A/N: I wrote this drabble as soon as I got home from the movie theater the first time I saw the movie. It has a similar theme to my first fanfiction published in AASB, "Baptism", but I thought I might as well clean it up and share it with you. Enjoy!
George smiled a little wistfully as they walked the city streets in the wan light just before dawn, his fingers curled around Scarlett's. They were en route to the train depot, on their way back to London, and from there, George wasn't entirely sure. Back to the States at some point, he supposed, once his visa ran out. The only thing he was certain of right now was that he was never returning to Paris, no matter how many historic landmarks needed fixing. If the damn bell tower stopped tolling again, well - the Parisians had lived without the bells for 284 years before he came along; they would adapt.
Paris was a city for lovers, and here he was with this woman, who drove him crazy in a thousand different ways - she left him to rot in a Turkish prison! - but all he could think about was what had happened in the tunnels beneath their feet. Intellectually George knew he was still in shock; he remembered going through something similar after Danny had died, but whatever he had felt then was nothing compared to the mindfuck he was experiencing now. It had been two days since he, Scarlett and Zed had emerged from hell, but George was smart enough to know that demons as ingrained as theirs were never truly vanquished.
They caught a bus the rest of the way to the train station. Once they got there, Scarlett did all the talking. George didn't mind. He was too numb to think, and the sparse French he knew wouldn't get them too far. George noticed Scarlett eyeing him, her dark eyes concerned.
"I'm fine," he said. He could tell she didn't buy it, but she didn't press him.
Despite the early hour, the concourse was filled with travelers: businessmen in smart suits, college students on holiday, families, tourists. Scarlett pulled him along to the ticket counter, and he laid his navy blue passport atop her burgundy one.
"Deux billets à Londres, s'il vous plaît," Scarlett said. Minutes later, George heard her complete the transaction with a quiet, "Merci." With their tickets in hand, George and Scarlett let the ebb and flow of the crowd carry them along towards the terminals. Scarlett never let go of his hand.
"Bienvenue à la Gare du Nord . . ." George tuned out the announcements - he could pick out a French word here and there, but he could barely understand them anyway. They had made it to the depot more quickly than expected; their train was not due to board for another hour. Scarlett slowed as they passed a small café.
"Breakfast?" Scarlett asked hopefully. George shook his head. "George . . . come on, you've got to eat something. At least let me get you some tea."
He nodded and chose a table for two far from the corridor. Scarlett came back with two paper cups sleeved in corrugated cardboard and a fat croissant on a napkin. George watched her stir milk into her tea. Her delicate fingers were usually tipped in short but well-groomed nails, painted with clear lacquer. One fingernail was badly torn and scabbed over from where she had caught it in a groove in the catacombs. The others were chewed down to the quick with dark grime and blood embedded beneath them. George sipped his drink and was startled to find it more bitter than he had expected. Scarlett smiled shyly.
"Coffee," she said. "I wasn't sure if you took milk or sugar, though."
"Black is fine," he said.
Scarlett tore the croissant in half and left one on the plate between them as she picked the other apart. "I know you're still processing everything that happened," she said. "God knows I am as well. Perhaps it will help to talk about it."
The last thing George wanted to do was talk about it. The horrors he had seen, and the pain - he never wanted to remember any of it. He wanted to forget that he'd ever met Scarlett Marlowe.
"I'm fine," he repeated. He seemed to be saying that a lot lately.
"You're not," Scarlett said quietly, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of her tea.
George sighed. "I'm not," he agreed. "I just need some time, Scarlett."
She nodded, her eyes shadowed by auburn lashes. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here."
"Will you?" The words had left his mouth before he could think them through, and he could tell they stung. Good. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind George regretted it. "God, Scarlett, I didn't mean -"
"Yes, you did," she said abruptly, not meeting his eyes. "It's alright, George. I understand."
"I'm sorry," he said anyway.
She couldn't smile, not yet. "I know."
Scarlett tore a piece off the croissant between them and offered it to him. It stuck in his throat, and George swallowed hard. "Look, Scarlett, I - thanks. I mean, you saved my life down there . . . so thanks."
"Of course," she said. Another announcement came over the public address system of the concourse in French. George looked to Scarlett, and she gave him a weak smile. "Our train," she said. He followed her, coffee in hand.
"Where do you suppose you'll go?" she asked, once they'd found their seats. "You're welcome to stay with me, if need be."
"I should go home," he said. "I've been an expat for too long."
"Oh, of course." Scarlett seemed disappointed, but George forced himself to ignore her forlorn expression. He focused instead on the two paper cups on the tray before them, almost touching, just like he and Scarlett. Close, almost touching - yet worlds apart. George took her hand and leaned close.
"When I said Turkey was the best week of my life, it wasn't just because I thought we were going to die down there," he said in a low voice. George took a deep breath and squeezed her hands. "I have to go home, Scarlett. But I could never leave you forever, not again. I'll be back in London soon."
Her eyes shimmered with tears, but she blinked and looked at her lap. "Oh, George . . . I don't deserve you. Not after what I did to you."
He shrugged. "Truth is, after what we've been through, and everything we've done to each other, we're all we have. No one else could ever understand."
"I'm not sure if you're offering me hope or despair."
"A little of both," George admitted. "But we've already been through hell. What could be worse than that?"
Scarlett leaned over to lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. "Tempt not fate, my dear."
George chuckled and kissed her forehead. The train rattled along through the French countryside as the rising sun tinged the horizon red. George was reminded of the blood Scarlett had been drenched in when she brought him back from the dead, or near as much. Was he doomed to remember this whenever the sun rose? Blood and hellfire?
Scarlett shifted against him. No, George thought. After Danny died, the sun rose again. There was still hope. Lost in thought, it was a good twenty minutes before he noticed the sunrise had faded from harsh red to brilliant gold.
Hellfire had passed. There was always hope.
Deux billets à Londres, s'il vous plaît - Two tickets to London, please
Merci - Thank you
Bienvenue à la Gare du Nord - Welcome to the North Station (located in Paris, La Gare du Nord is one of the busiest train stations in Europe)