-Chapter Three: Star Cross'd-
The rain had begun to ease up about an hour ago and with it went Jim's last shred of hope. The rain might have been gloomy, cold and grey. It might have soaked his shoes, chilled him to the bone and made his hair – if possible – even dirtier than before but it served a purpose. It tended to keep clients away. Aside from the authorities, nothing kept them away quite like a rainstorm.
So, as it tapered off into nothingness, Jim couldn't help but scowl at his bad luck. Not like his chances of being chosen were very good anyway considering his state of appearance and current area of residence, but knowing his luck he'd pull some fat old guy who was into dirty boys who smelled like plomeek soup.
His back ached badly, worse than usual. Mostly it was the standing up that did him in; sometimes his bones would creak and groan in protest, but they had adjusted mostly. This was a something else. His spine felt like it was splitting itself in half, not to mention the headache that was starting to scream behind his eyes, making itself at home in his sockets.
Lovely. Just lovely.
A few minutes passed while Jim tried to numb himself to the pain in his back which was, thankfully, diminishing, he began to wonder why he hadn't seen Gary yet. Komack had told him he was injured, when Jim had managed to ask where he was, and that he wouldn't be around for a while but Jim knew Gary pretty well; no hospital or sick bay was going to keep Gary cooped up for very long. Not unless they were going to keep him well and truly dosed.
It was probably better this way, really. Gary did nothing but generate vast amounts of trouble and then drag others into it with him. Jim could still remember the first time he'd ever met Gary Mitchell; remembered the taste of the drink in his mouth when he'd kissed him, the smell of his skin and the way Gary smiled. That smile he always smiled, regardless of who he was with.
Jim hadn't known then that Gary was one of Komack's boys. He hadn't been aware that Komack had sent him after Jim, to convince him to give the job a try after he'd left the interview that day.
'It's so much fun,' Gary had promised, all smiles and dizzying, breathless kisses. 'How much would you get working in a store, per hour, Jimmy? Fifty credits, sixty? You know how much you get per hour, for having this much fun?'
More than Jim had been able to flat out refuse, but he'd been hesitant. Even kissing Gary, who was quite beautiful himself, felt inexplicably strange.
But then, that was nothing new.
Gary had seen the hesitation in his eyes and had known just what to do.
'Baby,' he'd crooned, running his hands all through Jim's hair. 'I'd be with you the whole time. You and me together, totally safe – totally fun. C'mon baby. Let Daddy run the show, huh?'
After a few months, however, it had changed. Gary was there less and less, until finally Jim stopped expected to see him everyday. Gary came when he wanted to, usually when he was coming down. There was no-one he liked to crash all over better than Jim. No-one he liked to play with more. When it came to some dangerous, stupid stunt, Jim was always his first choice.
The headache grew until the cartilage in his nose throbbed and ached in time with his heartbeat.
"Ugh," he groaned, trying to shake it away. It succeeded only in making things greatly worse as the blood flow increased.
Life had not gone the way Jim had expected it to.
But then, when did it ever?
Looking back over his entire twenty one years of life, James Kirk was starting to see a pattern evolving. Something that should have been wonderful, turning into something awful.
For instance, his birthday. The day he was born, a day of celebration, right? Nope. A day to lament the father he never had and the husband he resembled to such an extent, his mother can't look at him. Every birthday since was tainted with death and loss.
Bitterly, Jim thinks of another; his first kiss.
First kisses should be all endearing clumsiness and sweetness. Closed mouth, chaste innocence and giggling, right? Nope. Nothing innocent or chaste about his Xenolinguistics Tutor, sitting Jim on his lap when he was twelve and asking him if he'd ever been kissed. Jim hadn't answered, but had blushed spectacularly and that had been enough for Mr Delaware. Jim had cried for three hours before falling asleep, locked away in the attic where he couldn't be found. His mom had been furious, telling him he couldn't keep pulling pranks like this; he was getting a new father soon and that would straighten him out good and proper.
Frank. Frank had been the loveliest surprise of all.
A father figure, a replacement for the years of loneliness and confusion; no-one to play ball with or talk to about life and other things his mom couldn't listen to. Right?
Wrong. Very, very wrong.
His bitter introspection might have continued uninterrupted into much darker depths, but a light jingling sound yanked him from his thoughts and back to the gloomy, wet reality.
The old Vulcan was leaving the shop, muttering under his breath in what Jim knew was colloquial Vulcan. He'd spent the entire summer locked away in his room, studying xenolinguistics so that he wouldn't have to be tutored anymore. He knew his languages well enough to know that what was being said wasn't exactly flattering him or those in his general vocation.
"Hi," he said politely, managing a small smile.
The elderly Vulcan grumbled some more and shuffled gracefully down the street.
Jim sighed. Trying to regain the equilibrium to shut himself down, like he normally did, was especially difficult today. He wished he didn't know why, he wished he was completely clueless as to what exactly it was that was keeping him firmly planted in this reality.
He wished it wasn't in the shop behind him.
The funny thing was, Jim had been hit more times than he could count in his short life. But no-one had ever apologised. Never. The way Spock had said it, like he was genuinely sorry, Jim couldn't stop replaying it over and over again in his mind.
'Jesus,' he thought to himself. 'Be a little more pathetic. So the guy apologised – big deal! He's a Vulcan. That's what they do.'
He found the sudden desire to turn around and sneak a peak at the beautiful Vulcan was almost unstoppable. Almost...very nearly almost...
Before he could even stop himself, Jim turned and stared through the dirty window, trying to see the younger Vulcan. Just one glimpse would satisfy his curiosity; one little look and then he could regain his focus.
Finally his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he saw him.
He was sitting at the table.
And he was shirtless.
"Oh holy fucking fuck," Jim breathed against the glass, fogging it a little so the image of the shirtless Vulcan blurred for a moment. Well, this wasn't good. Not good at all. Bad enough that he had been beautiful, dark and mesmeric earlier, when he'd been fully clothed but now...now...he was breathtaking. Literally. "OK, Jim. Get a grip, man. You are not a thirteen year old girl."
The second thing he noticed, when he was able to focus on anything besides the shock of seeing the gorgeous creature shirtless, was that he was hurt. Spock was trying, and consequently failing, to reach a long, deep wound in his back with a dermal regenerator. His torso and arms bore dark green bruises and he had split his bottom lip at some point because it was plumper than before and bottle green.
Before Jim could stop himself again, he opened the door and cleared his throat.
"Need any help?"
The Vulcan glanced up, almost irritably, but not with any real surprise. "No."
"I have some experience," Jim went on, semi-casually. An achievement in itself.
"No." The exclamation mark was so close to existing.
"Y'know, the longer you leave that thing unhealed the greater chance of infection setting in and then you are in for it!" Jim advised excitedly. "I had a scrape on my elbow I ignored once, I let it go for a few days, turned into staff infection..."
"Very well," Spock ground out, placing the regenerator down on the table with more force than necessary. It seemed to seriously cost him something, accepting Jim's help. "But only to heal the wound. Then I must ask you to leave." That was clearly supposed to be intimidating, but Jim was far too thrilled at being allowed to help him to care or to give it the proper respect it deserved. Jim suspected lesser men had cowed at that tone of voice, but he took an odd delight in hearing it.
"Yeah, yeah," Jim agreed easily. Exactly why he was thrilled, he couldn't determine. Not logically, anyway. He went and sat behind Spock, seeing the wound up close. It was deep, almost deep enough that he could see bone. Just to the right of the spine and obviously extremely painful. Jim's own back gave a twinge in sympathy. He fiddled with the device for a moment, unable to stop staring at the vast expanse of beautiful, if marred, green skin. "Alright, now this is gonna sting."
Spock didn't so much as flinch when the regenerator hit the wounded, torn flesh. A non-reaction so complete, that Jim checked to see if it was even working.
"He doesn't like me loitering outside, does he?" he asked after a moment of silence, in which he was painfully aware that his gaze was moving up Spock's back, to the curve of his neck.
When Spock didn't reply, Jim shrugged, reading the silence. "That's OK. I wouldn't want me standing outside either." The neckline was smooth and perfect, Jim wanted to touch his skin to see how hot it was. He could feel the heat coming from it, without even having brushed so much as a finger against it. "It's just," he went on, trying to keep himself distracted. "All the good spots get taken and, I mean you would not believe how much business some of us do in a day. Guess how much?"
"I do not know," he replied, stiffly.
Jim rolled his eyes. "Guess."
"I cannot."
"Jeez, just pick a number."
Seeming a little put out, the Vulcan answered shortly, "Five."
Jim chuckled. "Five? How about twenty five?"
Spock turned his head towards Jim ever so slightly. "Twenty five?"
"Well, that's the record, but at least fifteen. Me? I'm lucky if I can do five in a week."
Yes. Lucky.
Another odd moment when his eyes were drawn helplessly back to Spock's outline. Now he was starting to seriously stare at those curved ears, the points were flushed a little greener than the rest of his body, except for the wound...oh shit! Jim quickly readjusted the dermal regenerator. He had been healing skin that did not require healing.
"You ever been with a hooker?" he asked, because goddamnit he needed to keep speaking.
"No."
Jim blinked. "Not even once?"
"No."
"Are you gay?"
The Vulcan flinched for the first time, his back jerking once and his head turning very quickly. "No."
Again, the exclamation mark was almost audible. Jim swallowed down a smile. He'd witnessed that reaction too many times to be anything other than amused.
"I mean, it'd be OK if you were. I think everyone should be who they wanna be and do it with who they wanna do it with."
Spock's back muscles turned to reinforced steel. "I am not gay."
"I'm just sayin'," Jim went on cheerfully. "I don't hold nothin' against nobody that way."
"Are you finished?" Spock asked, almost hysterically.
"Yup. Good as new," Jim added with a flourish, proudly surveying the raw, sore looking skin. But at least it was whole once more. Strangely, his own back ache seemed to have gone now. The miracle of being allowed to sit on a chair for five minutes. As his eyes continued to shamelessly roam over the Vulcan's upper body, his eyes caught sight of a massive green scar, curving above his left shoulder blade. "Oh my God, that scar. Let me see..."
Spock jumped up as if burned and pulled the shirt on so quickly, Jim barely even saw it. "Thank you," he said, almost breathlessly. "Thank you very much. You have performed admirably."
Jim shrugged. "Me and my brother used to get into all kinds of scrapes. Derm-Reg was always handy to keep around, in case Mom decided to take an interest that week. I got good at it. Went through a phase of wanting to be a doctor and everything. So will you be staying long here?" he asked, managing to sound reasonable casual.
Spock did this thing which Jim could only label the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. He didn't move, he didn't speak but he just did...something. "No. I will leave as soon as my business is finished here."
"And what is your business if you don't mind me asking?"
The Vulcan didn't quite meet his eyes as he sat down on another stool, a little distance away from Jim. "Plomeeks."
Jim grinned. "Uh-huh. Yeah, pretty aggressive plomeeks you got there, you should probably me more careful. No wife? Husband?"
The eyes remained averted. "No. My work takes precedence over anything else."
Before he could stop and edit himself, Jim asked, "Any interest in an ex-junkie hooker with a genius level IQ?"
Great. Just great. An Oscar Wilde quote for every occasion, Jim. Really.
Spock seemed nervous, uncomfortable. "No. Thank you."
"I'm just kidding," Jim managed to recover with a feeble laugh. And then, to distract himself from the horror of that, he found himself on his feet and invading the Vulcan's personal bubble. "Hey, look," he said, reaching inside his shirt to pull out a little picture attached to a chain around his neck. "My daughter."
Spock didn't lean back, as he expected him to. Instead he looked at the picture, face softening a little.
"My angel," Jim sighed, kissing it once before putting it away again.
Spock's eyes slowly rose to his own and Jim became aware that they were sharing the same breathing space. "James, why do remain within this...trade?" he finished, as though the word he was searching for did not have a Standard equivalent.
Jim sighed heavily, hoisting himself up on a nearby table and taking himself out of Spock's personal space. "Well," he said though it came out more like a groan. "I met this guy when I was fifteen. He wasn't human, not like anything I'd ever come across before. The night I met him, I got...he..." Jim faltered a little, gathering the strength to simply bypass the nastier details. Poor guy didn't want to know that. "He knocked me up, is the short version. I didn't know what was happening to me, at first. I thought maybe it was a parasite or something, like maybe it was going to burst out of my chest, y'know?" He paused to check if the Vulcan was regretting his question, but he found those dark eyes trained upon as though he was something fascinating. "Only, like I said, I was pregnant. My friend, Leonard, he was the one who figured it out. He's a doctor, so he knew why I was throwing up any time I drank milk or ate meat. It was a pretty normal pregnancy, except for y'know, it being a male pregnancy and all."
He paused, losing himself momentarily in the warm memories of his pregnancy.
So many beautiful moments outweighing the fear and confusion.
The first time he'd felt that tiny hand against the inside of his stomach, the first he'd felt her move. The first time he'd seen her in a scan.
"Anyway, nine months gestation, standard c-section birth – everything was fine. But the town I come from, well...it's not exactly the most open minded town on Earth if you know what I mean. They assumed I was some kind of intergalactic whore and I was pretty much driven out of town by a raging mob, led by my Mom and her husband."
The memory of being spat on, of being shoved and pushed and having his newborn daughter threatened were as fresh as ever in his mind. His mother's face, the revulsion in her voice as she disowned him. The dark satisfaction in Frank's eyes, as though Jim had proven every thing he'd ever said about him, to be true.
He took another deep breath, cool and damp with the recent rain.
"So me and my daughter, Lily, we came here. I wanted to join Starfleet," he laughed somewhat bitterly. "My friend Leonard told me that if I tested high enough, I might get a grant for childcare. I went to see a guy who could have given me the scholarship and the grant right there on the spot. Only, of course, he didn't." More memories, hot and poisonous in his blood. He wanted to say more, desperately wanted to tell this Vulcan everything, but he just couldn't. "And boy, when you're really young and desperate...y'know? And I guess the next thing you know, you're on the street."
Jim found he couldn't look away from those dark whirlpools of curiosity.
"Why do you not simply...stop?" Spock asked, genuine questioning behind it.
"It's a little more complicated than that," Jim managed, throat constricted with the effort of not screaming out the whole thing. If he started now, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop and then how...how...would he be able to walk back outside?
"Specify, please," the Vulcan requested, not missing a beat.
The words were right there, on Jim's tongue. He wanted to tell Spock everything, as if that would somehow make everything alright. He was moments away from doing so, when he broke the spiralling eye contact and looked away. His heart was hammering in his throat.
"I should probably get back," he said, so softly he wasn't sure Spock had even heard, except that something akin to disappointment flashed through his eyes. It took a massive amount of energy to force himself to stand and walk away, legs heavy and unwilling. He looked down at them, trying to see why they were being so uncooperative and when he looked back up, his entire being jolted with shock.
His face was inches away from a familiar blonde man; seething and furious.
"Lupo!" he gasped and before he had time to even think how much this was going to hurt, Lupo's fist slammed into his face. Pain exploded over his face, yellow light flashing before his eyes.
"What you doin? Eh?" he snarled, furious. Behind him were five or six of his boys, all ready and desperate to do damage to anyone who stepped even remotely out of line. They looked pumped and eager for action.
"I was...he had a cut on his back," Jim breathed, frantically trying to think of a way to avoid the situation getting nasty, especially for Spock. "And I thought he'd call the medics down here and they'd block the street off and then I couldn't do my job and I couldn't make you any money so I just ...thought if I took five minutes and healed him up myself that I could..."
"Shhh," Lupo whispered, eyes glittering spitefully as he put a grubby finger to his lips. "Get. Back. To work."
Jim nodded, knowing he should just shut and up leave, but he had never been very good at either of those things. "Lupo, he really had nothing to do with..."
CRACK! Another punch, this time directly to the side of Jim's face. He stumbled, disorientated by the jarring agony when he heard something that forced him to find gravity and look up.
"Excuse me..."
Jim looked up, blinking through tears to see Spock still sitting at the table, face wide open and incredibly young with shock, arm outstretched as if reaching for something. His hand trembled slightly, fingers frozen and unmoving save for the tremulous shudders passing through them.
"I apologise for interfering in you business," he said, hoarse and flat with the effort of obvious control. "But I would greatly appreciate it if you do not do that again."
Lupo seemed unimpressed with what Jim knew was a shocking display of emotion for a Vulcan. He sauntered over to the table, leaning one hand on either side, blonde head cocking in fake contemplation.
"The little goblin speaks," he sneered, insolently. "Look pal, I don't care if you fuck him, bleed on him – you're still using his time. And his time is my money. You've kept him busy for twenty minutes. Do you know the going rate for twenty minutes?"
The hand lowered finally and a brief look of disgust was overshadowed as Spock, who had never been with a hooker and knew nothing of the sordid rates of exchange, closed his eyes and shook his head.
"Ah," Lupo grinned widely. "Five hundred credits."
Without hesitation, Spock reached down beside his chair and brought up several hundreds worth of credit chips. As he went to hand them to Lupo, the bastard grinned even more and shook his head.
"Five hundred for his time, now five hundred for mine."
Jim bit his lip to keep from crying out how sorry he was for getting Spock involved in all this, how much he hated himself and wished he'd never set foot inside the fucking shop. He bit until he tasted blood and then bit even harder, viciously savouring the bitter ooze.
Spock handed over the thousand credits without having blinked once. Lupo was laughing softly under his breath, stowing away the chips with relish. "My kinda client," he chuckled.
It seemed to be over, finally. Lupo, his boys and Jim all headed for the door leaving Spock in silence. Again, Jim knew he should be silent but he just wanted to make sure this wasn't going to have anything more to do with Spock. One glance at Lupo's boys told him that they wouldn't think twice about coming back later and starting shit just for the hell of it.
"Please..." was all Jim got out before Lupo swung his arm back, about to slam it into Jim's face once more but it never connected. Lupo was yanked backwards suddenly with stunning force and velocity; the look on his face might have been comical, had Jim not been so terrified. When he landed with a loud SMACK on the table at which Spock had previously been seated, it became clear that Spock had pulled him backwards. In the next second, Spock backhanded him across the face hard enough to shatter bone. Lupo made an interestingly high pitched noise and everyone in the room froze for one whole second.
And then everything happened very fast.
Detachment, Spock had been taught from a very young age, was the art of logic. The ability to stand back from a situation and see the basic facts was an ability expected of every upstanding Vulcan. To coolly, calmly analyse and assess any scenario, regardless of personal involvement or opinion was considered to be a valuable asset; one which must be employed at all times.
In this, Spock had excelled. To any other race, it would have been labelled cold heartedness; to a Vulcan, it was an impressively structured wall of logic and distanced reason. No matter which scenario he was presented with, he never faltered.
During training to become an agent of the Vulcan High Council, Spock had seen terrible things. He had been exposed to all kinds of depravity and horror, in order to fully desensitise his reactions. He had been shown real life footage of deaths, murders, rapes, tortures and much worse. The wall he had constructed after his sixteenth year held strong; nothing touched him, nothing ever would – not again.
He had seen beings die before him; only a few days ago he had watched Komack beat a human man to death and he had stood idly by, unmoving and uncaring. Death was inevitable; only method and due date varied.
And yet...
And yet, this human boy, James, had affected him. Somehow, this young boy had compromised his shields, damaged valuable infrastructure comprising the wall he had constructed around himself. Spock had no explanations for it, none whatsoever.
And where he had been able to watch a human man die in agony and brutality, not days before this...he could not see James hurt. Could not stand so idly by as the white blonde, snarling human raised his fist against him.
Before he knew what had happened, he was reaching forward blindingly fast and pulling the filthy being backwards, over the table. His only instinct was to hurt him, make him feel what he was doing to James. He felt the jaw break under his superior strength and grim, raw satisfaction flooded through him, electrifying long since dulled nerve endings in a stream of adrenaline.
He felt his back teeth grinding together, only managing to swallow the growl that erupted in his throat.
'You shall not hurt him,' was the only thought in his mind for that one glorious moment before everything descended into chaos.
The man, Lupo, had not come alone. The men who had accompanied him sprang into life and threw themselves at Spock, furious and incredulous at what had just happened.
Spock moved easily, much faster than any human could accomplish; varying centres of gravity worked well in his favour. He ducked the first blow with no effort, swinging his body around and slamming his elbow into the throat of the one behind him, poised to strike. The man spluttered and gasped, falling to the ground in spasms. A punch landed squarely on Spock's jaw, but it barely registered. He turned to retaliate; the punch crushed into the man's windpipe, doubling him over in breathless agony. Spock then swung his kneecap up, hard and fast into his face. He dropped, unconscious to the floor.
The third came faster than the others, landing a powerful kick in Spock's side, hitting his heart. The pain was instantaneous and disorientating; it was like a thickly formed electric shock. Spock gasped, fighting the urge to clutch the place where his heart was and instead spun around to face the attacked. He shot out his right arm, almost too fast for the human to see, and caught him by the throat. The humans eyes widened as he clawed at Spock's arm. Spock ignored it and lifted the human off the ground with ease.
The desire to crush the human's oesophagus was overwhelming. The man's face was turning a most fascinating shade of purple as he choked and gasped for air. Spock's fingers flexed and prepared for the sickly ooze that would soon be flooding his fingers.
"God, oh Jesus fucking Christ!"
He blinked, the gasping voice of James Kirk yanking him back to reality with a resounding 'SNAP!'. His grip on the man faltered as he turned to the left and saw James standing a good distance away, staring open mouthed at Spock as he was preparing to kill the vile, odorous human in his grasp.
'Why? Why am I about to kill this being?'
Spock's vision blurred for a moment as he realised he was doing it for James. The shock of that hit him hard, harder than any of the blows he had received from the pathetic humans.
Detachment...a far off concept at the moment.
He let the human drop, spluttering and wheezing on the ground. A swift kick to the face and he was rendered unconscious.
Spock stared at his hand...the hand that had asked Lupo not to strike James Kirk, the hand that had given him credits to pay for James's company, the hand that had broken his jaw, the hand that had struck and injured these men, the hand that had been in the process of killing for no constructive reason. The hand that was shaking, bloody and unsure of where exactly to go next.
His eyes flickered to James, to his hand and then back to James again.
The boy was deathly white, hands curled around the back of his own neck in a vaguely protective gesture. His eyes were wide and his lips parted slightly.
"You...you..." he said, quietly, unable to look anywhere but at Spock. "Why did you do that?"
'For you. To protect you,' came the answer, from somewhere Spock had no control over. He couldn't speak, couldn't force his mouth to create words and lies in fluent Standard.
When he did not receive an answer, James's face tightened a little and he looked almost angry, had he not been shaking as badly as Spock.
"Why did you do that? I didn't ask you to do that!" he shouted.
"You prefer I allow them to beat you?" Spock demanded in a voice too sharp to be anything other than human.
"Do you know what you've done? What you're involved in now?" James yelled, moving away from the corner he had shoved himself into. He gestured wildly with his hands. "Look! Look what you've done!"
"They were hurting you!" Spock fairly snarled.
"That's not exactly new!" James shouted back.
"Frequency does not lend justification to their actions."
For some reason, that seemed to make James even more furious.
"I'm a hooker, alright!" James said in a shuddering breath, the anger pooling in his eyes. He moved closer to Spock, until their faces were only inches away. "I'm a fucking prostitute; someone's property, do you understand that? I don't need someone showing up and saving me from my life, OK? I don't need you doing this for me, thinking you're making it all better! This is what I am!" He had been growing steadily louder, the entire time until he was screaming. "I'm a fucking whore, do you understand that? Not. Worth. Saving!"
He took a breath, looking as though he had been physically slapped again. He broke eye contact with Spock, looking left, right, left, right, down.; slammed his eyes closed and shook his head.
It was eight full seconds later that Spock responded softly, "You are wrong, James."
"No," he gasped, unable to raise his eyes to the Vulcan. "It's all true."
"I cannot accept that. I do not know why I have done this, and apologise profusely because I know I have made your life infinitely more difficult. But you are gravely mistaken if you for one moment believe what others have attempted to drill into your subconscious."
The words coming out of his mouth were so unfamiliar, Spock genuinely wondered if it was actually himself speaking them.
"James, look at me," he said and watched the play of emotions as the boy visibly struggled to control himself; something Spock seemed highly incapable of at present time. "I must vacate this area immediately. I can offer no guarantee for your safety if you accompany me, the same is also true if you remain here. You must decide immediately."
The human threw his head back a little, blinking back tears, and when he hit Spock with the full force of his gaze, the Vulcan felt the dizzying sensation of earlier, creeping into his blood once again.
"I'm coming with you."
A/N – See? T'was not long between this and last update, right? It's nice, being able to write 20 page chapters. I miss it. The average chapter length for Breaking Points is 50 pages now. Ah well. Hopefully this chapter cleared up some issues; I can't believe so many people haven't seen this film! Kiss of the Dragon is AMAZING and needs to be seen.
Also, for the few people who have seen the movie, you can see I'm veering off here and there, adding little scenes. Hope this is OK – nothing drastic will be altered.
So, reviews? I long for reviews from you beautiful people!
Massive thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far – I love you all.
Bex
X x x x