Ignite Me Extra

Warner's POV

It's already been two days since she woke up, and until today she has yet decided to talk to me about. . . well, she has decided not to talk to me at all. When I tell her to eat, she eats. When she has nothing left to do she tries to organize all my belongings (and I'm not mad at her for it. My things have been unorganized lately—which is not something that normally happens to me) and when I'm not doing my work on my desk, she occupies it and writes on a writing pad I never even knew I had. She only ever talks to me when necessary and she doesn't complain with sleeping in my bed.

If I didn't know of my current ability, I would've come to believe that she has completely shut herself down with me. But I can sense something growing inside her. Fierceness and unmistakable determination. And also completely different ones.

Admiration. Regret. Forgiveness.

Whether those emotions are directed to me or not, I do not want to know. But I am hoping that it is or, at least, one of them.

Today I decided to make her bacon and scrambled eggs. And coffee. I've taken some sort of liking to coffee, yet I am still not going to rely on this useless liquid to keep me awake or replenish my energy. I simply enjoy the taste it leaves on my tongue; the bitterness.

I don't want to wake her up yet, even if I have to go soon. It's only six in the morning and I can leave in an hour later or so. I don't suppose my father would find out that his son, whom he had given a high-ranking position, would be arriving late. I am the leader of my own Sector and there are some things that he just isn't supposed to meddle with. He's already taken control of my future, I don't need him to control my life.

Minutes later, as I placed the food on the plate, I can hear a set of footfalls and, even if I didn't bother to find out who it was, I already knew.

"Why are you awake?"

"I have to go." She replies in that soft, harmless voice I've been used to. "I need to get something—"

"No, you don't." I interrupt, turning to face her now. The color on her cheeks have returned, but her cheekbones are more visible now. Sighing, I drop my façade like it's merely armor around me and rake my hand through my disheveled hair. "I don't think that's the best thing to do, Mother." Because I know exactly where she plans to go, and that is the last place I would ever want her to go to.

Even if I begged her not to go, she never listens to was my mother, Leila Warner, the wife of Supreme Commander Anderson and former Assistant Commander, the second highest rank before my father. It wasn't until years after she had me that she slowly became weaker, less attentive. At first she didn't want to tell him about it. He would scream at her, hit her, blame her for giving birth to a worthless son. I was only eight then—I knew everything because I was always forced to watch.

I had no choice. It was to train me, to increase my level of endurance, he said. By hurting my own mother? I answered back. And that was how he started hitting me too.

When Juliette found out about the scars on my body, I knew I had to find some sort of excuse. That many of them were battle scars, not torture scars, while it was actually the other way around. She would only pity me in the end, and that is the last thing I want to receive from her. . . again.

"Aaron," she says, snapping me from my reverie. She leans her back to the wall, closes her eyes and balances herself. I try to go to her, but she raises her hands in front of me, her other one massaging her temple. "I'll be gone for just a week. I need to speak with your father."

"You don't need to," I protest, acting like I was that little boy again. That boy from 9 years ago who is already dead, crushed into pieces along with his chance of hope. Leila must have seen something in my visage that made what I was thinking obvious, because her expression grows harder, more serious. Sometimes I tend to forget that this woman is my mother. We both share the same eyes, the same hair color and the same blood. Other than those things, I look more like him. Cruel. Power-obsessed. Heartless. I am his son after all.

"I can handle myself, honey. I need to go there because I have something to settle with him. He's my husband, Aaron. I married him for a reason."

I look her straight in the eye, my unsaid question hanging in the silence between us. She nods and bites her lip. I shake my head, incredulous. "Love makes people crazy."

The words someone had told me before. And that someone had become crazy, both because of love and because of the power, the control and money he has. And that fool is none other than my own father.

Leila quirks an accusing brow at me, as if saying, "I don't think you're no different, with the girl inside your room" and I could actually feel my cheeks heating. Of course. She was the one who had helped me change her clothes back then. She had immediately bursted out of the room when she heard my panicked voice along the hall while I carried Juliette. She was the one who saw me broke down into tears—for the first time.

They had never met before, but I noticed that in some ways they're both alike. They're both so stubborn and both willing to do anything and everything for the people they love. Even if it costs their own lives. And that's the last thing I want both of them to do.

My chest constricts at the thought. Sadly, I'm not one of those people. I never will be, and even if I am, I don't deserve it. I don't deserve her love, nor her forgiveness.

"How is she?" She tries to make an effort of changing the subject. I don't think I could have another say in the last topic, anyway.

Sighing, I walk toward the kitchen table, pulling out the chair nearest me and sitting down, my shoulders slumped. "She's not talking unless it's necessary and she rarely gets out of my room unless it's to eat. Sometimes I wonder if I've pushed her too hard that she finally broke, after holding on for so long."

I notice that her hands on either of my shoulders; it was her way of comforting me. Just like the old times, I think to myself. I'm slightly uncomfortable with the gesture because not too many people treat me like I'm someone who should be taken care of—like I'm human, just like them.

"She's just shocked from what happened. You have to be patient with her. Suffering for so long, being disowned by her parents, losing the ones she thought she could trust the most—it's something no one should go through. And I think you understand that the most." Of course I did. I do. I know what she's trying to say because I went through all of those things. Juliette and I are just the same, but, like everyone says, there are no two people alike. She was born to think she was a monster. I was born as a monster.

"I have to go," Leila says. She kisses me on the top of my head and detaches herself from me. I say nothing, speechless, as she walks out of the room. Before she closes the door she says, "Oh, and Aaron."

I turn to the door and see her smiling at me. "Don't give up on her," She says. "When everything else will be disastrous, she'll need someone to rely on, and she's going to hold on to you."

"How would you know, mother?"

"Because," She pauses for a while, probably debating whether to continue or not. In the end, she does.

"I heard her saying to herself that she regrets hurting you. 'Because in the end, it's me who gets hurt too, right?' Whatever it is that happened between you two, I can tell that your love for each other is strong enough to fix that—and by that, I mean both of you.

"You might think you're a monster, you might keep blaming yourself for who you grew up as or blame yourself for what happened to me, but that girl up there," She points to the ceiling. "She's been through much, much more, and if you don't think that you can save her. . . then realize that she's trying to save you." She leaves no room for me to have my say—honestly, I don't have anything left to say— and slams the door shut.

I am left standing in the middle of the kitchen, frozen in place. I command my feet to move, but they disobey me. My body feels lighter all too suddenly and my eyes keep blinking erratically. If you don't think you can save her. . . then realize that she's trying to save you. But how could I? We're both so equally ruined that we could be able to destroy everything.

I can never change who I am, nor will I stop blaming myself for everything that has happened. Whether it is my fault or not, I need to be blamed for it—the heaviness of it makes me more endurable to pain. It's who I grew up to be—it's who I needed to be, my father said. A cruel, vicious, worthless creature whose heart has been turned to pure stone.

And Juliette's trying to take all that away.

I don't have to try to realize it, I want to tell my mother. Because already has saved me, in more ways than one.

My thoughts are immediately disturbed when I hear a loud, ear-shattering scream erupt upstairs. Panicked, I dash to my room, to where my Juliette is.

I'm sorry. She's not mine. I just wanted to know what that sounded like because I know I won't be able to say it again.

When I open the door I see her lying still on my bed, her body curled into a protective ball. She's still sleeping, I realize, but her body's trembling and her forehead is slick with sweat. Her brows are knitted together and her face looks pale, which only worries me more. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I carefully brush away strands of her hair from her forehead.

It makes me wonder how someone like me could possibly touch her like she's the most fragile thing I ever came across. She isn't. She's the strongest and bravest person I've ever met, and my thought of her will never change. I love her, more than she could imagine, more than she will ever know.

"Wake up, love."

She grumbles something and shakes her head furiously, whimpering. Then the tears start falling freely from her eyes, eliciting strained choking and coughing.

"Juliette." I shake her arm. The way she looks right now, the pain on her face, is making me feel as if I've been shot again; it's the same kind of pain when she shot me. It wasn't physical, but emotional, which was much more painful. The hurt, the anger. Then, the feeling of horrification and hopelessness when—

She gasps and looks up at me, her blue eyes glistening. Blinking repeatedly until she's crying again. Before I could do anything to comfort her, she suddenly lifts herself up and wraps her arms around me, her head against my chest. Trying my best to keep both our balance, I hold her there,—albeit hesitantly— my fingers combing her long hair as I tell her that it's okay, that whatever happened wasn't real. Even if I don't actually know what it was.

"But if feems real." She says, her voice muffled as she speaks onto my shirt. "Oh my God oh my God oh my—"

"Juliette, calm down." I try to whisper soothing words, telling her to mimic my breathing and the beating of my heart—which isn't doing a very good job since it seems like it's going to escape my chest ar any second. It was impossible for her not to hear that, but if she did, she doesn't tell me nor does she move away. We just sit there in silence, holding each other.

"I'm sorry," She pulls back, her arms losing their grip around me, just before locking her eyes with mine. I want to be lost in those eyes of hers forever. "I shouldn't have—I mean—I didn't —I just—" Closing her eyes, she sighs. Then, she places her head over my chest again, saying something about letting me hold her for a while. I want to say, yes. Of course. I can hold you forever if you'd like. But my inner conscience tells me not to get my hopes up, that she's just scared and she needs someone to hold onto. Sometimes it irritates me how much my conscience could ruin my peace of mind, and how it's always right.

"I had a nightmare." She decided to explain after awhile. "It was about. . .someone important to me. I had to. . . I had to watch someone shoot them. I tried to move, but my feet were glued to the ground. And then. . . the one who carried the gun said, 'You stupid, pathetic fool.'"

Her body starts to tremble, and I want to tell her that she doesn't need to continue, but she shakes her head as if telling me she has to. "Then everything changed. The one who was about to kill him was gone, but it was him who replaced the killer. He pointed the gun towards me.

And he said, 'You're no better than them.' and shot me."

"Love—"

"And do you know what I hated the most about that dream? He was right." She laughs once, but there was no humor in it, "I'm no better than them. I'm the stupid, pathetic—"

"Juliette!" I snap. "Don't you dare say that again. You are not like them. They're the monsters, not you." I'm the monster, not you. She nods twice, but I could see that she's still not convinced.

"It's okay, love. You're not insane, you're not a monster; you can experience human emotions like fear and happiness—you're human, Juliette."

Silence.

Then,

"You too." She says it so softly that it made me wonder if she wanted me to be able to hear it or not. But whether she did or didn't, I heard her perfectly. I always do.

I laugh once and kiss her on the top of her head. It's a simple gesture, but I could already feel the pulse of my heart turning erratic. And I'm not the only one.

There was a silence that fell between us immediately, but it was a good kind of silence, although I've never known the difference between silences before. I could sense by the frequent changing of her emotions—from anger, to guilt, to denial— that she still hasn't forgotten her nightmare.

Although part of me wanted to know who those people were so I could kill them with my bare hands, there was another part that kept telling me I shouldn't. There's the possibility of one of them being the name of the person I didn't want to talk about. The very same soldier who had betrayed me and hid something from me. And that secret he was hiding was the worst kind, even if you do hear it from someone else.

"I still want to sleep."

I nod and slowly lay her on the bed. She's looking at me like I did something wrong and I'm wondering if I did.

"What is it?"

"Stay with me."

I blink at her, surprised and unmoving. I couldn't have possibly just misheard what she said. But I must be hallucinating. Then I look down at her.

She's looking at me with the softest eyes I've ever seen, and I know right then that I could and would never disobey this girl. There's something about her that makes me feel stronger, more sure of myself, yet at the same time I have the sudden urge to protect her. I'd risk getting myself killed for this girl.

I lay myself beside her and place my arm on her waist, pulling her close to me. I expected her to be surprised, angry even, but when I look at her she was already close to falling asleep. And she's smiling.

It's the kind of smile that hid no secret underneath it. The kind that makes my whole body feel like it's going to burst into flames with the warmth of it. Surely it will make the sun jealous of her smile. It's the most beautiful smile I've ever seen because, for once, there were the emotions I never thought would be directed at me.

Happiness. Gratefulness. Understanding.

She knew that I could sense what she felt, and she was letting me know it. She looks up at me, the incredibly distracting smile still plastered on her face.

"Goodnight," She pauses for a second, thinking, and sighs. "Warner."

I knew she couldn't call me by my frist name—not yet, I'm hoping—but right then, after hearing her, I had a realization. Three, actually.

I want to know what her mouth tastes like when she sighs my name. Badly.

I already found out who she was talking about in her dream, and—

I'm finally forgiven.

The act of being forgiven isn't something you could immediately recognize, not even with my own Gift. Forgiveness is more of a trait than an emotion, I believe.

When she said my name, I knew that I was at least understood, if not forgiven. And I think that even if that's the closest thing she'll ever give me, I'll be fine with that.

"Thank you, Juliette." I whisper into her ear as she slowly starts to fall asleep.

She smiles.

For those of you who wanted to know why I made this, it was to support the story of my first chapter. If you'd look at things more closely, Warner and Juliette had been very friendly with each other, while she should have been broken or infuriated at what happened to her.

It's also my way of apologizing for not updating quickly.

I posted this after chapter 3 because something important happens in Chapter 4 and 5.

I'll also be posting chapter 4 soon, after I finish editing it.

That's all for now. Bye!

P.S. For the bacon and eggs part, that was just something random. I just love bacon.