. Shared talks of their pasts, and then talked of their own future. Sleep was had, after a night of passion, and as he suspected she'd received the call to the club the next morning as they sat down to coffee.
"I've got to go, Varian." She said as she walked to the bedroom, looking for clothes.
"You aren't going without me." He'd said to her back as he too moved to get ready for whatever may come about at the club she'd owned.
He wondered if they'd spent much time there, casing, studying exits and catwalks, looking for the right place to set up an ambush. He shook his head, hoping they'd not been that smart.

He gathered up two semi-automatic pistols and holstered them beneath his arms, and before he slipped on his armored long coat, he slung his custom assault rifle under his left arm, readying it for action was just a throw of shoulder and move of his arm. He'd vented the barrel to prevent as much of the rise as possible as well as shortened the ejection. The gun was balanced for him, and always served him well in the "spray and pray" instances he'd needed it in, he'd hoped this wasn't one of those times.

She walked into the workroom where he stood and he turned to look at her. She'd psyched herself up for the unknown and he was glad of that. She had a look about her, like she was keeping control when she wanted to break down, and again, he was glad to see that. He knew that she'd not let him down if it got ugly, and if she did, he was prepared to do whatever had to be done to get them in and out safely.
"Here." He said as he held out two pistols toward her. He'd guessed on the weight to add and remove, to make them easy for her to shoot and carry.
"What am I supposed to do with these, Varian?" She'd asked as she held them in her hands, looking them over carefully, before looking back at him.
"Take your jacket off, and sling the holster over your shoulders, or you can carry two in the back of your pants." He said as he was looking her over and adjusting the harness.
She opted for the shoulder holster and in no time she had it on and the pistols slung beneath her arms. He helped her back on with her jacket then inspected her, the untrained eye would not tell that she was packing, and even the trained eye would have a hard time with it.
"Okay, they are loaded with Silver..."
"Varian, are you nuts?" She protested. "You do know what silver will do to me...right?"
"Aim for their head, and then their chest. Shoot straight, think fast, we will get through this." He said to her, ignoring her protests, and knowing that she would be safe just firing the weapon. "Now, you got that?" He asked and watched as she only nodded, knowing that arguing with him would be futile. "Okay then, we roll."

They got to the club and parked in the back. The door was in one piece, but off it's hinges. Varian walked in first, scanning the area with thermographic vision, then low light. If they were in here, there would be no surprises. He motioned for her and then she stepped in, looking around the back room, and moving for the main area of the club, she stopped as she stepped in, her mouth opening in shock, but saying nothing. The club was trashed. Electricity arced from torn sockets, glass and debris from tables littered the floors. Chairs were strewn all around, and mirrors were broken. Blood stained places on the walls where they'd attacked the people that worked there, leaving bodies broken and discarded like child's play things.
Varian scanned the catwalks, and the rest of the darkened club, looking for signs of life when a scream broke the silence and Lydia went running blindly for the source of the sound.
"Fuck!" Varian cursed under his breath, heading to cut her off, and stopping near a dressing room door as she threw it open revealing one of the bouncers and three of her girls, one a redhead, laying in a pool of her own blood, over a broken chair. Hand prints had been in the blood, and while Lydia was telling the bouncer to remove the girls from the club, and get them somewhere safe, Varian read on the one remaining mirror Lydia's name.
"Someone is sending you a message." He said to her back, watching her carefully move the body and inspect the girl's mangled face. "You really pissed him off, Lyds." Again, he'd gotten no reply.
"Who is she?" He asked finally, as he stepped toward her.
"She could have been...nevermind, I need a drink!" Her shock had turned to anger, and she stormed from the dressing room, looking for a bottle of anything, and finally found one, pulled the lid off, and began taking large swallows.
" I need to call the cops, you should go." She said without looking at him.
"The cops aren't going to do anything for a dead stripper, Lydia. They are going to say that she has a spurned lover, he came in or she, and found her in the arms of another, went crazy and trashed your place before killing her. We need to burn the bodies, and take care of this mess."
"This isn't your fucking mess, Varian! She deserves more than that, and I'll see that she gets it!" She turned on him, her eyes glowing in the darkened room. Her face one of grief and anger.
"You asked for my help, and I'm telling you how we need to do it."
"Go home, Varian."
"Fuck that." He said as he stepped toward her."I'm not going anywhere."
"I can handle myself, and the cops need to be called."

He'd heard that before. So he turned and walked away from her, back to the car, and sat there a moment. His own anger welling up inside. He'd come looking for a fight, and it wasn't with her. He knew that different people dealt with grief and loss in their own ways, so unlike him, he decided to move the car to another alley and wait for her to come from the club, and that is what he did.
Hours clicked by slowly. He watched as medical teams entered and exited the building, gathering bodies and pieces, then watched the cops arrive and nearly knew everything they were saying and doing without being there. He knew one was listening to her while the other was thinking of how he'd have to go to another club on off time, but trying to look sympathetic to the woman's cause, nodding now and then in agreeing with his partner, and then offering his card, thinking that she would use it for...personal reasons. He watched them walk back to their car, and knew they were talking briefly about the damages of one of their favorite nightspots, but then about the woman they talked to, and how they'd like to get some of her. Varian thought about following them, and letting them be two more victims of law hatred, but knew he should wait for her to offer the ride home, since the cold rain started to fall.

An hour after the cops had left, he finally saw her emerge from the club and look back to it, knowing now it was a loss, and trying to close another part of her life, taken from her by a man she hadn't known was following her. She jammed her fists in her jacket pocket and turned, looking toward the direction of the apartment, and then start walking that way. He passed her and turned around then, coming back to offer a ride.
"I told you to go home. I don't need a damned babysitter." She spat at him, and then watched as he drove away, leaving her to the cold, wet walk.

Varian parked the car and closed the overhead door, watching the rain fall before his view was blocked by the steel. He was angry. She had never been this stubborn that he'd seen, and it was maddening that she was so much like him. It was against his better judgement that he'd gone home, a feeling in his gut telling him that he may not see her again, and in that instant he lashed out with his left hand and left a sizeable dent in the steel support post of the garage. He took off his coat and walked through the door into the hallway that lead to the living room, preparing to wait on her arrival back to the apartment, warming himself with an old cognac.

Her voice was weak on the comm as he locked on the signal and strapped the earpiece to his head. He rushed around the house, gathering his gear, and getting back into his coat, listening to the sounds around her for the noises he'd heard near the house as it burned, and only hearing her apologize. The signal was down an alley, where he found her, surrounded by trash, death and blood. She was barely alive when he'd dropped to his knee beside her after being sure they were alone in the alley. He pulled a syringe from his pocket and shoved the needle into her arm before squeezing the bulb. Her lower abdomen was ripped open, and she'd been trying to hold herself together with rain and blood soaked hands. He pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her as he picked her up gently and rushed back to the car.
"It's too late." She whispered.
"Don't you die on me," he growled as he backed from the alley into the traffic causing other drivers to swerve and slam on brakes.
He drive through the traffic, weaving and cutting people off, making quick turns and driving on instinct alone. It wasn't long, and he was at an old tenement, opening her door and looking at her pale white features.
"Let me go, Varian." She pleaded.
"Like hell." He said as he picked her up again, and walked down the narrow stairs stropping only to kick a door off the hinges on which it hung.
"I love you." She said, her voice barely above a whisper, and then went limp in his arms. He was shocked by her words, and at the same time he was yelling for his old doctor.

The doctor appeared in an instant, shaken from a slumber by the door being kicked open and then by a yelling voice he'd not heard in years. He'd thought it was time to operate on what he always called his greatest creation, but when he saw him, and who he held in his arms, he knew it was time to go to work. He listened for a heart beat while looking at the mess of organs and tissue, before finally, and sadly shaking his head.
"She's dead, Jim." His own usual attempt at humor not having it's effect on Varian as the words sank in, and he backhand slapped the man away, carefully gathering her body and heading back for the car to take her home. "That's gratitude for you." The doc said while picking himself up from the floor, and straightening the overturned chair and small magazine table.

He got home and carried her into the house, carefully laying her in the bed. He began to cut her clothes that were in tatters away, and examine the wounds. Gathering gauze and other things he went to work, patching and cleaning to the best of his abilities. She'd told him that she could come back from death, but he had his doubts from these wounds, and when she was patched up, and cleaned up he collapsed against the wall. Exhausted both mentally and physically. For the first time, in a long time, wishing he had the ability to cry.

(Re-posted for The Assassin.)

It was three days before her body had repaired itself enough for her to regain consciousness, and there was still much healing that needed to be done -- that of body, mind, and spirit.

He was there when she awoke, looking like hell, and she wondered how long it had been and if he'd been there all along. Empty bottles and cigarette butts littered the room, the amassed debris of a silent vigil. He was as unkempt as his surroundings, unshaven and ragged, with a weary, frazzled look about him. It had all clearly worn on him.

She merely watched him for a while, studying him, gathering the strength to speak. There was pain -- one didn't come back from the dead without pain -- but it wasn't like before. It was tolerable, at least for now. She watched as he busied himself endlessly tending her wounds -- wounds that would have eventually healed without his help -- hovering over her like a mother to a child. Or a lover who stubbornly refused to let go of his beloved, she realized with a jolt.

"I haven't felt needed in a long time... And now you are dying on me? I don't fucking think so," she heard him tell her as he momentarily turned away, weary and worn out, thinking she hadn't heard.

She opened her mouth to speak, to voice a reply, to tell him she was alive and that somehow everything was going to be all right, but all she could manage was a soft groan. He was there in an instant with a glass of water and encouraging words, relief apparent on his face.

She lifted her head for a small sip of water, grateful for his help. "You... look like hell," she told him quietly.

"Oh, and you are a Monet?" he asked, as he helped her with the water. "The hell were you thinking? Stubborn ass woman. You scared the shit outta me."

That was about as close to a confession of love that she was going to get from him, at least for now, and it both pleased and frightened her. "I'm sorry," she said, tears stinging her eyes. The last thing she'd wanted was to cause him any pain.

They talked some then, sharing things they'd never shared with anyone, revealing feelings they'd always kept hidden, until at last exhaustion took over, and they fell asleep in each other's arms, worn out and weary, unsure of what the future might bring, but sure in the knowledge that whatever it was they'd face it together.

The next three days would be spent in drug-induced oblivion while her body fought to heal itself, to repair the remaining damage that had been done; but though wounds could heal and flesh could mend, organs lost could never be replaced. There was a part of her that would remain forever empty, a part of her that would never heal.

Varian had remained at her side through it all, administering to her needs, caring for her, making sure the pain never got too intolerable, but there was only so much he could do. He knew some wounds go deeper than that of the flesh. Wounds of the heart take far longer to heal, and he knew, despite everything she told him, there was a storm brewing deep inside this woman he was coming to care for, and he secretly wondered if the growing feelings between them were strong enough to survive it.

Secretly, Lydia wondered if he'd ever understand. How could he when no one had ever understood, not even Am. The only ones who had ever really understood her were dead and buried, gone forever, along with their wisdom and their strength. How could she make him understand? He who was not of her kind. He who was human.

And yet, somehow it didn't seem to matter. He knew what it was to be alone. He knew what it was to nearly die and survive, only to find oneself truly alone. Perhaps he knew more about her than she cared to admit; perhaps they were were more alike than she dared hope.

Lydia gasped as she looked at the stranger whose reflection looked back at her in the mirror and wondered who she was. Who was this white-haired woman who stared back at her out of her own green eyes? Could it really be her own reflection that she was looking at? How could she have changed so much almost overnight?

Her gaze drifted downward, fingertips lightly tracing the fading scars that ran across her abdomen -- a reminder of what she'd lost. She'd no longer be able to bear any children. That choice had been forever stripped from her. They'd taken a piece of her that could never be replaced, and with it, they'd stolen a piece of her heart.

Lydia smashed the glass of the mirror with a fist, rage welling up inside her like a tidal wave. Again and again, she thrust her fist against the glass, unaware and uncaring of the blood that was dripping at her feet, rage and hatred growing in her heart for those who had wronged and betrayed her. A single shriek was torn from her lips shattering the silence of the night -- a heart-wrenching cry of pain that had come from somewhere deep inside.

How long had she needed to let loose that single cry? To let it all go -- all the pain of her life that she'd tried so hard and so long to keep safely hidden deep inside, but somehow it had bubbled up to the surface -- all the grief and the rage that she'd buried deep inside her soul. She tried to shift. It's what she'd always done when the pain became too much to bear, but she was still too weak and even that simple refuge proved futile.

Gasping for breath and sobbing hysterically, she crumbled to the floor, exhausted, defeated, and then he was there, and suddenly, it seemed he had always been there. Ever since she'd met him, every time there'd been a crisis, it was him that had been there. "That's what friends are for," he'd said, but they were more than friends now. Maybe they'd always been more than friends. Why had it taken her so long to see it, to recognize what he'd always meant to her?

It was his arms that went around her now, his fingers that brushed the tears from her face. It was his voice that calmed her, his touch that soothed her. And when she at last lifted her eyes to meet his, it was his lips that caught hers, his mouth that tasted her tears, his arms that pulled her close and lifted her effortlessly from the floor. He carried her back to bed and laid there with her a long time, as long as it took.

He'd told her more than once that all he had was time, and she believed him. He was patient, as no one she'd ever known before. Patient and gentle and kind. Not at all the cold-hearted killer she'd believed him to be, but she wasn't fooling herself. She knew he was that, too, but it only made her love him more -- to be able to show the other a side of themselves that no one else saw, that no one else wanted to see. It made them both vulnerable, but together it made them strong.

She let him touch her, caress her, lips and hands exploring every soft curve, learning with each touch and caress the secrets and mysteries that made her a woman, and when at last he thought of himself, when at last with a groan he filled her emptiness, she heard herself moan with pleasure, a deep sense of contentment flooding her body. She whispered his name over and over, knowing who he was, never mistaking him for anyone else, memories of other men instantly forgotten.

She, too, explored his body, learning what touch, what caress made his pulse quicken, what made him groan in mingled agony and pleasure, what caused him to tremble beneath her touch. Their bodies rose and fell together, tangled in a lovers' embrace, only to collapse in a breathless heap, at peace at last in each other's arms, surrendering themselves at last to blessed sleep.

And she realized suddenly that this was what she'd always longed for. Someone who was not just a lover, but an equal, a partner. Someone who made no demands, but loved and accepted her for who she was, not who he wanted her to be. She wondered if perhaps he was right; perhaps they were meant to be together all along.