Pas de Deux: Adagio (Dalton and Anastasia)

[Jacob Dalton]

Dalton’s mood was as dark as the winter evening sky. He sat with Martin on his lap, idly scratching between the cat’s ears as he brooded.

Fifteen thousand dollars. He would have considered the gift exorbitant at a tenth the price. Certainly at the time Delia had bought it, she seemed on the verge of fame and fortune. She had paid for everything: the airline fare, the Swiss chalet, the tour: and this. A gold watch with his name on it: a watch the financial value of which he had never known until a few days ago.

She had truly fallen for him. Not just a bit: head over heels, beyond reason, fireball re-entry fallen. He had been her dream as much as she had been his. It could have been so easy to shut her out if he could tell himself she was nothing but the Delilah who had shorn him of his gift and surrendered him to the Philistines. But no: she had lost her dream every bit as much as he. All the lashing out: it was from true pain. All the tears, genuine. Yet somehow he had never been able to provide the comfort she needed, that would help her to recover and go on. What had he missed?

If the two of them were both sincere in their love, why could they not make it work? His heart cried out: isn’t that what love is all about? Cannot love overcome anything, everything?

But suddenly in his heart he felt the answer. There was eros love, and then there was agape. The passionate love of a couple was quite different from the overriding love that endures and forgives all. Eros needs: agape simply gives. And there were times eros could not work between two people: but agape could. They would never bridge the gap to be what each other needed, but at least he could truly forgive. And that would have to be enough.

He sighed. Did he really want to sell the watch? Yes. Whatever forgiveness he might find, it was still a symbol of the eros that had failed. What’s more, in consideration, there was something he might choose to do with the money now: something important and worthwhile. So he would go on and accept the money. Not like he truly had another option: Anastasia was sending a car around for him. Of all things…

In retrospect, he regretted not telling Anastasia that a Friday was not a good night. Had he not made these arrangement, surely he might have set up something far more pleasant with Clarisse? Of course, there was always tomorrow. But she would most likely appreciate advance notice. He drew out his phone, and made the call.

A few minutes later the limousine arrived, and he was walking out the door in a considerably better mood. The chill breeze persuaded him to tuck the fedora a bit more firmly on his head, and pull his gloves on.

It had been some time since he had been in a stretch limo. Again memories of the early days of Delia surfaced, but now he could look back on them with some sense of peace. Yes: this was the right thing to do.

The walled property and the stately elegance of the manor placed Dalton quite at ease that this would not be setting Miss Anastasia back any significant sum relative to her holdings. Not that he had expected less, and he had dressed accordingly. The dark blue, almost navy suit was one of his best, with a rich textured look to the fabric that defied the usual fabric descriptions, and a sharp modern cut.

He was ushered in, coat and hat taken, and stood in the foyer awaiting what he suspected would be a grand entrance to rival Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind…

[Anastasia van Drakke]

Anastasia had left her CD player on as she prepared her house, and herself, for the expected visiter. Heavy music left the windows almost rattling, the bass throbbing under her feet like a frightened heartbeat. The largeness of the house was daunting, now it was just her. A fire was going in the parlor. She had redecorated; her mark had old fashioned tastes, after all. Her parlor was decked out with either antique or imitation 1920s and early thirties tables and chairs, velvet raised wall paper in cream and burgundy, the tea set was ready, and the bar was fully stocked.

The largest spare bedroom, only just down the hallway, had been done similarly. It was amazing how fast people could be when you said money was no object, and meant it. She was not taking Dalton to her own bed. Not with Ivan’s paintings staring.

Some things were sacred, after all.

Her hair was as elegantly curled as before, though left a little longer to give it a little more... homely air. Lips and eyes painted, eyelashes blacked and cheeks roughed so artfully it was so hard to tell she was wearing it at all.

And underneath a chastely tied full length cream kimono-styled gown printed with gold, black and green bamboo leaves, she wore her uniform for that night.

I’ll tell you something
I am a wolf but
I like to wear sheep’s clothing.

She was painting her toenails when he arrived, her hair hanging over her face like a thick curtain. The little brush was shaking. Stupid. Very stupid. It flew across the bathroom, leaving a little red smear as Anastasia heard the doorbell and the announcement of the footman she’d hired for the night. Deep breaths. Clear your mind. Closing her eyes and counting to five, Anastasia touched one finger to her temple, and stood.

The front door opened on the foyer, a smallish room sparsely furnished. Anastasia’s cameras picked up the man waiting, not sitting of course. Dalton was not the sort to sit when waiting on a lady. He was in the wrong century. He was in the wrong house. He was most certainly awaiting the wrong woman.

I am a bonfire
I am a vampire
I’m waiting for my moment.

The footman, hired just for the night (Anastasia did not trust staff), having left Dalton, checked with his employer. On her nod, he opened the door and Anastasia padded through, bare feet and all, sending a wave of <interest/attraction/fondness> before her like perfume.

”Mr Dalton,” she said warmly, then shook her head and blushed (not easy but possible to do on cue.) ”I’m so sorry, I was in the middle of getting ready for a gala, I feel so underdressed!” She offered a small smile as she send a tendril of <desire> to grow in her mark’s mind. Not too much, not too soon. Take time, let it seem natural.Sharp, yet approving eyes ran up and down Dalton’s suit as she offered her hand. ”Please, come in. Thank you so much for coming over. Just this way,”

Carefully, gently, Anastasia lead him though the foyer towards the parlor. The prolonged contact was a little dazing, though warm. How she felt after taking a shot, perhaps. It was easy to get lost in the recent pangs of regret, the more recent outward affection, even the slight worry about his attire. But she was focused, this time. This was her turf. Things would go her way.

You are a secret
A new possession
I like to keep you guessing.

[Jacob Dalton]

<interest/attraction/fondness>

He had been considering options for Saturday night when suddenly he heard steps lightly approaching, and all that flew out the window. He grinned in anticipation: what would the lady be wearing, and how would she make her entrance? Thus he was rather surprised to see her not dressed to the nines, but in her dressing gown and apparently preparing to go out. He found himself disappointed: she was after all a lady of distinction, and it might have been pleasant to stay and chat. But it would be an inexcusable imposition for him to delay her, and most improper given that technically she was in a state of undress. Granted that she carried off her state with quite the same elegance and charm she had displayed on their first meeting, but propriety was propriety.

Nonetheless he bowed slightly and greeted her as he would have otherwise.

“Good evening, Madam. Please do not concern yourself: it is a lady’s prerogative to be late, and a gentleman’s place to wait.”

Some niggling little observation was teasing uneasily at the back of his mind, but he could not place a finger on it. He put it down to nerves about walking out with fifteen thousand dollars cash in his pocket.

< a tendril of <desire>

Then again, perhaps it involved being invited into her boudoir by a lady in a state in which she might receive far more intimate company. Thoughts of propriety were dissolving in the face of thoughts about what propriety seeks to avoid. Images of Anastasia privately expressing her gratitude by other than financial means toyed with his imagination. Again came the prod of that elusive unease, but once more he was unable to pin it down.

<< Sharp yet approving eyes ran up and down Dalton’s suit as she offered her hand… >>

He had apparently made the right selection in clothes to properly impress her. Suddenly he felt ridiculously pleased with himself over this accomplishment. What had he been fretting about? He should relax and enjoy a most pleasant moment: and even if she had plans this evening, perhaps impressing her tonight might lead to a return invitation.

He bore himself as every inch the gentleman as he took her hand and accompanied her towards the parlor. What a pleasure to be approved by a lady with the refinement to appreciate the finesse of his manners…

*“It is an exquisite delight to receive the praises of the well informed.”*

The phrase rang through his head suddenly, from the first act of “Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme,” the book Clarisse had given him at Christmas. The line had been part of a complaint about a crass man of the middle classes aspiring to nobility. But how inappropriate was that? Dalton was hardly Monsieur Jourdain, foppishly abasing himself in futile pursuit of status.

Something about the feel of her hand in his reassured him: a courting gesture between a man and a woman, the possibility of romance suggested, though not assured. But her taking his hand so might be interpreted as being open to something more.

“Certainly, Madam: by all means lead the way.”

He accompanied her happily, like a lamb to the slaughter.

[Anastasia van Drakke]

Anastasia felt like she was walking on air. The acceptation and, even better, personal adaptation of the emotions she was planting and twisting inside dear Mr Dalton’s mind was washing over her like ocean water. The furious buzzing that had been slowly, slowly growing in her mind over the winter months was cooling down to a pleasant hum that had her fingertips tingling. It was delightful; it was worth the slight strain the constant concentration would take.

”That view is, I am sorry to say, very un-American, Mr Dalton,” she sighed, inwardly rolling her eyes. How pathetic... this man had been a fire fighter? Had he held his ex wife’s purse too? ”I wish all men were so patient.”

In Russia people are actually doing something, in Russia we can make a difference, In Russia I can make a difference... I am done with this chess game, I have to go. Come with me.

I can’t.

I can’t wait.

A tiny twitch in one of the smaller muscles on the corner of Anastasia’s mouth, a slight wince that was quickly shaken off. Better to immures herself in the <attraction/interest/disappointment> that was glowing over her. This man would not up and leave until she was well and truly done with him.

The piper had changed his tune; the resistance she had felt pressing against her mind had melted like ice in her hands. As she lead the teacher to the parlor, the direction his thoughts were taking him made her smile; she couldn’t help it. ”You will have some tea with me, I hope?” she asked prettily as they entered the elegant parlor. The little turkish-style glasses were glittering in the inconstant light thrown off by the fire. ”Don’t make me insist, Mr Dalton,” she looked back over her shoulder with raised eyebrows.

With a slightly enigmatic smile as her fingers brushed over his knuckles, the heiress glided over to stand behind her little tea set. ”My family never do business without exchanging, in the least, pleasantries and drinks first. You are doing me such a service, and I know so little about you! I can hardly take your watch and turn you out into the cold without so much as a drink!” Her eyes were inviting, her stance more so. Shoulders back and open, to suggest friendship. One heel pulling slightly on the back hem of her dressing gown to pull the fabric just that little bit tighter over her frame. Eyes wide and mouth parted in a smile over hollywood white teeth.

Hazel eyes were bright as she looked up with an eyebrow raised in question. <curiosity/ease/patience/want>, as sweet as ambrosia, washed over the poor man like a flood.

Want me. Feel it. Let me make you.

Kneeling behind the table, Anastasia pulled one sleeve up to her elbow as she poured. ”I learnt tea pouring in Japan. I’m no geisha, but learning to be graceful is a universally applicable skill.” a slight laugh, ”The tea is Russian. You have to try it with Kirsch. It is not very strong,” the little liqueur soaked fruits were gleaming as Anastasia spooned some into the two tea glasses, ”but very good.

The cherries were very good. The tea, however, was very, very spiked.

[Jacob Dalton]

Dalton nodded at her observation. “Patience is a virtue. This generation seems to set very little stock in virtues. Always the faster, cheaper way to greater profits: never more than lip service to quality. Duty and honor seem lost: to what is our world coming?”

Duty and honor: wasn’t there something _he_ was forgetting?

He pushed the thought back in his mind. Why let some niggling thought unbalance the perfection of this moment? Everything seemed so crisp, so clear: even the room seemed somehow immaculate, as if he were walking onto a pristine set. He could swear he almost smelled the sizing on the flats: but that was foolish, wasn’t it? Some trick of the mind?

The room was fabulous: from the walls to the mirror above the marble fireplace to the beautifully quaint tea stand. She knew every touch to make it seem perfect, down to the leather bound books on the white bookcase with elegantly scrolled golden trim, and chrysanthemums still in full bloom in vases bracketing the glass doors looking out onto the veranda, and from there a view over the whole of Pilot Ridge. He was so tempted to compliment her on it, but one thing he had learned. The bourgeois would compliment: the truly wealthy would take it for granted. And he had no wish to seem bourgeois to her tonight.

<< ”You will have some tea with me, I hope?” she asked prettily… …”Don’t make me insist, Mr Dalton…” >>

Again that feeling that he was missing something important: but what? She had set out tea, for him? How touching! It had been ages since he had been given the opportunity to enjoy a simple formal pleasure such as this.

“I should not dream of arguing with a lady who makes so kind an offer. I shall be delighted.”

He removed his jacket, draping it by the seat: only appropriate if he were to stay for a bit. Then he joined her at the table.

<< Her eyes were inviting, her stance more so… …Eyes wide and mouth parted in a smile over Hollywood white teeth. >>

More and more he felt certain that his interest in her was at least partially returned. But surely not? After all… well, then again, after all, why not?

<< <curiosity/ease/patience/want>, as sweet as ambrosia, washed over the poor man like a flood.

Want me. Feel it. Let me make you.>>

He settled into the chair, relaxing. This evening was going splendidly: everything he might desire. Where might it end? He was breathless with anticipation, and surely the desire he read in her eyes said he might find fulfillment for the same in his.

Then she knelt beside him, her robe still chaste, yet the view from his position tantalizing him with the promise of so much more… a geisha? Her teasing smile said that she had not spoken the word without intending the spur to the imagination it was bound to be.

Tea with cherries? What a very interesting idea. “Thank you, my dear: you are a most gracious and accommodating hostess. A gentleman might grow quite accustomed to such stimulating service.”

The cherries were quite tasty. There was a certain undertaste to the tea: not orange pekoe, not any other strain he knew: something else. Then again, he had not had a Russian blend before: he would certainly not offend this fine lady by so trivial a complaint. But one thing _was_ missing…

He took her hand, encouraging her to rise. “Please, my dear: surely you will not just serve? Come: you must sit and drink with me. After all, this is an evening to share…”

What a heady drink this tea is, he thought.

He had no idea.

[Anastasia van Drakke]

A little struggle, like someone has tied a thread around her little finger and tugged, once. Easily shaken off. The trick was to make it believable; his resistance was minimal. Hard to imagine this was the same obstinate gentleman she’d found so frustrating earlier. It was tempting, so tempting, to make him sorry for that....

focus

Without looking away from her guest and the tea set, Anastasia noted the location of his coat. Good sign, he was at ease. He felt comfortable. Her eyes caught his and she smiled, then looked away shyly. She could feel <want> pressing against her like warm air. Not too much, but enough, for now. It could grow. He would still be able to talk coherently. That was what was important. This was not about her proving she could get this stubborn man to do as she wanted, this was not about anything other than a mission with a clear goal.

”Then, please, sit.” Anastasia gestured to a chaise lounge, then turned back to her tea. <curiosity/want> and was that... yes. Her smile widened. Good. He thought he might have a chance at... well, compensation. More importantly, she could taste the <excitement/anticipation>, and it wasn’t hers. He was starting to create his own emotions based on the ones she planted; it was much more satisfying when it wasn’t her own coming back to her.

And what was this? Mr Dalton, I may have misjudged you... for all this talk of waiting for a lady, or never arguing... he was looking down her top. It was laughable, but strangely, Anastasia could feel the twinge of interest she felt herself. It was locked away in a moment, but still... He was not as dried up as she had expected.

Stimulating service.. Freudian slip, Mr Dalton.

Eyebrows rose at that little phrase, and cue blush. She took his hand with a laugh and, taking the moment to press in <openness> and make sure everything he felt suited her. Suited her purpose. That little twinge was still there, just. With childish glee, Anastasia pressed down on it, hard. Slowly she sank down onto the lounge, leaving a respectful but still friendly distance between them as she turned to face him with her cup hugged between her hands.

”Your turn to insist, I see,” her laugh deterred any chance he would think he’d offended her, and she took a small sip of her tea. Anastasia was Russian and had struggled with a drinking problem for roughly a year and a half; it was strong but she could drink a little without affecting her abilities or her chances. The gap between them became a little smaller.

”Now, Mr Dalton, before you say anything, I," she paused, perfect teeth pressing on her red lower lip. "I feel I’ve not been entirely, well, open with you,” Anastasia said, managing to make herself sound slightly worried. ”You must have thought it rude when I didn’t offer you my full name, when we first met.” Preempting a disagreement, Anastasia put her hand quickly on Dalton’s knee to silence him.

”My family is, well, a little well known. Have you, perhaps heard of van Drake fur and fashion?” It would be amazing if he had not; the van Drake label was linked closely with the media, there had been enough magazine covers with that name splashed across them to wall the empath’s mansion twice over. The death of Anastasia’s brother had made sure of that. ”That’s my father. I’m Anastasia van Drake. It’s stupid, I know but security...” she shrugged, then blushed as she 'realised' her hand was still very much on Dalton's leg. She drew it up hesitantly, with what appeared to be the slightest hint of regret, <regret> she let him share in.

”But that’s enough about me,” She brushed her hair back and over one shoulder, though avoiding mirroring the gesture that had been so ineffective at the jewelry store. <attention/willingness> and <impatience> His and hers. Some feelings were best felt in pairs, after all..

”I want to know about a man who would willingly part with something so valuable to a complete stranger. Mr Dalton, all I know about you is your name!” she crossed her legs (drawing attention to the resettling of fabric was considered one more nail in the coffin), settling back and taking another sip of tea. ”You’re english, based on that accent. What brought you to Vermont, sir?”

[Jacob Dalton]

<< focus >>

Whether it had been her intent or not, her mental command to herself also in part crossed over to her prey. What had he come here for? Oh, yes: payment for the watch. She hardly seemed to be pressing for a speedy conclusion to the matter, though… in spite of having a gala to attend?

The wind whistled across the window panes, snow scudding through the portico, mixing with the fresh fall now coming down. A winter front was coming in, and Dalton felt a similar chill striking at his soul. He cast an uneasy gaze about the room, then back to her. She seemed to tense, and fixed her own gaze on him…

What was he thinking? How could he be so mistrusting? Had the years of living with Delia scarred him so much that he could not be open to another lady, when the opportunity presented?

*The opportunity presented?* This “opportunity” had performed the equivalent of a flying leap to land itself in his lap. A beautiful young lady of fabulous wealth was showering him with her allure: didn’t this seem at least a trifle odd?

But then she touched his arm, gazed once more in his eyes, and spoke some sweet words – what had she said? But he felt his doubts ease as he realized that even the wealthy might suffer great loneliness: perhaps the wealthy even more than the destitute who could find companionship in commiserating amongst each other. She was reaching out to him: if it came to doubts, she had so much more to lose than he did. What foolishness for _him_ to distrust _her_?

He was lost in a bit of a reverie as she led him by the hand to the chaise lounge.

<< ”Now, Mr Dalton, I feel I’ve not been entirely, well, open with you…” >>

Her words brought his focus back to the here and now: with their echoes of his doubts of moments earlier, they caught his attention fully. Whatever great confession she was about to make, he was keenly interested.

<< ”You must have thought it rude when I didn’t offer you my full name,”preempting a disagreement, Anastasia put her hand quickly on Dalton’s knee to silence him. >>

Full name? What’s in a name, he thought? Whatever he was expecting, this wasn’t quite it. But again, the comfort of her hand drew him back in…

<< ”My family is, well, a little well known. Have you, perhaps heard of van Drake fur and fashion?” >>

“Van Drake? I certainly have! Oh, my: I am so sorry! Please, do accept my sincerest condolences: I am so sorry for your loss!”

The words came spilling out almost before he could think. He had little interest in fashion, but once speculation had arisen that Dario had been a meta and blame assigned accordingly, he had followed the case with great intensity. He had been thoroughly disgusted with the results of the investigation, and even now— this had been what? Four, five years ago, maybe more? Yet it seemed quite fresh in his mind, and his deep sympathy was still not far from the surface.

“Perhaps I should not have recalled for you such an unpleasant memory: again, let me apologize. But know that yes, I certainly did hear, and you and your family have had my deepest regrets.”

So this was the sister whose heart-rending defense of her brother had so drawn his sympathies. She must certainly believe him quite blind not to have recognized her at once. But while he had been entranced by the written account of her statement, he had never been one to dwell on the photographs of celebrities: especially given Delia’s penchant for taking the slightest such interest as if it were a major dalliance.

And back to the thought: what was he doing here? But perhaps it did not matter: serendipitous circumstance had granted him an opportunity to share his sympathies with a young lady whom he had long thought dearly deserved them. He was about to reach for her hand to give it a squeeze of sympathy when she perhaps reluctantly drew it away.

Perhaps this was still too painful an issue for her: he had been something of an arse to have brought up such a tragic recollection. Old fool! Not only this, but to so remind her of the fishbowl life in which she lived, where her life’s great tragedies were on display for all the world to see and make comment upon: even to cast foolish and cruel judgments on her meta brother, as so many had. In time the tragic nature of the event had apparently affect even was it the investigating officer, who had hanged himself? Having maintained contact with the family, perhaps he witnessed the results of his reckless disregard as they became manifest, and guilt had done the rest.

Meta? And now it made sense, why she might dwell in Pilot Ridge. Her brother must have attended Hammel: her family must have formed some association with the school, and she chose to stay. Perhaps they were some of the school’s greatest financial supporters? He had never concerned himself with such matters, but it seemed most likely.

<< ”But that’s enough about me… …I want to know about a man who would willingly part with something so valuable to a complete stranger. Mr Dalton, all I know about you is your name!” >>

So many emotions churned within him at her words. Yes, he had been a dolt to bring up her brother, and she was changing the subject to avoid the pain. Of course, in so doing she had inadvertently hit on his own most tender memory: but that he could forgive with nary a thought. She had no way of knowing, and every reason to wonder. He had known of hers, and should have been far more discreet than to comment. If she wished a change of subject to divert her thoughts from a painful past, he more than owed this to her.

“Certainly, Miss Drake. I can understand your curiosity. I should explain that the watch was originally a most personal gift, from a young lady who later became my wife.” Anticipating her objection, he raised a hand: “Please: before you deem it inappropriate to accept such a gift, know that the marriage has dissolved. The memories that watch now bears for me carry little but pain. If anything, you relieve me of a burdensome reminder of grief and regret. Beyond that, the payment I receive from you shall be devoted to a most worthy cause. I have become aware of a local business which has suffered a setback. You grant me a chance to invest in my community. You are an alchemist directed by Providence, to so transmute sorrow to blessing.”

And in return for such a provision of providence he had brought her painful reminders of her loss, and ogled her as if she were some street-corner harlot. Where was his sense of common decency? What had he been thinking?

Of course he had totally misread her expressions, her body language and the meaning of her words. It had been nothing personal: this was merely her public persona, accustomed to years of flirting with the camera. If he recalled correctly from the article then she was twenty years his junior, for heaven’s sake! Yet due to her oh so public pedigree, her very presence sang of seduction. Like Jessica Rabbit, this wasn’t her fault: she was merely drawn that way.

The last thing she needed was another grown man fawning before her like some over-hormonal adolescent boy. She needed someone she could turn to as a reliable confidant: a friend who could see beyond this façade. Besides, he had a lady waiting for him: a lady whose interest in him was personal and genuine. He was mortified to think of how completely he had put her out of his mind for the last few minutes. Was the flesh truly so weak? All his thoughts and actions since entering this place had been so unlike his typical disposition: what demons had possessed him so to treat and think of this poor young lady?


(Please forgive me, but “Who am I,” “Who are you,” and “Where are you from?” are so fundamental questions that they each require such a substantial answer as to make for quite a post each one in themselves. Rather than delay this reply an additional two days, I hope you can accept this portion and we can revisit the rest shortly?)

[Anastasia van Drakke]

The temperature was dropping; Anastasia tapped her foot as she contemplated drawing her dressing gown closer to her. It would bring her waist and chest into sharper view but it would also result in a higher percentage of skin covered. It was always a dilemma; tight, or low. Either could be too easily cheap, too much. This one didn’t want a delilah. Best to cover then. Under the silk, the tanned flesh on legs was raising into goosebumps.

He was still struggling. Tugging on her control and pushing at the suggestions and seeds she planted. It was impressive. It showed fortitude she had not expected. It was also highly annoying. Behind a sweet smile, Anastasia’s teeth were grinding together like millstones.

And then the world seemed to dim, as bright spots appeared behind her eyes. A mistake, she’d made a mistake. She’d assumed that if her brother was to be brought up it would be done with much greater tact. Not so suddenly. She could feel the wave of <pity/sorry/sympathy> pushing against her as she gripped her cup. He was speaking again; she did not hear. Her face had gone stoic, mask-like. In her grip, the glass was close to cracking as her fingers trembled with tension.

Her teeth ached as her jaw strained, and she closed her eyes for a moment as Dalton continued to talk. His regrets, she had his regrets. He felt sorry for her. The glass strained, and behind her eyelids the room glowed red. Deep breaths. Count. Calm down. ”Well, thank you, Mr Dalton. I appreciate it.” And then, he shifted away. Physically he had not moved but she felt it. He was conflicted, or...

He was feeling <sorry> for her. He dared to assume that someone like him could feel sorry for her? Anastasia’s face was growing pale as she fought against the spikes that seemed to be growing through her mind as she felt <regret/pity> push against her in nauseating ripples. Setting the glass down sharply, Anastasia raised one hand delicately to her temple and rubbed. ”I’m sorry, I’m listening.” her voice betrayed nothing of her internal conflict as she smiled somewhat stiffly, and tried hard to listen.

The story was insipid, and told her nothing she did not already know. Still, she responded automatically; an intake of breath as if to speak at learning of a wife, a look of concern on hearing of his pain, and an embarrassed smile when he started calling her an alchemist. He wanted to give the money away? It was... well, admirable. Charity was one thing when you wouldn’t miss a few thousand but as teacher... it was a lot of money.

The <guilt/regret/surprise> was starting to press strongly, overwhelming the <interest/attraction> she had planted, and while fighting against the urge to abandon her methods and fetch the thumb screws Ivan had stored in his wardrobe she’d let them grow. Lazy, stupid... She’d let him isolate himself from her by letting him see her as a person. He hadn’t been, it was obvious. The <guilt> was a special variation Anastasia had felt off nearly every professor she had had at college.

Then, the straw that broke her back. A surge of <affection/fondness/mortification>, and not the affection for her she had planted. He was thinking of that other piece of skirt. She had let him slip so far as to let that bitch creep back into his mind. White hot pinpricks started behind her eyes. Anastasia clenched her fist tightly, biting little crescents into her palm and clarifying her vision. There were immediate problems to rectify, and some doubts to crush.

She was composed, she could do this. Reaching out, Anastasia grasped Dalton’s hand gently and let her barrier down. She needed to know exactly what it was that was holding him back. There it was; What am I thinking/ just a girl/ what about my lady/ disgusting behavior from a grown man

Still smiling, Anastasia caught his eye and pushed. Complex emotional patterns that lead to almost coherent thoughts and compulsions; tiring to transmit but much stronger and infinitely better at overriding conflicting emotions. <thinkaboutme/wantme/followme/forgether/trustme/tell. me. everything>

”It’s Anastasia, please,” she said warmly, then gestured to his still half full tea cup, encouraging him to drink. ”May I ask what brings you to Pilot Ridge? Apart from my good luck, of course.”

I'll love you the best way I know how
My blonde curls slice through your heart
And the siren comes calling
In the night, till the light.

[Jacob Dalton]

<< Reaching out, Anastasia grasped Dalton’s hand gently and let her barrier down… >>

Dalton nearly gasped at the warmth of her hand as she reached for him again. She seemed so distressed by his tale: perhaps also humbled by his compliment? And she was reaching out to connect: with him…

<< Still smiling, Anastasia caught his eye and pushed. Complex emotional patterns that lead to almost coherent thoughts and compulsions…

<thinkaboutme/wantme/followme/forgether/trustme/tell. me. everything> >>

Public persona be damned. Her walls were shattering right in front of him. The years of holding up a false face had trapped her behind an iron mask. Yet behind that mask was a woman desperate for love: desperate for someone who understood her as perhaps only he could. A woman yearning for – the very thing he wanted?

His mind seemed to stagger. A moment ago it had all seemed so clear: now, it seemed he had been utterly wrong. A moment’s touch had laid her bare before him… the analogy originally referred to her soul, but the images now rising in his mind were far more carnal.

She needed someone who knew her, understood her wants, her longing, her grief intimately: someone who would trust her, lay bare their own soul – someone who would tell her everything…

“There are many kinds of grief. Trust me, I can understand yours: I have been through enough different kinds myself.

“When I first met Delia, I thought the sun rose and set in her eyes. I was in the London Fire Department at the time: she was a young starlet on the rise, a chanteuse with a golden voice. Her trailer caught fire: we couldn’t spray it directly, or she would have been electrocuted. But like your brother, I, too, am a Meta. I have control over water: they sprayed the ground, I raised what was needed to quench the fire without risk to the damsel inside. I was her hero, and I saw that in every glance of her eyes.

“We spent a beautiful weekend in Switzerland, where she bought me the watch. Then I accompanied her on her tour. She even composed a song for me, and presented it for her audience. Can you imagine such a fairy tale love?”

*…wasn’t there some other fairy tale love he should be remembering? Something about dark, lustrous hair and a rosebud: and a beaten, battered book… or was it all a dream? For the life of him, he could not remember… *

“Sadly, the audience was not one to believe in dreams. Nor to appreciate tales of Metas performing heroic rescues. I was her hero, but not theirs. And they were quick to show their disapproval.”

As the hurt welled up once more, he clasped her hands in his. He needed to get through to her how well he understood: he needed to tell her all.

“Can you imagine such a fairy tale start, and then to watch your love’s hopes be torn away, because of you? To know that because you came into their life, they lost a lifelong dream? The pain, the grief of such guilt: yes, that I have known.

“And then, when her career was in ruins and I was to blame, I saw the light die in her eyes: the adoration she had held for me was gone, for I had killed it. Do you know what it is to mourn the death of true love? That, too, I have known.

“When she left to return to the States, my heart nearly tore in two. Then I received the bill from the doctor’s office: a bill for a pregnancy test. Yes, that was slightly before those home kits everyone has now. And the good doctor was so kind as to add a note: “Congratulations!”

“I was to be a father, and the mother of my child had not told me. What did she intend? Would she end the child conceived of our love? Could I live with myself at such a loss? Perish the thought.

“I flew to her home, and persuaded her to give us another chance: a chance divorced of all the burdens of the past, to live like a ‘normal’ couple. I was young: I thought surely in time we could regain what we had once had. But each night as we prepared for bed I would reach for her: and in her eyes, nothing. No spark, no desire. I sought to give her time: but days stretched to weeks, then months, then years…

“Grief is hard enough when the object of your grief is gone: but can you imagine a grief over a loss of someone who is still there, right beside you every morning and every night? Yes, I have been there.

“I gave up my firefighting work, and abandoned my former friends. I sacrificed all my hopes for the future as a penance for her losing hers. It made no difference.

“In time Allison was born. She was truly a beautiful child: pale blond hair and sky blue eyes, so like an angel you cannot imagine. And yet Delia would not have me hold her save when she herself was too tired, and could not take charge on her own. I tried to be father to my daughter, but her mother would not allow.

“Can you imagine the grief of coming home each day, watching the child you love growing and growing, yet this wall between you: a wall keeping you apart? Delia did not tell me on the day Allison took her first step, when she spoke her first word: all those little milestones she kept from me. Even living in the same house, I could not be father to my own child. Yes, this too is grief.

“I sought counseling for us, hoping things would change. They did not: Delia did not wish them to. Then came the terrible night: we were on the road through an arroyo, foolishly seeking to cross at just the wrong time. The waters swept down on us at a speed like the wind: before I could even think, the car had spun about and was being washed away.

“Believe it or not, it that moment of dire peril, I nearly forgot I could control the water. I had not tried to for so long. Then I realized how close we were to being swept right into the river. I managed to divert the flow just a bit: just enough to catch the car against a boulder. ‘Catch:’ perhaps I should have said ‘smash?’ All the windows were battered out, and the car nearly folded in two. The waters were still rising swiftly. I undid my seatbelt, and fought the jammed door. Delia screamed in terror next to me as the wash rose past her waist, and Allison wailed from the seats behind us.

“I undid Delia’s belt and pressed her through the empty space that had been our windshield, then directed the surge so it carried her to safety. By then the car was beginning to rock free. I grabbed for Allison’s hand, tried to pull her with me after her mother. I had made it out of the car, but she had not, when the waves twisted it free of the stone. I heard her scream echo my own as her wet, slick hand slipped out of my own.”

His grip on her hands was tight as a vise, the agony pouring through their link. He needed her to understand: he needed to tell her all.

“Flesh of my flesh: bone of my one. The child I failed: my only child! For I would not confront her mother and insist on more. Had there been the slightest chance to do so, I would gladly have traded my place for hers.

“Aah, so. Grief, I know. Grief, I understand. If somehow I can alleviate yours, I surely shall…”

His cup sat, getting cold…

[Anastasia van Drakke]

It took only a moment for Anastasia to realize just what was waiting behind the dam Dalton had in place. The barrier she’d been chipping away at all fucking night was crumbling and she had thought she’d known what was waiting but it only took that moment, just one, for her to realize she had been very very wrong. A moment too many. Her hand twitched but it was too slow.

Oh god, no...

Then everything was lost in a flood that took her sight and hearing and left her swallowing at sorrow. She didn’t hear, she felt. She felt everything. And it hurt, it hurt so much. <hope/regret(so much, so much)/love (so much)>. Could she imagine? She was feeling it. Feeling every single thing. But this was just a trickle, the flow was building...

<hurthurthurt/lungsqueezingguilt/regret> that made her throat constrict. God, no. Stop, can’t. Stop. I don’t want to feel this, don’t want it, don’t....

But the trickle was a stream, was a river, and didn’t he understand that she was knowing, she was learning, she was being force fed and he was thinking of soft curves and bright eyes while she heard a thick russian voice and needle tracked arms and the calm tingle of want under his skin as he held her... which were hers? The line was blurred and the water was washing it away...

Not over yet

No time to brace as the next wave of <grief/sorrow/resentment/regret> that went on and on over inside her to squeeze her larynx and make her stomach lurch. How could she why did he what did they want from us? She would be sick. She would be sick on someone’s grief that was freezing all the fire she’d been keeping under her skin to keep herself alive and safe against the great emptiness that was growing and growing inside now that he’d gone...

<loss/sorrow/lonelysolonely> god someone, anyone let her out, let her breathe let her push the loss away and let her stop seeing a boy with her smirk and a man with her heart. And feeling what was not hers, could not be hers, Anastasia van Drake did not drown in <sorrow/sadness/godsofuckingalone>.

The river was a flood, was growing and then a deluge, and even as Dalton spoke of his daughter drowning Anastasia drowned, screamed silently as her heart was flayed even as her hands were pressed tightly enough to hurt as tiny bones clicked. And his loss and her loss, a daughter and a brother blurred into blackness. And his loss and her loss; a bitter wife and a damaged companion (god, Ivan) blurred into blackness. She couldn’t tell where his <loss/sorrow/anger/agony/regret> ended and hers begun. Her hands glowed warm, and her cheeks were damp but she couldn’t tell if she was crying for him or for her, for all he’d lost and for all she’d lost. She was losing herself, she was going to drown...

And then the water dropped below her chin and like a woman half drowned Anastasia gasped. Her hand was still caught between Dalton’s, effectively a human bear trap but the rush of <agony/sorrow/grief/regretregretregret> was lessening. Lessening enough for her to throw up a block to lessen the flood enough for her to gather her own consciousness, to get back her sense of her as <compassion/empathy/letmehelp> continued to radiate off her so called mark and drive the ache away.

Blinking, Anastasia peered up through wet eyelashes (how long had she been crying? Since when had she cried? When had she last cried?). Her breathing was ragged, uneven as her chest heaved. Her throat ached and her eyes felt raw, as if scrapped by sandpaper.

What have you done to me?

”I,” Her throat worked as she swallowed, her free hand wiping at her eyes with obvious discomfort even as her brain buzzed. Paths needed to be found again, safe paths. ”I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s possessed me,” carefully, carefully, she sent <comfort/want/protectiveness> and carefully, naturally, curled up against his shoulder. It was a suggestion he comfort her, not an order. Still, it was dangerous. She had misjudged the situation. Stupid, stupid of her after she had read the file. She knew about his wife, about his daughter, about the loss but had not expected, had not known she would be.. hadn’t known what would....

Never mind. Nothing had changed. Nothing/. She could do this. She had to do this.

What are you doing to me?

”But, you’re here now,” she said simply, softly, her hand still grasping his. ”I never thought that...”

What do you think you are doing?

With a slight shake of her head, Anastasia pressed the heel of her palm against her eye until bright colours burst behind her eyelid. ”I do, I understand. I do not need to imagine. You have,” she shook her head, then collected herself. Of course she knew how he felt, it had just been forced through her like ice in her veins. ”Thank you.” She sent a stronger pulse <want>, even as her brain buzzed harshly as it worked to rework around the patches of feeling/hurt/sorrow that had begun to grow like fungi. She stood after a moment, slowly, slightly shaky on her feet as she kept hold of his hand. ”Can you,” too soon? could she handle this? ”Come with me,” Her hair was still perfect, and while her makeup had smudged she could do this. The <sorrow/agony/lonelyness> would go. She would make it leave.

”I need a drink.” The bar was only a few feet away, she could let go and make him a drink (and her, and her) but she did not want to let go. It would be bad, it would be too hard to do this again (never again). ”I...” shouldn't, can’t, won’t, let go “And I want to make you one. I want,”[/b] looking down, Anastasia rubbed her thumb slowly over the palm of his hand. She pushed, a little harder, <desire/want/need> ”the safe’s in my bedroom. I thought, we could... take a drink there.”


It’s a mission, it’s a mission. It is a mission. He'll forgive me, but he's gone... Oh god, what’s happening to me?

[Jacob Dalton]

<< Blinking, Anastasia peered up through wet eyelashes (how long had she been crying? Since when had she cried? When had she last cried?). Her breathing was ragged, uneven as her chest heaved. Her throat ached and her eyes felt raw, as if scrapped by sandpaper.

What have you done to me? >>

He saw. She understood. She felt. Was she crying for his pain, or for hers? In a way they were surely the same. Both stemmed from the grief of loss: neither could have understood the other so well had they not been through circumstances much alike.

Somehow, she knew. He felt this to the core of his soul. She was not merely sympathizing, but feeling the depth of his loss as personally as if it were her own.

<< ”I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s possessed me,” >>

She was raising walls again; he could feel it in his own soul. And yet not quite: she turned into his outstretched arm, resting in his embrace. Here, where she belonged. Never mind that she was still hiding something from him; now he knew. Of course: he was a stranger, there had been no reason for her to trust him until now.

<< ”But, you’re here now,” she said simply, softly, her hand still grasping his. ”I never thought that...” >>

Holding her hand, he broadcast all the tenderness and concern through their link that he could. Only now, he knew that was what he was doing: that she was receiving it all.

What a secret to hide. What a way to be alone! Having seen how her brother was treated, had she somehow managed to conceal this all her life? Hiding in the limelight, a dazzling smile to cover the horror? All the emotions which must have been thrown her way: the adulation, the envy, the madness. And she had felt it all.

<< ”I do, I understand. I do not need to imagine. You have,” she shook her head, then collected herself. Of course she knew how he felt, it had just been forced through her like ice in her veins. ”Thank you.” >>

He nodded silently, numbed by her confession. Who else had she ever told? Anyone? Did even her parents know? He hugged her, held her close. “I am sorry: so sorry. I did not know. I did not mean to do that to you…”

He helped her up as she struggled to her feet, and as she expressed her intent he guided her lightly to the bar. “Name your poison, dear lady, and it shall be yours.” Dalton might never have tended bar, but he could certainly serve a glass of liquor. Especially as she was not likely to be looking for anything fancy, but merely strong. At this rate he was beginning to think he might, as well. Whatever she named, he poured.

As much as he avoided alcohol in excess, tonight he was tempted. Perhaps it would not hit him so hard if he had a wee bit more on his stomach first? “A moment, if I may…”

He stepped away from the bar, reclaiming the half full cup of tea, now cold. He filled it from the pot to warm it, downing it in a couple of swallows: then refilled, and downed it again. There: should he perhaps drink more than his usual tonight, now at least it would take a bit longer to soak in. He returned quickly to her side, grasping one hand in his own, his arm going around her shoulder.

<< “And I want to make you one. I want…”

looking down, Anastasia rubbed her thumb slowly over the palm of his hand. She pushed, a little harder, <desire/want/need> >>

A surge of longing for this dear, sweet creature filled him. What: she was so distraught, yet she was still seeking to be the perfect hostess for him? What more perfect lady could any man ask for?

<< ”the safe’s in my bedroom. I thought, we could... take a drink there.” >>

Was that her, responding to the sudden rush of desire in his heart? Did she even realize that she had tapped into his mood right then?

“Certainly.”

*Let her not mistake our intent here: let her know…*

With a press of his hand on her shoulder he turned her towards him in his embrace, and his lips claimed hers with a passion and force he had not known in years…

[Anastasia van Drakke]

Wait... no... how had he... The surge of <empathy> was strong, distinct, and it was not supposed to be there. He’d guessed. He must have felt it, felt... something. Too many similarities, too many overlaps, too many lines blurred.

This had never happened before. This was not supposed to happen. The urge to pull back was strong; she may have flinched (did she flinch?). He thought they were the same, all because of some stupid bout of overconfidence.

But, the grief and loneliness... that had been the same. Hadn’t it? Or had she.... or had he...

A confusing jumble that she did not have time to unpick, and she couldn’t focus. He was transmitting, picking out emotions to send. Anastasia looked down at his hand in blank amazement. <fondness/tenderness/worry> and he was signaling and sending to her. Only Ivan had learnt to do that, and he was trying it after just meeting her. She closed her eyes again and rested her head against his shoulder. Clear, concise, no mess as the fog in her head started to wash away. It was not the <anger/calm/waitingwaitingwaiting> that Ivan had used to burn the fog and haze away, but it was working.

She let him bring her closer, for the mission, for the mission, remember the mission, felt the realization and the regret even before he voiced the apology. Another unexpected turn; it had not been an hour yet. What had she gotten herself into? How on earth could she make this work? Not answering, Anastasia squeeze Dalton’s hand.

Did she want the fog to come back? To let the hole in her grow until she really was as empty and cold as she had learnt to be?

Stop the melodrama, Eva. Finish what you started.

It was so hard to focus... he was still touching her, and her own determination was being ground away by the constant <want/enjoyment/care> that made her feel strange and light, even as her head still reeled with years, years and years worth of <anger/agony/loss>. It was like being drunk. It was like being high and drunk at the same time. ”Ah, vodka,” Anastasia murmured, ”straight.” Russian to the death, was Anastasia.

She watched him drink the tea quickly, one hand holding herself steady. Her hands were still trembling. Too much, it was too much. How did people bare it, feeling so much without being able to shut it out, to let something nicer in? He would be very drunk. Inhibitions would lessen. More of this. More of this, this everything.

She watched him drink the tea and take his drink and said nothing, but smiled as he slide an arm around her shoulder.

Anastasia started to show the way out, still needing to lean slightly against her guest, until she was pulled to a stop. She turned easily, feeling the spikes of <want/need> even before a kiss drove them through her brain like railroad spikes. Now? It was more than she had expected, stronger.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Anastasia kissed him back. <stay/more/trustme> After a moment, she pulled back and took a breath. ”This way,”

A hallway had never seemed so long, nor so short. The bedspread was white and gold, and bright red gardenias sat in vases on the windowsill. A sharp contrast to the black and silver she had in her own room. No mural here, either. ”There’s a balcony, but,” with a small smile Anastasia shook her head. ”I think it’s started snowing.

The vodka was cold, but deliciously warm as it hit her stomach. He was still radiating <want/need/care> behind her, though Anastasia was loosing track of how much she was feeding in compared to how much she was receiving. More blurred lines, more new confusion. She could not focus well enough to care.

With a slightly unsteady air, Anastasia set her drink down on her dresser, and then slowly, keeping her eyes on Dalton, untied the waistband of her dressing gown. Her tongue felt heavy, too slow. ”I’m not, I mean,” she moved closer again. <makemefeelsomething> ”I...”

Down down down the rabbit hole...

[Jacob Dalton]

<< She closed her eyes again and rested her head against his shoulder. Clear, concise, no mess as the fog in her head started to wash away…

She let him bring her closer…

…Not answering, Anastasia squeeze Dalton’s hand.

…It was like being drunk. It was like being high and drunk at the same time.”Ah, vodka,” Anastasia murmured, ”straight.” >>

They were practically vibrating in tune with one another, as in harmony as strings of the same chord on a musical instrument. Was this what life was like for an empath? Was each encounter with another human being a communion of souls? And if so was that a wondrous thing, or horrifying? Dalton could barely imagine.

At her request he opened the cabinet, discovering a third of a bottle of Stoli in the mini-fridge. Inwardly he grinned: he would have expected Anastasia to have preferred some $200 a bottle brand with a distinct taste, but no: was this her version of “slumming it?” Perhaps like he, she simply appreciated this common (but still Russian) brand because its subtle flavor interfered little with the tastes brought to a mixed drink by other ingredients.

*WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!*

He could practically hear a claxon sounding in his head: something vital, something urgent he was missing, right under his nose. And yet as clearly as he felt the sense of something out of place, he also felt dazed, relaxed and happy: far too happy and relaxed to pursue the issue further.

He poured her Stoli, then pulled out the distinctive bottle of di Saronno. Ah, yes: whoever stocked her bar did have a taste Dalton could appreciate. A lemon-lime mixer, and he was set.

He felt giddy as he set the bottles back in their places. Was this a “contact high” off her empathy? He really had no idea how this worked, but was finding it rather tantalizing

<< Wrapping her arms around his neck, Anastasia kissed him back. <stay/more/trustme> After a moment, she pulled back and took a breath.”This way…” >>

She had all but melted in his arms: the intensity of his own emotions at holding her had been so powerful they nearly bowled him over. He could have stayed there like that an eternity and never minded.

How had he become so captivated, so quickly? It was a mystery, but he trusted it: trusted it, and wanted more. He followed her, giddy in the confidence that she was playing right into his desires.

It was a beautiful bedroom, tastefully decorated. Of course, what else had he expected? The subtle touches of white were yet further highlighted by the snow whisking across the balcony, visible through the French doors.

<< With a slightly unsteady air, Anastasia set her drink down on her dresser, and then slowly, keeping her eyes on Dalton, untied the waistband of her dressing gown. Her tongue felt heavy, too slow. ”I’m not, I mean,” she moved closer again.

<makemefeelsomething> ”I...” >>

She was trying to reassure him that she wasn’t so easy with just any man: that it was he and he alone who had captured her heart. She needn’t have worried: never would he have accused her so in his thoughts.

As in everything else, her taste in lingerie was classic: light silk, cream lace, not too bold, and very, very feminine.

*warning! warning! warning!*

Once again, something he was missing: once again, what did it matter? Why spoil the perfect moment searching for imperfection? She had made herself vulnerable to him: was offering a connection, trusting him with her heart. What could he do to show here that trust was not ill placed? Somehow it came to him…

He stepped towards her, wrapping one arm around her waist, interlocking the fingers of his other hand with hers, palm to palm. Drawing her body tightly against his, his lips sought out hers.

<Feel what you’re doing for me…>

Through all the bonds of hand to hand, lips to lips, skin against skin, he pressed the emotional tide of his walls coming down: the incredible relief at finding one to trust, one who would care: one whose love would wipe away the sorrows of a bygone day.

<Trust me: then for you I can do the same…>

As before he had unintentionally poured his grief into her, now by choice he poured relief through every pore.

<Let yourself feel what this could be…>

Let the cold winds rage: within these walls, two souls would keep each other warm.

[Fifi Hart]

Post holiday blues had Fifi in a bit of a slump. So did not having had a chance to share juicy bits with her good friend, who needed a good pick-me-up, and knew where to get one. But Fifi knew how to deal with that: PARTY TIME!!!!!

Of course, partying required the company of at least one tall sexy man: Fifi was partial to a certain gentleman by the name of Jack Daniels. Provided, of course, that she could cut him loose from supervision. Fortunately the night clerk at Lucas’ liquors thought Fifi was super hot, and submitted to her offer to read his lifelines. Two minutes later he was too trashed to remember her face, let alone stop her grand exit.

A few (read: several) solid shots of J.D. later, Fifi hit the road for the pizza parlor in a car she borrowed from she-couldn’t-remember-who. Never mind the fresh snow coming down: right now she was on a mission, and she was invincible. The car fishtailed at turn after turn, nearly taking out a fire hydrant at one corner. She kept right on going, speakers blasting loud enough to shake the snow off the windows and rattle whatever brain she had left in her head.

A couple of stops later, she was at the mansion. It took a couple of tries for her to punch in the gate code, but she finally got it. Then she cursed at the gate as she knocked it off its tracks, swerving into it as she drove through. Never mind: who would want to invade a mansion in the middle of a snow storm?

She staggered up the front stairs and slipped on the porch. J.D. hit the ground and shattered, scattering glass and whiskey across the stone. Fifi grumped, sighing petulantly, but didn’t worry too much: Taz would have plenty more.

Once again Fifi barely managed the lock but finally got the door open and stumbled in. And what was this? The entire front area had been redecorated? Or was she in the wrong house?

“Taaaz? What the hell you been shootin’, girl? Queen Victoria’s took a shit in your foyer!”

She teetered through the parlor, juggling pizza in one hand and DVD’s in the other. Jack would never have made it this far, anyways. There were more important things. Like Brad Pitt. The stairs proved a major obstacle, but she made it.

At the top she looked around and blinked. There had been still more redecorating up here. “Jesus, girl! Daddy moving back in, wants a taste of the old country?”

She heard a sound from one of the rooms along the hall: Taz wasn’t back in her own room? What the hell? Oh, well: wherever the party was, that’s where Fifi was going.

She tiptoed with all the grace of a rhinoceros down to the room, then flung the door open, wobbling against the frame.

“SURPRIIIIIZE!”

She blinked into the shocked silence, suddenly taking in both that Taz was more than half undressed and less than completely alone.

“Oh my sweet lord god. SHIT woman!!! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Rebound that creepy Russian hack right the fuck out the door and in comes another! He looks kinda old for ya: almost like my English teacher!”

Which comment brought a sudden stream of consciousness flowing.

“Babe, I have soo much shit to share with you! Hammel’s goin’ to hell in a race car! Teachers knockin’ teachers up: their newest doc already skipping town!”

She hiccoughed loudly. J.D. could do that to ya sometimes. “But all that can wait till after pizza and Pitt. “Inglorious Basterds,” bitch! Brad’s still got it, Mmmhm!”

She waved the DVD at Taz, almost losing the pizza box. “Dig in! It’s getting cold! I dunno: pineapple, green pepper and anchovy just doesn’t taste the same without the whole wheat crust!”

She stood wavering in the middle of the room, too dizzy to figure out why nobody was laughing. Clearly it didn't matter much, since the wily grin on her face remained cemented there as she marched forward and threw her arms about each of their shoulders.

"Proud of you for moving on, boo!" She cooed, smacking wet and sloppy kisses on each of their cheeks in turn, giggling madly.




-------------------
Written Collaboratively by Lynxie and Dalton, with Lynxie's permission.

[Anastasia van Drakke]

Finally.

The strength of his <affection/gratitude/love> making her giddy, made her knees weak, made her kiss him harder. It had taken too long, it had been too long since she’d felt that warm sense of victory in her stomach. Hands on hands, her hand seeking out his belt, and she had done it. She had done more than that. She’d found more. Even as they stepped back towards the bed (was she pulling or was he pushing?) she smiled without breaking contact. Finally. So easy to just let herself go with the tide, to loose herself in the <relief> at knowing someone understood, would wait, would have and hold....

What they could be...

Her knees were feeling weak; she held on tighter. She was being washed away again, but it wasn’t drowning. She was flying, she had a net, a catcher, something (someone) who wanted to be there.

Lies you planted. Eva, that’s not him.

It was starting again, she was loosing track. Too many things to think about. Too hard to concentrate on anything but feeling everything streaming in from Dalton as he held her.

Stop.

Something was pressed at the back of her mind, <happy/surprise/pride>, notes too jagged to be Daltons. And there was someone calling... was there. Focus, don’t loose it now, not now. Anastasia forced the distraction out, her jaw tightening as she fought to keep up the connection she’d built, to keep her mark (to keep Mr Dalton) in place, to keep him there, with her. One hand rose to touch his cheek, even as she smiled and tried to keep his attention off whatever it was (she would skin the doorman alive). <staywithme/wantme/focus>. It wasn’t important. It could wait. As far as Anastasia was concerned the whole country could wait. The universe. She was owed that. He was not her Russian but she needed something!

The door flew open and a very familiar teenager was launched with the effect of a nuclear warhead. NO! Too many distractions, he was slipping, she was loosing him! Too many points to focus on, trying to keep him and send enough <fear/don’tbelonghere> to Fifi to get her to leave. She was talking talking talking. And... Russian creep?

Don't you dare mention him in here, Don't bring him into this.

Her grip was slipping as beads of perspiration started forming on her forehead. Then the girl actually moved towards them. No, no, no, While Anastasia was used to enjoying Fifi’s special talent, it would be the final straw. <stayAWAY>

Too late. The all too familiar drowsiness forced it’s way into her system, for a moment her mind relaxed. Like an elastic band stretched to capacity, Anastasia’s focus snapped. The effect was immediate; her face paled and she fell back towards the bed as her legs started shaking. Gone, all that <care/relief/want> gone. Without her proper control, <anger/fear/notNOW> spilled out like shockwaves from an earthquake. The soft mask slipped as Anastasia grasped Fifi’s arm and threw her off, staring with cold eyes. Her empathetic connection was broken; the world was turning red.

”Get out” she said softly, pushing herself up. ”Get out now!” She should try to pacify Dalton, if that was possible. His emotions were spiraling and she couldn’t focus past her desire to crush that which had gotten in her way. She had lost control. She was still loosing control. Her breath was shallow as she stalked towards Fifi, pushing enough <fear> to cancel out her broadcast, enough to drain the blood from the little girl’s face and to make sure the girl backed out like it was a panther stalking her, not a slender woman. Grasping the door, Anastasia slammed it shut with enough force to rattle the small pane of glass above.

Fix this! Don’t loose it! Finish what you start.

Turning again, her back to the door (exit blocked). ”Don’t,” started, but words weren’t forming properly. She could feel him pulling away; couldn’t let him leave. Too much to loose. She was not letting this slip through her fingers, she was not going to loose this one. It was not fair.

”Stay.”<stay>