A/N: Okay, so beautifulxxflame knows how busy I am. She will vouch for me if anyone should suspect that I am lying and am, in fact, not busy. But I am. Really, I am. So anyways, I know that this is way overdue, but I'm foregoing sleep and homework to write this. I prioritize really well, I know. :PP I'm hoping that there will be no homicidal tendencies today/tonight, okay? So I don't really like this chapter. No, really, I don't. It seems off to me. However, it has gotten a little bit long (shorter than my recent chapters, actually) and I know that if I don't post this, then I never will. I would like to apologize in advance for any suicidal thoughts after the reading of this chapter. Also, I'm gonna need it in writing that I will not be held accountable for any strange, sudden deaths. That is all. Now, R&R.
It took several seconds for his mind to process the sudden ripping sound that had split the quiet nighttime and even longer than that to notice the cold air whipping across his back. It wasn't until he felt—really felt—small rocks digging into his skin that he realized his shirt had snagged on something and torn clean from his back. When he tried to get up, there was such an indescribable pain in his head and his back and every other part of his person that he felt certain his skeletal system had slammed up into his flesh, into within an inch of tearing through his skin, as a result of the horrendous fall he'd just suffered.
Now he remembered why Professor Gail had warned against using unfamiliar Portals. Her voice sounded in his mind like a mock. "Heaven forbid it should be broken and send you spiraling to the ground. Think of how painful that would be." And she'd looked straight at him during that class, as if she'd predicted something like this would happen to him. God, but he really did hate that woman.
Valentine was incapable of silencing the groan that he made when he finally got back on his two feet. With no Circle member eagerly rushing to his aid, the young man had to move gingerly through the almost-meter separating him and the girl, brushing off the thought of reaching for his stele the second it popped up in his brain. If it hurt to walk, he didn't need to run an experiment to know that he'd scream his throat sore were he to twist his arm to retrieve his stele, and if the wild throbbing in his left wrist was any indicator, after the strain he'd put it through today, his injured hand would sooner fall to the ground than allow him an attempt at a rune.
He sank onto the ground, heavily, inelegantly and ungracefully, the underbrush not even trying to cushion the weight of him being pulled down by gravity. He was, however, grateful for the tree behind him. If he'd just lean back now, well and proper, and rested his head against the trunk as well, it'd be the easiest thing to fall asleep. Every part of his body was echoing the throbbing of his wrist, although theirs were dull ones, pains that were barely registered with the stillness of his person. He was so tired. His eyelids were having a hard time staying open and he wanted sleep, needed it like he needed air. He should've stopped at a hotel while they were in Paris. He'd had his wallet with him and he'd been carrying enough money to secure him a room in the Four Seasons. Or he could've tried to look for an abandoned building and gone to sleep there. That way, he would've been able to put some distance between himself and the girl and still keep an eye on her, instead of the position they were put in now, with her head on his shoulder, her soft breathing a steady rhythm in his ear.
Reluctantly, one eye cracked open—just a bit, though—and he could see her mass of brown hair not even a centimeter away.
Every thought he had in that one second urged him to push her away, to not let her fall asleep on him. He made to move, to extract himself from his close proximity to her and rest where the Portal had discarded him, but then she let out a soft "Mmm", and he felt a warm fluttering in the pit of his stomach, his heart racing to match the pace of it, and he stayed where he was. For all he knew, if he moved even the tiniest bit, pain would shoot up every nerve ending there was in his body, his muscles would contract and he'd curl up like a foetus upon the forest floor, cursing himself for that one masochistic tendency.
Next to him, the girl inched closer, and his first instinct was to move his arm and wrap it around her waist. A flash of pain shot up to his shoulder. It was so sudden and so quick that he didn't have the time to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from groaning again. So that was what he did. He groaned and he snatched his arm away from her, resulting in another stab of pain, and this time, he pressed the back of his head into the trunk of the tree almost as if he were hoping to make a hole in it. His eyes squeezed shut, seemingly the only defense he had against the pain that was sending his mind reeling into almost oblivion.
The absence of the weight of her head on his shoulder left him feeling utterly bereft, and it was all he could do to not pull her back to where she'd been earlier, world of pain and masochistic tendencies be damned.
"Are you alright?" he heard her ask, her voice so clear, her breath warm upon his person that he knew she was close. Acting out against his every reason, he felt himself nod and his lips curved into a half smile. "Are you sure?" she asked again, and it was almost impossible to not smile at how worried she sounded. He nodded again, his taut muscles beginning to relax, and he slumped just a little bit, his bare back rubbing against the rough texture of the tree trunk. He'd probably regret that in the morning when he finds out that he'd chaffed the skin.
Realizing that he wanted to see her, his eyes opened, all traces of reluctance gone, and his vision was filled with the sight of her. "That was quite a fall I suffered," he said to her, his voice so low, it was perilously close to being a whisper. Her mouth opened to speak, but no sound would emerge and instead, her lips merely formed the words 'I know'. "Devil take it, but my shoulder hurts like hell."
Something lit up in her eyes. "Do you want a massage? I think it'll help you feel better."
No! "Um—" Say no! "I…uh…" God damn it, Valentine, just say no! "I suppose I'll need some relief from this wretched pain."
She smiled, and the moonlight caught her eyes, turning the violet into silver. He'd heard of how some of the students in the Academy had fancied themselves in love when they saw the silvery tint of their lover's eyes in the moon's light, and he'd read about romantic heroes who fell desperately for silver-eyed beauties, but as he looked at her now, at this mundane girl he'd kidnapped not two hours ago, that he knew nothing about, he thought that silver eyes looked horrid on her. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and then opened them again. He must truly be in need of that sleep because his mind was already starting to make him see things. He could've sworn she was glowing—and he hated it. Light fell upon every part of her and she looked so ethereal that she seemed inhuman.
He turned his back to her, and heard a giggle not a heartbeat later. He turned his head faster than he would've liked and saw that she was almost doubling over with laughter, obviously unfazed by his turning his eyes onto her. "I'm sorry," she said, when she finally stopped laughing long enough to gasp for air. "I'm so sorry." And that was all she managed to get out before whatever it was that she found so hilarious got her within its grips again and her laughing renewed. He fixed his most convincing I-am-not-amused face and proceeded to stare her down. Hell, if it worked with the Circle members and with the students back in the Academy, why wouldn't it work on her?
...
Even through his closed eyelids, the sun was shining blindingly, like it was trying its hardest to burn through the only thing stopping it from setting his eyes on fire. Valentine threw an arm over his face, effectively ending the sun's cruelty and turned onto his right where his other arm was outstretched, acting as a pillow for the sleeping girl, wisps of her hair tickling his nose when a non-existent wind breathed past them.
His eyes shot open and he looked at the face of the girl next to him, her eyes closed—thankfully, though, not in the fear-empowered manner he'd seen her do countless times before—her lips slightly parted, her features peaceful and serene in sleep. A sharp intake of breath was the only thing he could think of doing and it was all his still sleep-deprived body could push itself to do. He didn't remember inviting her to lie next to him. In fact, he didn't remember even falling asleep.
She shifted restlessly, impatiently, as if she were upon an actual bed and not the forest floor, and she turned away from his intrusive eyes. And it was true. He was being intrusive. He'd even go as far as to say that he was invading her privacy, staring at her like he had while she was asleep. It was everything he knew he shouldn't do to a woman. By the Angel, he hadn't even wanted to touch her in the hospital for fear that he'd be taking advantage of her and here he was, lying next to her sleeping form, staring away. But then again, he hadn't been taught what to do, how to react when he finds a girl asleep next to him, and he had never been in a situation which might have given him the experience. To add to that, he'd never been good with sleeping people.
So when she began to shift again, this time mewling as well, he perceived it as her having an unpleasant dream and removed his hand from his face, placing it on her waist. That seemed to set her at ease and she sighed contentedly, relaxing into his touch. With her head upon his forearm, Valentine had free leave to prop himself up on his elbow and peer down at the sleeping girl. Most of her face was turned away from him, but a little bit was still available to things other than the ground and he moved closer to her, his hand, which had been doing a superb job at lingering upon her waist, uneasy with the awkward angle in which it was placed moving over her waist to rest on the patch of ground next to her, making it look like he were holding her in an embrace. Valentine realized this little fact and moved his hand once more, this time to get away from their previous position and to brush an errant lock of hair off her shoulder.
As abruptly as it began, his hand returned to his side and he let himself fall onto the ground. God, what was he doing? What in hell was he doing? "Stop it, Valentine," he cried softly to himself in anguish. "You don't even know her! You're going mad. Just stop it."
"Hmm?"
At the sound of that, his eyes widened involuntarily and it suddenly felt like he had an elephant sitting on his chest. He'd woke her up. Had she noticed any of the things he'd been doing earlier? Did she know of how close to her he'd been? Or had she just woken up and thus, knew nothing of what had transpired?
"You know," she said brightly, a smile coming onto her sleepy face, "I've heard that talking to yourself is a sure fire sign of craziness."
"It's funny that you should say so, since you're the only person here who thinks she's going crazy," he bit off, replacing whatever it was he'd felt earlier on with anger. Cold, pure, unadulterated anger.
She got up and brought her knees up to her chest, pulling away from him, distancing herself from him as if he'd hit her. "Angel—" she started to say.
"Stop it!" The words were torn out of his mouth with so much venom that he was actually beginning to get angry with her. "Stop calling me that. I have a name and it's not Angel." When she cast her eyes towards a dandelion, his anger grew tenfold. He didn't understand why, but it just did and he wanted to lash out at her, to hurt her for continuously calling him by something he was not. "Look around yourself, girl. We are no longer in Paris. We came here via Portal. Doesn't that surprise you? Don't you have questions? How could you so blindly follow me here? You don't know of my intentions. Are you that daft?"
All his rage was packed into that last line, and he knew that it'd affected her somewhat because when she spoke, she did so softly, barely speaking above her breath. "You said you wanted to help me. I was frightened and then you came and you did your best to chase all my fears away. I knew I could trust you. You're my angel."
Valentine saw red. God, but he wanted to kill the girl! "Would an angel do this?" He didn't need to reach out very far to grab her by the shoulders and yank her towards him. Her eyes widened, just as his had, and her mouth formed an O of surprise, and that was all he saw before he crushed her body to his own and captured her mouth in a hard kiss, as if he was trying to brand her. She squealed into his mouth and tried to part from him, but his arms had moved down to her waist and there, they were like iron bands that have been welded specifically to fit her frame.
Her lips were soft against his, and for a moment, he'd quite forgotten his anger and was starting to enjoy what he'd initiated. He could feel the gentle swell of her breasts against his chest as they rose and fell in sync with her breathing. His lips, which at one point had been held tightly, harshly to hers, softened and he truly began to kiss her. His lips weren't just there and immobile, they were moving against hers, savouring the softness of every bit of her. And although he didn't want to, although he liked what he was doing just the way it was, something within him was urging him to move. So he dragged his lips away from her own, kissing up her jaw lightly until he reached the spot where her ear and neck met. He planted a quick, chaste kiss there, but it was enough to make her shiver and her hands moved to his shoulder, gripping them to keep herself upright. Meanwhile, one of his own hands snaked away from the small of her back and started to lift her dress inch by excruciating inch. He then rested it upon her bare thigh, the warmth of her shooting up his palm to enter his body as if carried by his blood stream.
"I'm not your angel," he heard himself say, but it sounded so detached that he was positive it wasn't him who'd said it, that it wasn't his voice carrying those words to her. He brought his lips back down to her cheek and kissed her firmly there, and sighed. "My name is Valentine, not Angel, and I'm not who you think I am," he whispered against her cheek, hoping with all he was that she could hear him. "I'm not a good person."
Her hands on his shoulder fell and this time, when she made to pull away, he let her.