My fics are usually M rated but this is my first K, so I hope you'll take a minute when you're done and let me know what you think. Thanks!

Title: Questions

Rating: K

Pairings: None

Archive: Not mine. Should be.

Summary: Henry questions his belief that he and Vicki are each others destiny.

Time: Just before Norman shows up at his door pretending to be Vicki.

Henry left Vicki on the street with a heavy heart. He felt guilty. About Maurice dying, about putting Bettie in danger. About not destroying the objects so Vicki could never be taken from him. When he told Vicki it didn't matter what he thought, he knew it was a lie, but he was giving her an out. He could see she didn't really want one, knew she was too stubborn to admit she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Saw it in the set of her jaw, in her face, but the guilt weighed on him. The pain in her eyes kept flashing inside his brain. And that was killing him as surely as a stake through the heart. The walk home was quiet. Around him at least. The voices in his head just would not shut up, no matter how hard he tried to silence them. He stopped at 24. Made his way back to the fence and found a willing woman to calm him. They were in the back hall way, Henry feeding, listening to her blood rush through her veins, waiting for her to reach the point where the pain that would come with the bite wouldn't even be felt. Concentrating on that helped quell the voices that had been shouting inside his head for a time. After he left her leaning against the wall, sated, and left the club, he headed once again towards home.

They'd reached an impasse, he and Vicki. She couldn't budge because she couldn't embrace the fear of what they were and he couldn't push anymore. He reached the lobby doors of the condo and barely acknowledged the presence of Greg and his "Good evening, Mr. Fitzroy."

The elevator was empty for the ride to the 14th floor, except for those damn voices in his head. What would he have to do to quiet them?

Henry paced around the apartment. Started in the foyer and moved through his work space, the living room. Stopped at the floor to ceiling windows and stared out at…..nothing. His heart was heavier than it had been in many lifetimes. The woman he had at first respected, then liked and now (as much as it pained him) loved, was slipping away. He'd tried everything. Seduction. Sympathy. Involving himself in her cases. She resisted him like no one else ever had. Ever. Not Ginevra. Not Bettie. No one. He knew she had issues about almost everything. Knew she was angry about almost everything else. But when she was close to him, he could scent her need for him. Why couldn't he reach her? If she knew how badly he needed her, if he confessed his love, would it bring her closer or push her farther away? What if she was telling the truth when she said she wasn't much of a gambler? That fear would never let her acknowledge how she felt? Would he accept this? Could he? Perhaps this was part of his destiny. To love this mortal woman and have her reject everything he wanted to give her. Had she just made it clear what they were to each other?

He felt like he'd reached the final stage of grief. Acceptance. He sat down heavily on the sofa and stared at his hands. He accepted that she would never let herself go enough to believe they could beat the odds. He accepted that although he loved her, he would never have her the way he wanted. He accepted that his heart was broken, but that, given a century or two, it would mend. He accepted that no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, she had made it perfectly clear what they were to each other.

He heard a knock at the door.