Quick note: Hey, everyone, I wanted to thank you all for the awesome reviews and, heck, for just taking the time to read the story. It means a lot to have people even remotely interested, so thank you so much! I also deeply apologize for the silence…I totally get how that's not cool on any level. But as it was mentioned, "such is life."

Regardless of the silences, I certainly plan on this story to continue! Your patience, interest and critique is super appreciated, people. I really gotta say.

Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New Year!

Chapter 25: February Seven

I was on the mend when I fell through,

The sky around was anything but blue,

I found as I regained my feet,

I wound across my memory,

That no amount of stitches would repair…

But I awoke,

And you were standing there…

I wake to the sound of tapping.

When it first begins, my eyes are closed and there's those writhing lines and sprinkled dots behind my lids. I had been chasing the designs with my eyeball, trying to catch a distinct snapshot of each, when I first hear it.

Tap, tap, tap…

It's nearby and constant, as though propelled by urgency, and the pauses in between are concise. Listening to the beat, I pray that it'll stop; my head is thrashing with a severity so painful I can't recall the day's previous events, much less why it'd be pounding in the first place. And my body, in general, feels like it's begun to rot from the inside out. I wouldn't be surprised, in fact, if I was already dead, and this stupid tapping sound is heaven's opening theme song—like a welcome token or something. Oh my God, I hope it isn't.

But then my eyes peel open, and I'm blinded by the fluorescent lights—huge beams of striking radiance. They bore down on me like how an interrogator's flashlight would, sharply penetrating and stirring a buildup of tears. I squint and grimace. A droplet rolls down my cheek; why is it so bright?

The adjustment takes within seconds, however, and the room's contents become clear—the limited counter space in the corner, the ugly tile floor, a stool that, from the looks of it, would be squeaky if one dared to sit on it, at the foot of my bed. The door's closed, which explains the eerie silence (minus the tapping sound), and there's a plant situated in the corner that looks like it's undergone a decade in some torture chamber; the room is hideous.

I'm in middle of wondering how I ended up in the hospital when I spot the familiar photo strung up on the wall—an image of the school's nursing staff. Oh. The nurse's office. Everything suddenly makes sense. A gush of memories come out of nowhere and I'm suddenly horrified with myself—fainting, in front of everyone? And Jareth, coming to the rescue? Oh no, tell me it isn't true.

I see myself crossing the finish line defeating Victoria in front of Ceylon and the football team, only to faint like some damsel in distress. That's exactly what I am—a damsel in distress, who has multiple male subjects leap to her rescue. Next, she wakes in some healing facility and daintily wonders what happened. My sense of victorious accomplishment deflates; I'm her.

Tap, tap, tap…

The sound is closer than I originally thought. I turn my head sideways and, with a bit of surprise, see him.

Jareth stands about five strides away from my bed, gazing out of the window. His shoe taps convulsively against the tiled floor, which explains the noise. Against the distasteful backdrop of the nurse's office, he stands out; it's the fiery hair and edgy features. Jareth is like a radiant quartz amongst a stash of coal, ablaze in such a way that I'd hate to peel my eyes away. In the most beautiful way possible, Jareth looks as though he doesn't belong.

Even then, though, there's a stiffness in his posture—in the way Jareth crosses his arms and lifts his shoulders—that tells me he's in middle of a worrying episode. His facial features are slack, but only in a sense that his mind has wandered somewhere fretful and he can't return them back to safety; they're too far away to catch and return. His eyes are fixated forward without really looking at anything—enchantingly blue but, nonetheless, empty.

It dawns on me, while examining my English teacher, that my fiasco this afternoon must only be a fragment of Jareth's stresses. After all, he is, for whatever mysterious reasons, losing his power with each passing day. That is enough to make any king worry.

The guilt comes to swarm me; Jareth has enough to fret about. It isn't fair for him to be standing here, by my side, worrying about my unbalanced health, when he could be attending other issues—issues that are more important than this. It really isn't fair.

Before I can tell him to leave, Jareth's shoe stops tapping. Then, with his eyes still trained to the window, he speaks.

"And the princess awakens."

The words are soft and slow. I make an effort to reply, but it comes out as a moan.

"Did the beauty sleep serve you well?"

"Ifeellikeshit."

My voice sounds terrible, like it's been grated against jagged stone.

"That is a no, then, I assume."

"Everythingsucks."

Despite the vacancy in his eyes, the side of his lip tugs upwards.

"Forgive me, Future Queen, but your pronunciation needs tending. Royalty isn't candid until sustained with, what many like to call, enunciation."

"Futurequeenmybutt, ."

"My goodness, I'm astounded that you even remember."

"Rememberwhat?"

"My handsome monarch. These days, it seems nothing more than a thing of the past." As he speaks, the depth of his detached stare seems to deepen. Momentarily, his face tightens. "Sleeping away. No more. Gone."

"How could I forget it?" I gather the energy to separate my words. "You strut the school hallways like you've conquered the place."

With a sharp turn of his head, he glares at me.

"Yes, and you faint in track fields. Not exactly my cup of tea, either."

His words darken the air. Then I blink and Jareth's managed to cross the space between us in three lengthy strides. He rips the chair forward in one rough jerk, situating it directly beside my pillow. This leads to a rather confrontational, what-is-wrong-with-you mood change. The leg makes a screeching sound against the floor. I cringe.

"Look," I frantically start, "I don't know what happened—"

"Save the deceits for somebody else."

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're—"

"And I'm not as ignorant as you think." Jareth leans forward in the chair and places both elbows on his knees. "I want answers, and I want them now."

"There's nothing to tell, you saw the whole thing."

"Stop lying to me!"

He abruptly stands up. The chair's shoved backwards and there's that terrible screeching sound again. He had also knocked the bedside table, causing the glass vase of flowers to teeter sideways. They crash to the floor. Glass shatters, dispersing across the space.

Instead of attending the mess or, better yet, reacting to it, Jareth and I stare each other down. He looms above me, trembling with anger. I reply with a submissive stare, feeling confined in a corner but determined not to show it.

So far, I've gotten away with keeping the nightmares to myself. Why should that have to change now?

Jareth scowls and whips around, retreating a few steps away from my bed. A hand tears through his hair, forcing the strands back. I notice his fingers are quivering. His shoulders rise and then fall dramatically, as well, and I realize he's fighting for breath. This struggle suddenly makes sense when I see the shards of glass upon the floor slowly move and reattach themselves. A few seconds pass and the newly fixed vase rises from the floor and lifts to the bedside table, placing itself in its original position.

I watch in amazement. Compared to my memories of the Labyrinth, Jareth hardly ever utilises his magic in the real world. Though it was once a terrifying discovery, his magic is now, to me, something of a treat—like a mini spectacle, though I'd never ever confess this aloud.

With his back turned to me, he disrupts the silence in a cold voice.

"I will send a report to the school minister."

"What?"

"If you continue to deny me the knowledge you've been so obstinately safekeeping, then I will send a report to the school minister."

Confused and marginally annoyed, I stare.

"A report of what?"

He turns his head sideways so that I have a clear shot of his side profile.

"Of our inappropriate behaviour."

Oh, no.

"Excuse me?"

Jareth spins around, meeting my widened eyes with his own. Except his are brooding. Ominous. I watch him dare a few steps closer to my bed, the movement so methodical that my nerves heighten with each step.

Jareth's calculated something both mean and ingenious within that mind of his, I can tell.

"Of my blatant favouritism in giving you A's when you downright deserve C's," he says, moving forward. "Of our encounter in the hallways last week, when—when—"

He struggles for words. Suddenly brave, I provoke him to say it aloud. I'm convinced he won't.

"When what, exactly?"

His face darkens.

"You know exactly what."

"No, really, Jareth, what were you going to say?"

He lifts a brow, unimpressed.

"You truly want to hear it?"

"Yeah, why not?"

I watch him take an effective pause, letting the silence soak in before the bomb is dropped.

"When you let me put my hands on you."

"Jareth."

The words come out fast and smooth. Having him say it aloud makes it so much more real—so much more of a problem. They nearly pilfer the air from my lungs, ushering heat to my cheeks and a general sense of shame.

"And let's not forget of your little visit to my car yesterday—"

"Nothing happened in your car," I bark, "there's nothing to report!"

"Well what if something did happen? Perhaps there was, oh, bloody hell, I don't know—" He throws his arms in the air, "a kiss of some sort—"

"Jareth!"

"I can confess these things, Sarah, and I can quit my job as soon as I do." Jareth's voice rises into a shout, his fury bowling over uncontrollably. "Your past will no longer be here, interfering with your life, and you'll be left to clean up the pieces of something you won't know how to fix!"

I don't know what to do. Laying tucked in this bed, weak and drained of every last drop of energy, I am helpless. Jareth is tall and powerful standing over me, having assembled this grand master plan together that ought to, one way or the other, force the truth from my lips.

But I don't want to tell him the truth.

There is a silent hiatus between Jareth and I. When I speak, I'm choked.

"You wouldn't."

"But I would," He cruelly breathes. "And don't you think, not for one second, that I wouldn't."

Staring upwards at him, I can finally see it now; never has Jareth been so close to his true identity before. It's in the way he's elevated his chin and sharpened his gaze. His hands rest by his sides in a respectable manner, yet his stance is strong and confident. Royal. It has taken me quite some time, but, nonetheless, I can see it now: a true, malicious king stands before me. The Goblin King.

The king has articulated his scheme, and he is not about to back down. One of us has to lose, and it isn't about to be him; he will win.

I make a last-ditch effort to weasel my way past the bullet. His bullet.

"What makes you think I don't want you to go? What if I'd rather have you leave and confess those things? I can just deny them, anyways." I look him in the eye and force intimidation. "Maybe I want you to leave."

But then he laughs—a cruelly humored laugh that drowns every ounce of poise from my spine. He really does have it this time.

"Don't waste your breath on such a faulty remover."

I gulp.

"Elaborate?"

"You said so yourself, I'm afraid. Yesterday, in my car; you don't want me gone." His head cocks sideways, just like how it used to in the Labyrinth. "You do remember, don't you?"

I frown, puzzled. Reflecting back to his car yesterday, I think of the rain—how the drops met the windshield and slid down the glass. How the new, well-kept leather felt under my legs. How he encompassed his hand around my own and how, despite everything I've fought for, I didn't want him to let go. I wanted him to hold on.

With the presence of such a memory, I'm reminded of my own words. They are like a whisper dancing past my ears. I can never hide from these words, nor take them back. They will forever stray between the two of us.

Then stay.

I release a breath; I had said it, plain and simple—I don't want Jareth to go. Which means he knows that. Which means I have to speak up and confess the truth—everything I've been battling to conceal. My secrets.

"Oh my god," I whisper, "How could you do this?"

Jareth goes to sit in the chair. Only, this time around, he doesn't jerk it forward and make the screeching noise. Instead, he gently lifts it forward so that the legs don't scratch the floor.

"Just talk to me, Sarah," he tiredly insists, settling into the chair. "Tell me why, and I'll stay. No report required."

"There's nothing to say."

"Yes, there is."

"I—I don't know what to tell you. I'm not sure what I can—"

It's unexpected and marginally frightening, Jareth finding my hand on top the covers and wrapping it in his own. Looking at our hands nestled together, something unsettling takes place within my chest; this is the second time he's held my hand.

And it's the second time I want to defy my moral code and allow it.

His eyes flicker from our hands to my face.

"Tell me the truth. Tell me why."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can." Jareth carefully eases himself forward, pressing his chest against the mattress's edge. The covers ruffle, and I realize the space between us is shrinking. I dazedly wonder what would happen if the space, as a whole, would vanish altogether. "There is a reason, Sarah. There can't not be, and I need to hear it."

In protest of the intimacy, I wiggle within the covers and sit upwards; this proximity isn't good nor right, we both know that. Someone needs to do something about it, and I doubt it'll be Jareth.

I expect him to pull back a little, maybe even settle into the chair again. But he doesn't. In fact, I realize this motion was a terrible mistake, because I've merely brought myself closer to him. I inhale a sharp breath, shocked by the nearness of his chest. Of his face. Eyes. Lips.

Oh my God.

"I deserve to hear it," he murmurs, completely unaware of my panic. Or maybe he isn't. "Please."

Neglecting his gaze, I swallow something thick. I wish we could somehow go back to being livid at each other (it's so much easier than this—whatever this is).

"I—I—I can't." I stammer.

"You can't, or you won't?"

And I lift my eyes. There's no coherent explanation as to why I did it, but I did. Maybe I wanted to, I don't know. But our gazes latch on to one and another fiercely, and all I can see is blue—a blue so dazzling and rich that it could only belong to Jareth.

And I don't want to keep the secrets from him anymore. I don't want to lie, to pretend like there's nothing to say. Because there is, and it's time that I say it, already.

"My nightmares, the ones I mentioned the other day, they're horrible—so much worse than you know." I'm urgently whispering, like the time I have to spill the information is deteriorating. "Horrifying. Foul. They revolve around the Labyrinth, but so much more twisted and—and—evil. I—I don't know how to explain it."
Jareth presses himself closer. I hear the covers ruffle some more and the mattress squeak under the pressure.

"You need to try."

I gulp and, after a heavy breath, shove all the uncertainties away.

"It'll begin, the nightmare, and I feel like I'm being watched. Preyed upon. I feel like someone—or something—is there, and that I'll be attacked the second I let my guard down, and there's nothing I can do about it. There's something behind the nightmare, Jareth, I'm certain of it. Something powerful. Something that doesn't want to leave me alone."

He stares at me in concentration, a crinkle emerged from between his brows.

"Like what, precisely?"

"I don't know, that's the problem! And there's a voice. It'll say things to me—appalling things— and just when I think I've escaped it, it returns, but in reality— in Ceylon's garage, or—or the track ring."

"Is that what happened today? At the track ring?"

I nod solemnly

"Yes."

A torrent of anger thrashes in his eyes.

"I should have gotten there earlier today, before it got worse."

"Don't be stupid, it's not your fault."

"But Sarah—"

"There are creatures, Jareth. They like to torment me. Not only in the dreams, though, but in reality, too, like the voice. A shrivelled Goblin, like one of your own—only worse. Sinful. With bad intentions."

Jareth's hand tightens around mine, as though to suggest the prospect of these truths frighten him, too. He leans in closer, and I can feel his breath stroke my cheek. It's warm—he's warm, more specifically; his body heat combines with mine. Strands of red hair tumble from their slicked position and touch my forehead, tickling my skin.

Jareth's so incredibly close to me that he's making it difficult to think straight, or breath. I should tell him to stop, but that isn't the preferred option, either.

"And—and the Crow Man—"

He frowns.

"The Crow man…?"

"Yes!"

And there's a sound at the door.

Knock, knock, knock…

"YOOHOO," Jamie hollers from the other side, "ROOM SERVICE!"

My head smacks the back wall just as Jareth shoots backward.

And the flower vase smashes to the floor again.