Notes: I have not forgotten this fic! And I've decided that Autor and Ahiru's confusion over what happened last chapter should continue for a while. That seems the most realistic under the circumstances. But I still intend for the only possible romantic pairing to be Fakir/Ahiru!

Chapter Two

A Quiet Thought

Autor was quiet as they walked through the deserted town towards his—really their—house. He glanced at the buildings and houses they passed, disturbed by what he saw—and what he did not see. The half-eaten food and abandoned toys particularly concerned him. He looked away, frowning deeply.

It was most certainly a bewildering question; what could the Story have done to every one of the people, let alone so quickly? And how would they be brought back, if it were possible to do so? Autor knew he had Story-Spinning power through the medium of music; it was how he had attempted to fight Fakir's rogue Story. Could that ability also bring the people back? It really depended on where they had gone. But under most circumstances, he believed, he should be able to return them.

Ahiru was uncomfortable with the boy's silence. She sneaked a glance up at him, her cheeks burning red. Was he thinking about the disappearing town . . . or what she had done a few minutes ago? She looked away again, staring at the ground.

Why on earth had she kissed him? She had not even really been thinking about the implications or long-term effects of such a thing. She had only wanted to figure out why her other kiss had revived him and turned her human again. But she had just got through saying that any kind of love should be true love, not just romantic love. So why had she turned around and tried to figure out if she had those kinds of feelings for him?

Shouldn't she already know, anyway? Autor was her dear friend, the one who had looked after her since Fakir's death. And Fakir was the one whom she had finally realized she carried romantic feelings for.

But Fakir was dead. . . .

She frowned deeper. She absolutely did not want to even consider that she could have feelings for Autor if they might only be a product of her loneliness and sorrow over Fakir. She would not hurt Autor like that. He had been so good to her!

Even though they had met and talked several times when he had played the piano for the ballet students, and he had helped her out of a terrible predicament after she had turned into a duck and some boys had stolen her clothes, he had not wanted to be friends with her. And still he had taken her in after Fakir's death, in spite of his bird allergies. They had grown very close during that time, though she had not been able to talk with him as she could now. Before the battle against the Story, he had admitted that he had thought of her as a friend for a long time.

Why was she even having this conversation with herself? She had already said to Autor that the kiss had felt all wrong and that she was sure she did not care about him in a romantic way. And here she was still worrying about it!

"I'm sorry."

She started. "Huh?" She blinked up at Autor. "What are you talking about?"

Autor was blushing deeply. "When you . . . kissed me, I shouldn't have returned it."

Ahiru was stunned. So he had been thinking about that, but about what he had done, not her?

"I've never been kissed in that . . . way before. But I've wondered what it would be like." Autor pushed up his glasses, looking and sounding awkward. "When you suddenly broached the subject, I reacted half out of impulse."

Ahiru bit her lip. "'Impulse'?" she said slowly. "So then . . . neither of us actually meant anything by it. . . ."

Autor flushed harder. "I don't know," he said, glancing away. "I wondered why your previous kiss had helped us both, but . . ."

He trailed off. He had never even expected to make friends with Ahiru. And now he was wondering whether he might love her in a different way than that?

Because of Rue, he had always oddly sympathized with Fakir in his feelings over Ahiru. Fakir had believed nothing could happen between them, both because of Ahiru's love for Mytho and because she had to live out the rest of her life as what she had been born to be, a duck. Autor had seen that Ahiru had come to turn her affections to Fakir; it had been obvious in her longing eyes when she had looked at him. But the problem of her being a duck had remained.

Now Fakir was dead and Ahiru was human and with Autor and she had kissed him. . . . And he had been so forward as to return it, when he had really known that there was nothing like that between them! . . .

Or had he really known? Surely part of him had not . . . hoped otherwise.

Heaven forbid! He still thought fondly of Rue and longed for them to be together, though he knew it could not be. And Ahiru loved Fakir. They were just lonely because they could not have their actual loves. Any relationship between them would be a fraud.

Would it really? If Ahiru could come to realize it was Fakir, not Mytho, whom she was in love with, what if over time she had come to feel the same about Autor?

It was not really impossible that he could feel the same about her. Certainly she was not graceful like Rue, nor did she possess Rue's seriousness and level of maturity, but she did have a unique beauty all her own. And she was more mature than most of the female population with whom Autor had become acquainted, albeit when she lost her temper she could be dreadfully immature.

He frowned. No, he should not even think such thoughts. Even though Fakir was dead, it would still feel like Autor was betraying him to so much as consider being romantically involved with Ahiru. Surely she felt the same, if the idea had also crossed her mind.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at the ground as she walked, still looking uncomfortable and red. Clearly this little incident between them could not resolved by simply saying it felt wrong.

And had it even felt wrong because they truly had different feelings for each other . . . or because it was something so frightening and new and there was also the fear of betraying Fakir were they to act further?

"Um . . . we're here."

He started at Ahiru's voice. He really was not paying attention today. She had been more attentive than him; she had stopped near the door of the house, while he had almost walked past. His cheeks burning, he went over and unlocked the door.

"Go in," he directed.

Ahiru shuffled inside, Autor following swiftly behind her and pulling the door shut after them. "Get the bandages out of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom," he said as he locked the door. "I'll be there in a moment."

Idly he wondered what he was trying to keep them safe from. There was no one in the town who might barge in. But he preferred to keep the door locked anyway.

"Okay."

He heard the sound of Ahiru's footsteps on the wooden floor of the study. But she had almost vanished from view into the living room before the next disconcerting thought hit him.

Exactly how was he going to take care of the injuries on her back without causing them both further mortification? Especially if he had to wrap the gauze all the way around her torso to keep it secure?

He walked stiffly after her, reaching to loosen the cravat around his neck. No matter how embarrassing this might turn out to be, Ahiru's well-being was more important than a bit of discomfort.

"Have you found the bandages?" he called as he entered the hall.

"Yeah," Ahiru called back. "And the other first aid stuff."

"Good." Autor cleared his throat. "You'll need to remove your shirt."

"What?" Ahiru cried in shock.

"Your wounds are on your back," Autor explained in exasperation. "I can't treat them if you're wearing your shirt."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that's true." Now Ahiru was all but mumbling.

"Hold it in front of yourself if you want," he said, stopping near the open bathroom door. "I won't look."

There was a pause. Then, "Owww!"

Autor jumped a mile. "What happened?" he demanded.

"It hurts to try to get it off," Ahiru moaned.

Autor's heart sank. He had not anticipated that problem, but if he had been thinking clearly he would have. He really had to get hold of himself.

"Don't try," he said. "You might aggravate the wounds and open them further."

"Then what are we going to do?" Ahiru exclaimed.

Autor thought quickly. "I'll roll your shirt up and you can hold it in place," he said. "We'll figure out what to do with it after I bind your injuries."

"Maybe I could just keep wearing it," Ahiru said as Autor came into the room. She was already facing away from him, so he quickly washed and dried his hands before drawing a deep breath and carefully beginning to roll up her shirt. When it was high enough she clutched it in place, her arms against her chest.

"It's stained with blood," Autor frowned.

Ahiru sighed. "Yeah, that's true," she mumbled. "But . . . I don't have anything else to wear."

"We can find something else," Autor said. "Meanwhile, you could wear something of mine."

Both of them went red at that idea. Autor's blazer, when he had loaned it to Ahiru out of necessity in the past, had dipped far too low for comfort. But there were other clothes he had that should work better, even though the sleeves would still be too long.

He sighed as he examined the gashes under the light. "They don't look deep," he reported, changing the subject.

"That's good, at least," Ahiru sighed.

At the feel of Autor's hands on her back, her cheeks went a deep crimson. But then she began to relax. His hands were skilled and gentle and smooth, the hands of someone who preferred research to outdoor activities.

Ahiru looked down. Even though Fakir's hands had felt more rough, they had been gentle too.

A moment later she flinched. "Ow!" she burst out. "That stings!"

Autor started. "I'm trying to go gently," he said. "I have to clean your wounds before doing anything else."

"I know," Ahiru said, "but . . ." She bit her lip to keep from exclaiming again. Instead she shut her eyes tightly and prayed for Autor to hurry and finish.

With care Autor brought the edges of the torn skin together before starting to bind them. Ahiru cringed inwardly but forced herself to hold still, not wanting to jar the delicate task.

After a few minutes Autor paused. Cautiously Ahiru opened an eye.

"Are you done?" she asked.

"No," Autor said awkwardly. "For the bandages to hold in place better, I'm going to need to bring some of them around."

"What?" Ahiru cried again, now in possibly more horror than before. Her arms pressed tighter against her chest.

Autor flamed red. "You can leave your arms where they are," he said. "Luckily, the wounds are low enough that I won't have to attempt . . ." He trailed off, preferring to leave that unsaid.

Ahiru blushed but relaxed. "Thank goodness," she said.

Autor wrapped the gauze around and taped it in place. Then with a sigh he stepped back. "Now I'm done," he said. "And we need to get you out of that shirt."

"How?" Ahiru wondered, looking over her shoulder to inspect the bandages.

"I could either cut it loose or take it over your head," Autor said. "Either way, will you be able to deal with the sleeves yourself?"

Ahiru nodded. "Yeah, I think so," she said.

"Good." After mulling over his options, Autor reached out and stretched the collar of the turtleneck, lifting it over Ahiru's head as she exclaimed in surprise. He stuffed the long braid through the opening, then let go as it swung free.

"I'll see if I can find something for you to wear," he said. Stepping away, he turned around and left the room, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.

Ahiru bit her lip, slowly sliding her arms out of the sleeves. She held the warm shirt close to her chest, not daring to turn in case Autor came back without warning.

She had never thought she would be human again at all, let alone like this. Everything was so different now. All the people were gone. Fakir was dead. She had been living in Autor's house. And that was opening up some very awkward situations now that she was not a duck.

I wonder if you're seeing all of this where you are, Fakir, she thought. Do you know how much Autor's helped me since you . . . since you've been gone? Do you know about the kiss?

She looked down, feeling guilty now. What had she ever been thinking? The more time that passed, the worse her thoughtless action seemed to become to her. And it had not seemed to help in the end; she and Autor were still confused, maybe now even more than before.

"Ahiru!"

She gave a start, nearly quacking in surprise.

"Here's a shirt for you. I'll hang it on the doorknob." Autor leaned inside the bathroom. As Ahiru looked over her shoulder, he was placing a white shirt on the knob within her reach. Then he ducked out once more.

"Thank you," Ahiru said, blushing. Setting the old shirt on the sink's counter, she took Autor's and pulled it to her. It was a button-down shirt with the sleeves ruffled at the cuffs, not unlike the shirt that was part of the school uniform. She smiled weakly. Autor prided himself on being neat and organized. And he was quite fond of the school uniform. Probably all of his own clothes were similar.

Carefully she drew it around her back, savoring the cool feel of the material before slipping her arms through the sleeves. She buttoned it up, her fingers only barely visible peeking out through the ends. She pushed the sleeves up her arms as she turned to open the door.

Autor was standing with crossed arms in the hall, in case he was needed. He looked up when Ahiru appeared in the doorway, taking in her state—and from his expression, most likely thinking how terrible the shirt looked with casual shorts.

"How is it?" he asked.

"It fits better than your jacket did," Ahiru said, again with the weak smile. "Thanks so much."

Autor nodded. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "If you want, you can rest somewhere while I research what's happened in town."

"I'm okay," Ahiru said. She hurried on, "But if this has never happened before, how can you research it?"

"I can research other strange things and their solutions," Autor said. "From that information I might be able to piece together at least some things we could try. Unfortunately, it's the Bookmen who have most of that research. I never could get them to tell me about it, let alone to allow me to see it. But since they're probably gone too, we shouldn't have any trouble in that respect now."

"So you're going to the bookstore?" Ahiru cried, her eyes widening.

"That's the general idea," Autor said.

"I'm not staying here all alone," Ahiru said. She ran to his side, snatching his arm. "What if you disappear too? Or me? We need to stay together; we'll have a better chance that way."

Autor gazed at her desperate, shaking fingers clutching the material of his sleeve. "I agree," he said, "if you feel that you can leave."

"I don't feel that I can stay," Ahiru replied. "I'm coming with you!"

Autor nodded. "That's fine," he said. "Come then; we should go before it gets dark."

He looked at her as she released his arm and moved to follow him back up the hall. Somehow, for just a moment she seemed so forlorn and lost. And that upset, even angered, him. He wanted to see her happy. He wanted to protect her and oversee her happiness.

But he could tell even now that there was nothing romantic in how he felt. She was something else to him; she had to be. What puzzled him was that it seemed to be familial affection welling in his heart. Was that because of the time he had known her when she had been a girl? That had actually been a short time compared to how long he had known her as a duck.

And why on earth would he think of a duck as a sister?

For that matter, why would he even consider that he might have romantic feelings for her in her human form?

She blinked up at him in confusion. "What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, looking away as he pushed up his glasses.

He would have to shove aside all such thoughts. Right now there were more pressing matters that needed both of their attention.

xxxx

The more he wandered this strange place, the more he knew something was not right. And the more he said it to himself, the more frustrated he became.

Maybe it was the complete solitude. He had never met anyone else here. In fact, aside from the plant life, nothing else seemed to live here at all. And that was extremely unsettling.

Maybe it was how everything looked so peaceful. He could never get away from feeling that it was fake.

He had never felt peaceful here. Instead it was a strange, eerie restlessness that only increased the longer he was there or whenever he felt Ahiru's presence. He wanted to be with her, to go to her, but he could never leave. No matter how far he wandered, this world did not seem to end. There were not even any visible ways to get in. He had no remembrance of how he had found the entrance, if he ever had. He had only awakened here what seemed an eternity ago.

Where was Ahiru? Did she have anyone to keep her safe? Maybe she was still at the antique shop with Charon. Had she been able to move past her grief over him and go on with her life? Sometimes she seemed happy when he sensed her. Other times, such as a short while ago, it felt like her heart was breaking.

And that broke his heart too.

That was also part of the mystery. He still had a heart that could break. He had placed his hand over his chest more than once, feeling the throbbing of his heartbeat. Still unable to believe it, he repeatedly checked his pulse at various locations on his body. But it was always the same result—somehow, impossibly, he was alive.

That was also how he knew this could not be any kind of afterlife. But it only made him all the more edgy and anxious. Why couldn't he escape? Why couldn't he go home? What was keeping him here? Who was keeping him here? Anyone at all?

"I know this can't be one of your sick games, Drosselmeyer," he growled to the silence around him, "but I wouldn't be surprised if you're watching. Too bad you won't say what really is going on. I know you won't; you'd say it'd spoil your fun."

And that only made him all the angrier. While he and Ahiru and who knew who else suffered, Drosselmeyer reveled in the tragedy.

And all he could do was helplessly wander in a never-ending world of un-paradise.

The only thing he had in his favor was that he was alive. He would cling to that, hoping and praying that somehow, someway he would find the way home—back to Charon and Mytho and Autor . . .

And her.

That was where he belonged. That was where he would be truly happy.

And no matter how long it took him to figure out the way, he was going back.