AN: Thanks for the continued support, everyone! I feel like this chapter leans a bit on the side of fluff, but hopefully it's not too bad. Enjoy!

9

My mind was made up. I knew he'd be angry with me, but that wasn't a problem. I worried how I would behave when I saw him again. Once I was close to him, to the ticking, and then the softening silence that took over when he was around me, I could change. There was a chance my decision would melt away, and I'd remember nothing but my love for him. I hoped he would be angry enough to stop that from happening.

The address I'd given him was the museum. I assumed he would meet me in the photography exhibit, the one that was given in memory of Rachel Dawes. It would have amused him, one more insult to the life he'd so famously taken. But he surprised me again. I found him in the Greco-Roman room, all flowing marble statues and pale blue walls. I heard him first, and followed the ticking. But before I could quite make out his location, his voice sounded behind me: "That color is terrible on you. You look so much better in red."

I glanced down; I was wearing a pale blue sweater and jeans. I hadn't thought about my appearance much. I turned around. He was lounging atop one of the white columns that flanked the entranceway, picking at his fingernails with his knife. He did not go quiet. The ticking persisted.

"It was not necessary to mutilate that young man," I said.

He chuckled. "I know," he said. "It was just funny."

"What did you do to him this time?"

"Let's just say he won't be listening the opera in stereo anymore." He let out another sickening cackle.

"If you ever wish to speak to me, all you need do is ask," I said.

"That's too easy!"

He hopped off the pillar, but before he reached me I struck him, hard, across the cheek. He spun, unprepared for the blow, then exploded with maniacal laughter. "My, my, you're feisty today!" he cackled. "What's the occasion?"

"Don't do that. I'm not one of them." Something was wrong. Why was he still ticking?

"Oh, aren't you?" he said. "I haven't heard you complain much. Although I guess you wouldn't. He's keeping you fat and happy in that mansion, I bet. Not much to complain about. Are you fucking him too?"

His words stung only a little. "It crossed my mind," I said.

That did it. His mind cooled to a slow-burning ember as he remembered who I was. "Okay," he muttered. "Okay. I guess that shouldn't surprise me. After all, you kept me waiting so long I figured—"

"I? I kept you waiting?" I advanced on him; he put his hands up and stepped back. "I waited for you for eight months, two weeks and four days in that god-forsaken institution! Anyone else would have given up completely, but I never lost faith in you. Not once! I knew you would come for me, I knew it."

"So you're saying I should've 'kept the faith' – is that it? As I recall, you told me you wanted to follow me 'to the end of the world,' and I was going to let you."

"You said not to come looking for you!"

He burst out laughing again. "And you believed me?!" he cried. "You're not as clever as I thought, little lady. Don't kid yourself. You left because you wanted to leave. If you really wanted to come back to me, you woulda done it no matter what I said on that tape."

My chest went tight and cold. I crossed my arms and turned away from him. He snickered under his breath. I let him enjoy his small victory; he'd earned it. "I. . ." I started, then paused to take a breath. "Lucius was right. You meant me to survive."

"The bomb was wired to the window, not the timer," he said. "About seven minutes after you either smashed it or opened it to 'escape.'"

"The window. . . It wasn't even locked."

"Nope."

"Just seven minutes?"

"Well, you're spry – I figured that'd be enough for you. And I was right!"

I swallowed hard to force back the tears. He swelled and gloated, wallowing in the misery he was causing me. But underneath it all I could still feel his love for me, and mine for him. "I came here," I said, "to release you from your promise."

Everything went still. "What do you mean?" he asked.

I looked back at him. "I know you could never do it. It's all right."

"Oh, I could," he growled, forcing me back against a giant vase and pressing his knife under my chin. "I really could, especially right now." He stared at me, and I stared back, struck once more by how large he was in my eyes, this close, after so long. His anger was fading, but he held on, fighting against the forgiveness that was coming. He licked his lips and readjusted his grip on the knife. "I could kill you," he said, "but I don't want to. You see, I have this theory. About killing folks. When they get close to death, people – most people – show you what they're made of. Who they really are. But," he tapped the end of my nose with the blade, "that's not gonna work with you, is it? I'm never going to know you that way. Not as much as I want to."

"You could try," I whispered.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I only get to do it once. It's not worth the risk, little lady. Sorry."

I smiled. "I told you, it's all right."

He backed away, released me, put the knife back in his pocket. "There's nothing I can do to make you hate me, is there?" he asked.

"You want me to hate you?"

He shrugged. "Might be easier, y'know. When you come back and I'm not here."

I was amazed. I struggled to see if he really meant it. Was that what this was about? The one thing I'd told him I was afraid of – losing him? His face blurred in my eyes, and I realized I was crying. "You. . ." I could say no more. He had my face in his hands, and he was kissing me. I felt weak and fragile as I wrapped my arms around him, but I wasn't. It was his weakness, his fear, his vulnerability that I felt. I slid my hands to his shoulders as we parted. "Say it," I whispered.

He stared at me, dark eyes deep with uncertainty. "Porphyria, I can't—"

"Please. I need to hear the words."

He swallowed. "I love you," he said. Then he kissed me again.