(A/N: A few updates from the original, but nothing too much. Just a bit smoothing out.

Warning: Non-detailed rape.)

Emerald and light grey were locked; the gazes were not hostile, simply assessing. As the two hadn't seen one another in five years – save for a visit neither cared to remember – the analyzing was understandable. The steel blue, which tinged that which had once been the hue of a stormy sky, accompanied the slightly wry grin that curved the lips of the man to whom these eyes belonged. The woman who stood across from him mirrored the expression, her emerald eyes sparkling.

For a moment, Amara was reminded of something which had happened years ago, but quickly put it out of her mind, in favor of recalling how she and Michelle had arrived. They had booked the flight to Italy, and the hotel, the day Michelle had agreed to come with the blonde; they had flown out the next day. The flight had been long, true, but as both had gotten much-needed sleep, despite the fact that his was contrary to the blonde's usual insomnia, it hadn't been too bad.

Upon arriving at the Italian International Airport, both celebrities had skillfully dodged their fans and the paparazzi, in favor of collecting their bags quickly, and catching a cab. That had been this morning; it was now afternoon. The couple had elapsed the drive to the hotel in comfortable silence; the drive having gone quicker than either had expected. The racer had even commented that, since she was last in Italy, it seemed traffic had improved. They had arrived at the hotel without much fuss; they had requested that they be treated like any other guests.

After everything had been unpacked, and the blonde had finished primping – the violinist had noted that this was out of character for the taller woman, but the racer had dismissed her fiancée's worries – the two had hailed another cab, and were headed for the Vatican. To ensure that they would have no trouble, Amara had called ahead to fill in the person they intended to see, that they were in Italy, and that they were coming to the Vatican. And so, the two had arrived, and informed security of whom they were there to see. After a call had been made to confirm their identities, the couple had been allowed inside, and then escorted to the Papal office.

Once there, the Swiss Guard had informed them that they could enter any time they wished, and then had promptly left them. Amara had then gently requested that Michelle wait outside the office. The violinist was only to come in when the racer called for her; the look on the blonde's face must have swayed the aquanette. Michelle had been slightly confused, but had chalked it up to the racer's simply wishing to catch up in private first, and so had agreed. Of course, Amara could feel sea-blue eyes burning a hole in her back as she walked into the office.

Now, coming back to the present, Amara steadily held Patrick's grey-blue gaze with her own emerald; a slightly cynical twist to her lips. No, she wasn't bitter; she simply found the situation ironic. More like dramatic irony, she mused. They had always sworn they would never come to an impasse, where neither knew what to say anymore, and yet, here they were, in that very situation. The silence stretched between them, with not a word spoken. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, Amara felt like a seven-year-old again.

Taking a moment to simply breathe, Amara used this time to look her best friend – the brother of her heart – over. He hadn't changed much in the five-year interim, at least, not in ways which were obvious at first glance. Of course, having known him all her life, Amara could pick out the subtle differences, how he had changed, and she was sure she knew the catalyst. The racer could see that the Pope's death had hurt Patrick deeply; he was in pain physically, mentally, and spiritually. And, that was not all that the slightly taller blonde could see. His eyes were a bit colder, his posture just a tad too rigid, his face lined with unspoken trials; and, most subtle, yet most obvious of all, was the shadow of sadness over his features, in his eyes... As she noted these things, a stab of guilt and déjà vu impaled her heart; an old fault come back to haunt her, nearly ten years after the fact.

'You once caused that look, you know; the sadness, the pain; the worn look of bone-deep weariness - they were your fault for a very long time. How could you forget that, and still call yourself his sister?' The little voice whispered into her mind; Amara felt the old guilt swirl within her once more - eating at her, constantly reminding her... Your fault... Your fault... All your fault...

Amara was glad that Patrick's speaking snapped her back to reality; she was glad not only for her sanity, but for him as well because of what she may have done, driven by the blame she placed on herself for something she could not control.

"Sister, I –" He broke off, searched for words. He took a breath, began again. "Sister, I never expected to see you here… Especially now, of all times…" His accent was, to an extent, thicker than Amara remembered it; this jarred her for a moment. And then, she remembered. At times like this, when deep emotion swelled within him, this was the time when Patrick's ever-so-slight, ever-so-soft brogue – his roots – showed the Irishman true for what he was. This brought a small, crooked smile to the racer's lips.

"Did you think I would leave you alone when you needed me most? Do you really think that I don't care anymore? Or, that time, did I wrong you so deeply that you can't rely on me anymore to be by your side when you wanted me here the most?" She knew how he could – how he would – interpret that last sentence. She had always been able to see how he would take some of her words, give them a meaning which she herself did not wish them to have, and then spit them back at her, at a later date. Amara had begun to notice this most about nine years ago, when they were seventeen.

It came from the unfounded hope Patrick still held; the one she would need to rip from him now.

Of course, being the type of person she was, the blonde disliked hurting her friends if she could avoid it, and so she cast about – covertly, of course – for some other topic of conversation. They always changed topics almost randomly anyways, so she wouldn't arouse any type of suspicion within the Irishman. A slight smirk curled the corner of her lips as she spoke, mirth glinting in her emerald eyes. "Unless you think it's bullshit, of course." Amara nearly laughed aloud at the scandalized look on Patrick's face; he was always so much fun to tease. Albeit, he seemed to have lost some of his humor; before, he would have laughed along, teasing her right back – now, he just looked traumatized. Or, so the racer thought.

"I think you mean 'Peanut-butter,' sister." The wry twist to Patrick's lips effectively proved her wrong. This once, the blonde was glad to not have been right.

"Oh, no; I meant bullshit." Amara's smirk returned full force with her words. The two-years-younger male shook his head, grinning both exasperatedly and affectionately.

"Mara, don't make me get the cards." It seemed that her tactic had worked. Not only had the mood been changed, but the somber mood had been lifted. However, this train was about to come to a crashing halt.

"Get 'em! Five years since we've played or no, I can still kick your ass!" Patrick's mirth faded then, and the racer belatedly realized her mistake. She was occupied with berating herself mentally for being such an idiot, when her companions' speaking pulled her from her thoughts.

"Please don't curse in my Father's office, Amara." His voice had gone quiet, and his eyes – God be merciful, his eyes! The guilt they evoked within her tore at her heart in bloody, unscrupulous fashion. It quite clearly harkened back to a time ten years previous, when she had shattered his heart unintentionally, and when she had realized that they could never be the same as they had been ever again. They had been young and stupid, true, but at the moment, the racer felt as if she were fifteen once more – awash with shame due to something she had no control over.

A heartbeat of silence passed – a moment, or an eternity, neither was sure which – and the conversation was steered right back on track, the awkwardness not again mentioned, as if it had never been. "That aside, how has life been for you, sister? I have heard that you've won the Formula One World Championships twice now, and if rumors are correct, you're trying for a third…?" A grin curved the female's lips; she was quite proud of her status as the only woman ever to race in Formula One, let alone the only woman to ever win. "And as for you, brother of mine, it seems you've achieved much as well - Il Camerlengo, mi sonoimpressionato." And she truly meant it; she was impressed, and her sincerely affectionate tone of voice said so, though her face and eyes gave away nothing. The blonde couldn't help but laugh softly, when the Irishman in question blushed modestly, and smiled sweetly at her. They always had been, and always would be, the best of friends.

That was why it was so much more the pity, that she was merely stalling what was inevitable.

She would have to break his heart a second time.

"May I ask you a question?" she began, suddenly nervous, absent-mindedly wringing her hands. She hadn't been this nervous in a while, but she knew very well why she was nervous now. Her friendship with him hung in the balance, in more ways than one.

"You just did," he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips. No matter how many times they played this silly little game, Amara never seemed to fully grasp it until two or three times in. He had to admit, it seemed a bit cruel, but he enjoyed this little game.

"May I ask you two questions?" she tried again, furrowing her brows a small bit in annoyance.

"That was your second," he grinned. He didn't think she was going to take that long to pick up on the game this time. But, there would be other times where she would take maybe ten minutes to ask the simplest of questions.

She held her tongue for a moment, biting back a curse or two. "May I ask you four questions?" she asked, finally stopping to figure out the little game Patrick was playing.

"You may," he allowed, cautious of her sudden – and completely uncharacteristic, so much so that it was almost alarming – nervousness surfacing again.

"As you very well know, I love Michelle," she started off. He nodded in confirmation. "Well, seeing as we've been together since high school, I figured it was time for the next step in our relationship. I asked her to marry me." Patrick stood to offer his congratulations, though it wasn't a surprise in the least. Amara held up a hand as a request for silence for a moment longer. "Would you marry the two of us?"

The hesitation on his face was the first clue that something was wrong. Second was the way that he shifted weight from one foot to the other – it was his nervous habit that had first made itself known during oral exams in high school. Third, and the homerun, was his answer. "I can't." Quickly, seeing the obvious hurt on Amara's face, which she hadn't bothered to hide behind her emotionless mask this time, he did his best to remedy what he had just said. "I give you my blessings, though. You and Michelle were made for each other."

"It's not the same," she mumbled, doing her best not to cry. It was sort of a stupid thing to cry over, and just crying in general was so out of character for herself that Amara almost wondered why she would, but the idea of Patrick marrying her and Michelle had become such a big deal for both her and Michelle that the wedding would now seem lesser than or incomplete with a different priest.

And then, seeing her sadness, it was as if something snapped within him. Granted, the way she stood – her coat falling slightly from her shoulders, revealing the tight red blouse beneath – didn't help matters, nor did her moist emerald green eyes, but the small part of his mind which shouted that he should not do this was quickly silenced. He knew she wasn't doing it on purpose, and even if she were, he knew that she wasn't serious. Yet, when that thing snapped within him, Patrick knew that things would never – could never – be the same between them ever again.

Amara wondered what was up, when he stepped towards her, but she was busying herself with drying her eyes before she could make an emotional fool out of herself. She would beat herself up later for being caught off guard and letting events happen as they did, but for now, she didn't suspect a thing. Before she could speak, and even before she rightly knew what was going on, his hands were on her shoulders, holding her fast.

Then, his lips were covering hers, and she was reminded of what had happened nearly a decade before – only now, their roles were reversed. Taking her mind from the present had been a very bad idea, it seemed; by the time the pain at the back of her thighs snapped her back to the here and now, she was pinned hard against the desk. Her body said struggle, but her mind recognized that she couldn't break the hold; he was the one with more training than she, after all.

A gasp of shock escaped her involuntarily then, as she felt one of his knees press between her thighs, spreading her legs forcibly apart. Vaguely, she wondered if the guards outside the doors would hear her if she screamed, but quickly dismissed the idea; she knew the whole room was soundproofed. For now, she had two choices: fight hopelessly, or submit and remove her mind from what was happening. Given the choice, she knew her pick right off. She had last been raped when she was eight years old; she wouldn't let now be added to the list without a fight, even if she knew she couldn't prevent it. But then, even the choice of fighting or screaming was taken from her.

She had been wearing a scarf of Michelle's, which he roughly removed and used to gag her. Screaming was now definitely out, as was struggling – she'd just choke herself with either. When he bent his head to whisper – to hiss into her ear, she wished she hadn't slept through the class on how to block a sense. 'That would really be helpful now, stupid…' But of course, she heard every word all the same. Even if she didn't want to, she heard everything he said.

"You know, every time I saw you kiss that bitch Michelle, I wished you would kiss me like that… But of course not; you ever were normal, Amara, so the fact that you chose to be a dyke shouldn't have surprised me." His laugh was low and cold, and she forcibly held back a shiver. She had never before heard him so contemptuous. "Of course, in m opinion, it's just because you've never been with a man." And now, the blonde wished she'd told the whole truth about her childhood. She'd been willing enough to tell about her abusive father, but she had never spoken of the other horrors she had witnessed and been subject to at his hands. Molestation, rape, and psychological torture had only been the very tip of the iceberg.

The one sound she had hoped never to hear again – at least, never when pinned down by a male – jarred her back to reality. While she had taken her little trip down the Elm Street of her childhood, Patrick had removed his outer cassock, and now only wore the close-collared black button down and black slacks. The sound which had jerked her back to reality had been the sound of the zipper of said slacks being pulled down. He probably saw the fear in her eyes, and spoke words which were probably supposed to comfort her, but which only made things worse. "Don't worry Amara; I'm just helping you fix the wrong choice you made." Of course, her mind knew when she had had enough, as she seemed to be entering a sort-of dream-like sate – as if a wall of water separated her from everything that was happening to her.

Thus, it only vaguely registered, when he pinned both her wrists above her head with one of his hands. She could hardly feel as he worked to get her pants undone. Amara was glad of this, even if she did know when her jeans (quickly followed be her boxers) reached her knees. Then, in a moment, as she felt his weight bearing down on her, everything ripped back into sharp focus. She struggled. She thrashed wildly. She would not – could not – must not let him – !

SMACK!

Her head snapped back and connected hard with the surface of the desk she was all but laying on now. The force of the blow had her seeing stars. She could already feel the back of her head and the side of her face bruising. "The Devil is certainly strong in you, isn't he Amara? Get thee hence, Satan! Leave this girl be." In any other circumstance, she would have found it amusing that he was quoting Bible verses, and that he had called her a girl, when she was the older one here, but the situation sucked any humor there may have been found from the words. But of course, the coldness in his words focused her. He was hovering just above the one place only her gynecologist and Michelle were allowed to be, and yet, she could no longer fight. Just as when she was a child, a strong blow to her head would subdue her – she would still be defiant, but she would no-longer struggle.

And then, he slammed himself inside of her, satisfied that she wouldn't physically protest any longer. Her whole body convulsed with her near-silent scream. She barely felt the hard and fast rhythm he established, so intent was she on trying not to cry. Her efforts were valiant, but to no avail. Though her virginity had been taken from her two decades previously, she still remembered the event as if it had happened yesterday. She had felt as if she would rip in half from the sheer agony of it. This, however, this was nothing short of white-hot torture. Every time he crashed back inside her, it felt as if she were being stabbed – speared, rather – by a lance of molten metal.

Amara supposed, later, that she had blacked out then. The next thing she knew, she was sliding down the side of the desk, and Patrick was standing just a bit away from her, spent and slightly out of breath. The racer's legs felt like water (ironically, much as they did when she had pushed herself even beyond exhaustion on a track and field track) and only a few scattered thoughts floated around her foggy, traumatized brain. 'Oh my God… I was just raped by my best friend… And on the late Pope's desk, too, for Christ's sake…' Dimly, she registered Patrick's collecting his outer cassock from the floor, after having zipped up his pants. Once the outer, robe-like garment was placed upon his person once more, he half bent down and reached out a hand to help her to her feet.

Everything was suddenly clear again, as rage flooded her veins. Knocking the offered hand aside, she stood under her own power. Yanking up her boxers and pants, she glared death at him. "Traditore," she breathed, and he looked confused. She hadn't even registered that she was speaking Italian rather than English; and yet, it was true. He was a traitor. This served only to further ignite the fire of fury within her. As she fastened and re-zipped her own pants, Amara's glare only intensified. "Traditore." She spoke at a more normal volume, and though she finally registered that the gag had, at some point, been removed, she brushed this aside impatiently. As she spoke the adjective a third time, her vocal volume increased. Her hands balled into fists at her side, and she was visibly shaking with rage by the time things came to a boil.

"Fottuto TRADITORE! Non potrò mai perdonarti! Non potrò mai parlare con voi di nuovo!" She finally screamed, before turning sharply on her heel and barging through the office doors to the reception hall beyond. (Calling him a fucking traitor and making it clear she would never forgive him or speak to him again had given her grim satisfaction, but she completely ignored it for now.) Though she had noticed the fact that he had seemed to come back to himself – and with a gasp of horror at that – she had ignored it completely. Honestly, she couldn't have given less of a fuck right now; the bruise on her face and the back of her head still throbbed painfully. "We're leaving," were the only words the taller woman spoke to Michelle, as she stormed past. The violinist followed; she said nothing, as she understood speaking would only fan the flames, but silently wondering what had caused this in the first place. Neither mentioned the vivid, large purple bruise on her face.

And meanwhile, Patrick worked to ignore the guilt from his realization – he had a wide-scale threat to finish planning, and Conclave was less than forty-eight hours away.