Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.

A/N: Apologies for the delay…but being the mommy of a toddler with a nasty cold is not particularly conducive to productivity on the writing front!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dara was asleep.

More importantly, Dara was asleep on his shoulder.

And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Everything had started out normal enough. They had finished watching The King & I and Dara had almost immediately declared that she still was not tired and suggested that they watch another film. He had agreed, she made a selection and they had settled in to watch My Fair Lady.

Typical. Ordinary. Routine, even…

…and then the moment came that Dara scooted across the couch to point out an interesting bit of trivia from the disc insert...and never scooted back. She had, instead, settled herself into the spot beside him with her legs curled up beside her and her head tipped back against the cushions.

He'd been momentarily startled, but had quickly decided that he quite liked her near and so hadn't said a word. In fact, he soon found that he rather more than simply liked this new seating arrangement, because, within minutes, she'd been fast asleep. And Dara Turner, lovely as she was awake, was absolutely exquisite in sleep.

Taking full advantage of the opportunity afforded him, V had allowed himself the indulgence of observing her at her most unguarded. He traced the curve of her cheek with his eyes, admiring the striking contrast of her dark lashes against the paleness of her skin. He admired the almost wistful droop of her mouth and smiled at each tiny sigh and whimper that fell past her lips.

And when her dreams took an unpleasant turn and her sleep turned fitful, it had taken every shred of self-control that he possessed not to reach out and smooth away the frown lines that creased her forehead. A devious little voice in his mind whispered that she was a deep sleeper…that he could touch her brow, her cheek, her nose…and she would never know…

While he was raging this internal battle…it had happened.

She gasped, horrified at whatever was going on behind her closed eyes, and her entire body tensed. The next moment, she let out a tiny cry of despair and her hand shot out, fingers extended as if she was reaching for something. V had been frozen, uncertain what to do and in that moment of hesitation that her questing fingers found his hand where it lay between them…and seized hold of him with all her might.

He had jumped at the unexpected contact, but she had seemed comforted by it, almost as if he had been what she was looking for. Her breath released in a contented sigh and her body relaxed, shifting unconsciously until he had quite suddenly found himself with her head on his shoulder and her hair spilling over his arm and into his lap.

That had been nearly ten minutes past, and he was still as paralyzed with helpless confusion as he had been the instant her head had settled upon him. He honestly did not know whether he should ease her over onto her end of the sofa or let her continue to slumber away on his shoulder. He knew which option he preferred, but was fairly certain that her own choice would be quite the opposite. His fingers had ideas of their own and positively itched with the desire to touch her, but he could not allow him the luxury. She could very easily take offense at being touched in anyway while unconscious, and rightly so.

Of course, as tactile as she was and as generous as she tended to be with her own touch, she might take no offense at all. She might offer him that infinitely sweet smile and dismiss the situation with a reminder that they were friends. And that's what friends did, wasn't it?

And oh…he was truly moving onto dangerous ground if he was actually trying to convince himself of that.

She shifted again, and he tensed, expecting her to move away—dreading the loss of her sweet weight. But she did not retreat. She turned even further into him, tucking her head firmly beneath his chin, her cheek pressed against his neck. The hand not holding his slid across her body and onto his thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers and sending his thoughts reeling.

He sucked in a deep breath, his heart beating a frantic cadence in his chest. Against his better judgment and every very good argument to the contrary, he could not stop his free hand from reaching toward her; was powerless to stop himself from skimming his fingers along her cheek and tucking an errant strand of raven hair behind her ear.

Her reaction to that gentle caress nearly undid him.

The low hum vibrated up from deep in her throat, sounding so much like a purr that he could not give it any other name. His fingers, independent of his will, repeated the caress. Again, she purred and turned her face into his touch.

V's world narrowed until she was suddenly the only thing in it. The sound of the television, the Gallery itself—everything faded away until there was only her. His mind was in chaos, the certainty that he should pull away battling against a wave of what he could only describe as hunger. He had loved her for months…but this…

He had never craved anything so much as he did that low moan of pleasure or the arch of her neck as she pushed into his touch. It was intoxicating and maddening and more compelling than he could ever have imagined.

Before he could sink too far into the pleasure of the moment, the cold voice of reason reared up within his mind, angry and cutting; forcing him to ask the one question that he most dreaded the answer to.

Who is she dreaming of? Who's is the hand—the face—she sees while she turns into your touch? Who is the man coaxing that heavenly sound from her lips?

He had never been one to indulge in envy—his belief in the inevitability of fate rendered such an emotion moot. One had what they were meant to have; to covet anything more was a pointless and futile waste of energy. But oh…how he envied that man, her dream lover. He envied him so much that it was almost a physical pain in his gut.

Unconsciously, his fingers fanned out across her cheek, sliding back into her hair and then down, settling just over the pulse point in her neck. He drew his thumb tenderly across her cheekbone, then slid it down to brush an even more delicate caress across the bow of her mouth.

"Mmmmm," she hummed again, that glorious vibration reverberating through every part of his body. "Love you…"

He closed his eyes behind the mask at that and the envy swelled up inside of him until he could feel nothing else. To be the man receiving those words…to be the man to return those words…to be hers…

She sighed in her sleep and the fingers curled into his thigh flexed as she turned her face further into him. "V…"

Eyes flying open, V stared straight ahead, unable to credit what his ears had heard. It was not possible…it simply could not be possible...

Another gasp tore through him and he very nearly leapt from the couch at the first press of her lips to his fabric-covered neck. Warmth spread through him, shockwaves tingling through every nerve in his body. After a long moment, every tremor, every drop of feeling he possessed, converged into a wave of desire so thick that it nearly choked him. His eyes fell closed once more and he blew out a ragged, shuddering breath. His hand pressed farther back into her hair, fingers dragging much harder across her skin. "Dara..."

Her body went stiff in his arms, and his eyes flew open behind the mask, cursing himself for his lack of control. Her head lifted not a second later, and he suddenly found himself staring into shockingly blue eyes; eyes that were wide as saucers and shadowed with absolute horror. "Oh...my...god..." she whispered, jerking away from him and throwing herself back against the opposite arm of the sofa. "Oh...god..."

He nearly doubled over from the pain that lanced through him, the dread in her voice like a knife to his heart. How could he have been so foolish to think…to believe...

"God, V..." her voice was muffled now, and he knew without looking that her face was hidden behind her hands. "I didn't mean to...I'm so sorry...please...forgive me..."

"No," he forced the word out, his voice thin. "There is nothing to forgive, Dara. I should have woken you sooner...I should not have taken advantage..."

"...I was dreaming...I didn't realize..."

"...it was unforgivable of me..."

"...should've though...should've known it wasn't just a dream this time..."

"...to touch you without your permission..."

"...that it felt too real...never felt that real before..."

Finally, her words permeated the panic and shame that were currently sitting like a boulder on his chest. This time...before...she simply could not mean what it sounded so very much like she meant. The mask jerked around toward her, but the rest of V's body froze. "Dara...what...?"

Slowly, her heart beating in her throat, her breath shallow and her stomach tied in so many knots that she despaired of it ever setting to rights again, Dara turned toward him. Meeting the blank blackness of Fawkes' eyes, she cursed the mask as never before—she would have given anything at that moment to be able to see his eyes. "Don't tell me you're surprised." Her voice was raw, its timbre far lower than normal. "Don't tell me you don't know...after everything that's happened...you've got to know..."

"Know...?"

Tears prickled the backs of her eyes at the honest confusion in his voice, her own stupidity looming large before her. Know? How would he know? She knew him well enough to realize that it would never even occur to him that she could care for him as anything more than a friend. He would never believe that she...

"I love you."

The words were out before she could stop them. Far from the passionate declaration she had so often envisaged, they sounded sadly weak to her ears and more than a little desperate. Swallowing against the lump of fear in her throat, she lifted her chin; he was going to know just how deep her feelings for him ran, even if he didn't want to. "I'm in love with you, V—have been for a long time now."

For a long moment, the only sound in the entire Gallery was the murmur of the television. Then, V's head dropped, his entire body folding in on itself as he braced his head in his hands. He was trembling, every muscle rigid with tension. "You love me."

The words were low, less than a whisper, but she heard them. Wanting to reach out to him, but unsure if her touch would be welcome, Dara clasped her hands together in her lap. "Yeah, I do," she said, calmly and with a simplicity that was unquestionable, "very much."

The trembling intensified and his hands tightened, gloved fingers digging into the sides of his head.

She loves me...dear God...she loves me.

He had prepared himself for many things, for nearly every eventuality that his mind could conceive of regarding her. But he had never imagined this.

He had been perfectly prepared to love her in silence for the time that remained before the Fifth. The course of his life was set, his careful plans even now working to bring about what he envisioned for that day. There were but a few more pieces to set into place, and everything would be ready. Loving her had complicated things, certainly, but not too greatly—because while she brought a joy to his life that he had never previously known could exist, he had never imagined that anything would come of it. The Fifth would come, his plans would achieve fruition, and he would meet his fate with open arms, his love for her giving him the last bit of strength he needed to do what must be done—because she deserved to live in a better world than the one which Norsefire had wrought.

But this—her loving him in return—created a much larger problem. He felt the change the instant the words left her lips. Those few words had given rise to something that could quite easily prove fatal to his chosen course.

Hope.

Like a match to tinder, it ignited him, burning through every barrier he had ever erected with the uncontrollable force of a wildfire and allowing emotions too long suppressed to flood through him. It was a deadly thing, that hope—sharper than his knives and more deadly than his aim, it sliced cleanly through the bands of anger and hate that had bound him to his self-appointed destiny for so long.

The tentative touch of her fingers on his arm jolted him from the daze he'd been in since her unbelievable confession, and his head snapped up out of his hands to find her kneeling before him, eyes dark and expression carefully blank. She withdrew her hand slowly, eyes never leaving his. "V?" Her voice was as neutral as her countenance, betraying absolutely nothing of what was going on beneath her outward calm. "Please say something."

Such a simple request, and yet it suddenly seemed the hardest thing he had ever had to do. What to say—confess or deny? How to say it—gently or coldly?

The words his heart wanted to say were there, trembling just on the tip of his tongue, yearning to be set free, to be given to her.

I love you too...dear God, how I love you.

But reason was slowly returning, gaining ground on the raging emotions that filled him nearly to bursting, and he could feel his resolve harden even as he stared into her eyes. He had spent twenty years learning how to banish his feelings, and he had been an attentive student. She had shattered more of his defenses than he had ever believed possible, but she had not disarmed him entirely—he had just enough resolve left to do what he knew needed to be done.

He was going to have to hurt her—something that his every instinct railed against. Even the cold voice of reason, usually so firmly against even the idea of her, suggested moderation.

But he knew this girl—almost better than he knew himself—and moderation would simply not do. If he were kind, if he were gentle, she would continue to hope. And as cruel as he would be, he refused to be so cruel as to let her believe that there would ever be anything more between them than there already was. That, above all, would have been the worst thing he could do.

Burying everything else, every softer emotion trying desperately to claw its way back to control, he took a long, slow breath, releasing it with a sigh.

"Forgive me," he said at last, voice admirably controlled, "but I fear I do not know what to say."

"Anything," Dara murmured, her façade of calm cracking slightly and the look in her eyes turning beseeching. "Say anything...just...please...say something."

"And if you do not like what I have to say?"

She swallowed, her throat suddenly too tight. "Don't have to," she said thickly. "Don't want a pretty lie, V. I want the truth, whatever that might be."

"In that case I must admit that I find myself puzzled by your declaration—or rather, by the motivation behind it. You cannot be so naïve as to believe that I would offer reciprocation of such affections—indeed, I cannot credit that the idea would ever have entered your head. So I must wonder what precisely you hope to gain by declaring yourself thus."

Dara had always prided herself on being strong. She did not simper, she did not sob and she did not go to pieces in a crisis—be it emotional or otherwise. But those words cut straight to her heart, and she could feel herself begin to crumble.

Blinking back tears, she pulled away from him. "Don't hope to gain anything," she whispered. "I just..." her voice cracked and she paused, trying desperately to gather herself. "I had to tell you, that's all. I don't expect anything from you, so you needn't worry about that."

"I am not worried, my dear," he rose from the sofa, walking a few long—but necessary, dear God, necessary—paces away from her. "I am annoyed. I have allowed an astonishing level of familiarity to grow between us, but had I realized that you would take it as far as you have, I assure you I would never have done so. I have neither the time nor the inclination to humor such emotional hyperbole. It is an irritation and an inconvenience."

Dara stared blankly at the empty couch before her, not trusting herself to move. Her control was growing more precarious with each successive word he uttered, and she refused—refused—to break down in front of him. "Guess I should be apologizing then," she said, voice dull and flat, "for mucking things up so badly for you. I didn't do it on purpose, believe me."

"Whether it was deliberate or not is hardly the issue." His back was to her, knowing that to look at her would be folly. The pain in her voice was hard enough to bear—to see it in her face would be the death of his determination. "The real problem is what am I to do about the situation now?"

She finally did turn her head then, viciously swiping at a stray tear once her eyes had settled on his back. "I don't see that anything needs to be done," she said miserably. "The situation seems pretty much settled to me."

"That is entirely a matter of perspective," he replied. "From yours, I can see that things are quite settled. But from mine?" He shook his head. "I now have a vitally important question which must be answered before I can truly call things settled."

"And what's that, then?"

"Simply this—can I still trust you as unquestioningly as I have in the past? I hope you will forgive me for falling prey to cliché, my dear, but if it is true that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, then I fear that the answer to that question is a resounding 'no'."

She reeled back from those words as if from a slap to the face, nearly falling over herself as she scrambled to her feet. Moving across the room—to the opposite side from him—she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling chilled to the bone. "I can't believe you just said that," she hissed, half incredulous, half angry and all wounded. "No...more than that...I can't believe you even thought it. You can't possibly think that I'd betray you." She paused, shaking her head. "You know me better than that, V."

He'd hurt her with his accusation, as he'd known he must, yet it still left him aching inside. But words once said could not be unsaid—he could not turn back time and he would not apologize, so he set his jaw and shored up his determination. Turning towards her at last, he avoided her eyes, settling his gaze just over her left shoulder. "Do I? Quite frankly, my dear, I am no longer certain."

"I really don't believe this." Dara had never been one to back down from an argument—but she wanted nothing more at that moment than to run away from what was swiftly turning into the most painful conversation she'd ever had. "You can't be serious. No matter what else we are or aren't, we're friends. I would never do anything to ruin that."

"Perhaps...but then again, perhaps not; I shall need to consider the situation further before making a decision on the matter." He lifted one gloved hand and gestured toward the corridor that led to her room. "I believe that it would be in both of our best interests for you to retire now, my dear."

Lifting her chin, Dara reveled in the tiny flame of anger that his curtness sparked in her. "I'm not a bloody child, V. I'll thank you not to treat me like one."

"No," he agreed, "you are not a child. You are a grown woman, and as such, I should hope that you would possess the good sense to recognize when you're presence has become more burden than boon and thus take your leave accordingly."

That small flame of anger brutally snuffed out by the iciness of his rebuttal, Dara felt all the fight drain out of her like water through a sieve. Drained and tired and so close to tears that her eyes burned, she brought a shaking hand up to rub at them. "Why're you being like this?"

"Like what, my dear?"

"Cold…" Dara said, her voice cracking. "Cruel."

A negligent shrug. "I prefer to think of it as practical—I apologize that you do not see it thus."

"V...please..."

He made the mistake of meeting her eyes, the pleading in her voice drawing his attention despite his better sense. The heartbreak—the sheer devastation—that he saw looking back at him was nearly enough to break him. Composure swiftly reaching its breaking point, he turned away from her with a low growl. "Go to bed, Dara," he snapped. "You grow more tiresome by the second."

Heavy, oppressive silence hung heavy over the room for an interminable moment. V stared determinedly at the wall before him, so tense that his muscles were beginning to ache. Through his mind rolled a constant litany of words, willing her to go, begging her to retire...

Go to bed…leave me…I need to think…I cannot think with you so near…please go...

A single, tiny sob—a mere hiccup of sorrow—shattered the silence and brought the flow of his thoughts to a jarring halt, filling his mind until there was room for only one line of thought.

Oh...Dara...please do not cry...not for this...not for me...

Another small sob, followed by a gasping intake of air...and then, muted footfalls rushing across the stone floor...the click of a door closing...

She was gone—and so much farther away than just the few feet that physically separated them—but not far enough, not nearly far enough. But was there such a thing? Could there ever truly be enough distance between them ever again?

She was nearly as essential to him as air already; how much worse would it be now that she had declared her love? He was not so foolish as to believe that he could continue to treat her with the same callous indifference that he had shown her that night—he had only just been able to keep himself from begging her forgiveness as it was. A few more such exchanges and he would be prostrating himself at her feet in penitence.

And that, he simply could not afford, not when the Fifth loomed so near on the horizon now. She had been a distraction before, and now that he knew that she loved him, she would be doubly so...and he had no time for distractions any longer.

That left him only one alternative, painful though it was to contemplate.

It would require both thought and planning, but he doubted that sleep would find him that night anyway; not with the knowledge of what the morning would bring sitting so heavily upon his heart.