A/N – Short Authors note this time, just thanking everyone for the kind reviews and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year!
Bit of a weird chapter, if I don't say so myself, but reviews are more than welcome! In fact I'm pleading for them…! ^_^
***
It was an arduous trek from the Palace to the Dove, a lot longer than what she had remembered, actually. As much as she loathed admitting it – she wasn't in the shape she had been at seventeen.
Neither, she thought as she passed a large windowed house, pausing to stare at her reflection, did she look like she had at seventeen. Not currently, anyway. Thom had done an amazing job; her previously shoulder-blade length copper hair had been lengthened and darkened, her skin had become olive brown, her eyes black. She now looked more like a native of Carthak than of Tortall – a fact which had enabled her to sneak past the guards without question, posing (as she was) as a maid running an errand. Thom had told her that he'd modeled it on a specific palace maid, but…she wasn't sure if she wanted to ask how he knew the maids measurements to the inch. He'd also told her that he'd…'tied' the disguise to her own Gift, and told her that she could remove it and bring it back up fairly easily – showing her the spells and ingredients she would need to do so. That part of the afternoon had been less than fun; Thom was about as strict a teacher as she had ever had.
Still, her time with Thom so far had been mostly enjoyable. Just seeing him was enjoyable – stirring emotions in her which she'd not felt in almost twenty years. It would be hard to leave him, she knew. She also knew that she would have to; however much she might love having her brother back, and she truly did, this was not her world. Her children, for one, did not exist here. That was sufficient motivation right there for her to return to her world, let alone the number of small differences she had so far noticed here.
And then there was Jon, of course. Her husband here; it had been somewhat interesting to see how her life (and oddly enough the lives of most residents of Tortall!) would have been different had she married Jon. She wasn't altogether sure if what she had seen so far was 'worse' or 'better', but neither was she altogether sure that such comparisons were the right thing to do in the first place. After all, she'd never lived in this world. Still, from what she'd experienced so far, it was…different, that was for certain.
She could almost feel it in the air, this difference. More accurately, she could feel it in the air whenever she and Jon were in the room together – which was occurring quite often, here. She had no idea why such she felt and thought such things; though of course she hadn't been blind in the real world either. She'd recognized that Jon was still one of the most handsome men she'd ever met, but it had never (well, not since she was a young girl) affected her in the fashion that it had been since they'd been here. Not turned back the clock, so to speak, and made her feel like a teenager again. But was that something to pay closer attention to? They would only be here for a week, two at the maximum.
She nodded to herself, no – best to just ignore it. Besides, as she had told herself earlier, there was nothing wrong with looking, was there? Still, it was slightly irritating – was it just the situation they found themselves in that brought these feelings on, or was it something else?
No, it had to be the situation. She didn't have any feelings for Jon, not in the real world, anyway. She was happily married to George, simple as that.
But, a part of her mind that she-wished-would-shut-up piped up, that doesn't necessarily mean that you didn't have feelings for Jon.
True; but what of it? So she was attracted to him, still. That didn't mean anything. So there seemed to be moments recently where the two of them seemed to spark while together, again – that didn't mean anything.
And maybe if you keep telling yourself that…No! No, ignoring it is the solution. She could control herself until they returned to their own world, she was sure of it. Of course, that same rebellious part of her mind continued to taunt her; isn't that a lot like hiding from the problem and hoping it goes away? Well, it was, sort of – she couldn't deny that. But, she told herself, one had to pick her battles; she knew nothing could be decided or thought over in a week, so what was the point in even thinking about it?
Right. Nodding to herself as she…agreed with her own thoughts…she took greater stock of her surroundings, and realised that she wasn't all that far from where the Dove was located. She smiled; it seemed that the way to the inn was ingrained into her memory, she could probably find her way there if she was blind. Thom had told her that it was still in the same place, though it had apparently undergone some slight…changes. She wasn't sure what he meant by that, but he'd assured her that she'd still recognise the place, so they obviously couldn't be external changes.
Indeed, when she rounded the very familiar street corner leading towards the Dove, she picked it out of the surrounding houses with no trouble. As Thom had told her, it didn't look any different on the outside; what could be different, then?
Only one way to find out, she supposed, and put her hand on the front door. It didn't budge, no matter how hard she pushed. Taking a step back from it for a moment, she frowned; the door to the Dove was only closed after the first hour after midnight – and at the moment it wasn't even fully dark. Why was the door closed?
A little apprehensively, she knocked on the door. A few
moments later, a small rectangular slot in the center of the door slid to the
side, showing an unkempt man's beady eyes.
"Yeah?" he spat. "Whaddya want?"
"Is George here?" She asked, straight to the point.
"Cooper?" she nodded, the man's eyes roved over her slightly. "Dun think 'es expectin' anyone tonight, girl. Why dun you just toddle off 'ome, eh?"
"Please," she narrowed her eyes. "I want to see him."
"That right, eh? Look, girl, I said 'e ain't expectin' anyone, which means 'e ain't gonna be seein' anyone." He moved away from the slot, and she could tell that he'd be slamming it shut if she didn't do anything.
"Wait!" she called, hoping to stop the man before he disappeared. She peered into the small slot, glancing around the darkened interior, "Wait, please!" The man simply shook his shaggy head, and slammed something down behind the slat, blocking off her both her vision and her words. Cursing softly, she was raising her hand to knock on the door once again when she noticed a pile of disused bricks sitting beside one of the Dove's walls. That was…odd – George would never have left such an obvious means of entry. Which, she supposed as she stepped onto the pile, was perhaps the point. By putting such an overt means of entry about the place, the implication was that the occupants didn't particularly care how one entered. In fact, it seemed to be expected that one would not be coming through the front door.
Well, she thought as she hauled herself up onto the roof, perhaps best to test that expectation.
Hiking her skirts (Thom had insisted she wear the garb of a Maid as well – including the full skirt. She hated it, but had agreed that no Maid would go around wearing silken breeches) above her knees, she slowly clambered across the mossy tiles, attempting to find her way over to the window she knew was Georges'. Well, as far as she knew, anyway. Perhaps 'was his' was a more accurate term. Still, she hoped that he resided here still. Thom had assured her that George remained in residence at the Dove, though she didn't know which room he was in. She made a point to ask Thom how he knew so much about George; if he was as much a pariah from Jon and her lives as Thom had made him out to be, why was Thom himself still seemingly in touch with him? Not that she was not thankful for such a fact, oh no! Just that it seemed odd to her; she'd never have imagined that Thom and George would get along very well.
The window she was looking for loomed up in front of her suddenly. She was startled for a moment, her foot slipping slightly on the tiles. "Goddess, I'm too old for this." She muttered to herself as she braced her arms against the frame of the window, keeping herself from slipping any further. Once she was sure that she'd not slip, she began slowly pushing against the side of the frame, hoping that it would pop open relatively easily. To her dismay, nothing appeared to happen, so she sent a trickle of her Gift into the hinges, loosening them just so – and her subsequent push sent the window swinging open slightly.
Now was the time when she'd have to be careful. Regardless of what else he might be, George was a thief, and a particularly good one at that. Sneaking into the room of a thief was not something she had wanted to do, but she had been forced this far, what was the point in turning back now? So she slipped her foot over the sill, sliding feet first into the room.
For a thirty-something out-of-shape knight wearing a full skirt, she thought she had been particularly stealthy. Unfortunately for her, this was apparently not the case. Almost as soon as her feet had touched the ground, a fist came flying towards her face, seeking to strike her solidly on the temple. As her eyes flew wide in surprise, instinct took over, and she flung up her hands to ward the blow off. Thankfully, her quick actions saved her from immediate harm, but her assailant was following his initial strike up with more blows. Fending them off as best she could, Alanna concentrated purely on keeping the blows from striking her; such a tactic prevented her from getting in any attacks of her own (Which, she rationalized, would be very difficult to pull off in her current attire), and so the fight was a short one. Eventually, the assailant managed to trip Alanna up, sending her sprawling onto her back. The man, for she could tell it was a man now by his broad shoulders, came down on top of her quickly, holding cold steel to her throat.
Though the chill of steel was nothing compared to the ice in his voice; "Tell me who sent you, and I might let y'go without much more than a few scars on that face o' yours."
"George?" It was him, of course. At least she'd gotten to him.
The knife at her throat was pushed slightly tighter; "Who are you? 'Ow do you know who I am?"
"George," she swallowed, the knife pricking at her skin as she did so. "I-It's me."
Too late did she realise that saying such a thing wasn't the smartest thing she could have done, not when she looked like she did. "I've never seen y'before in m'life," George spoke slowly, as if going over things in his head. Keeping the knife flush with her throat, he let her up onto her feet. As soon as she was upright, he turned her about so he could look at her. "Let me ask again, and dun lie to me. Who are you?"
It was her first real look at him, and to say he had changed was an understatement. A patch over his left eye was the obvious difference, though she couldn't tell whether it was there for any purpose; George always liked to keep his opponents guessing – facing a half-blind man who later turned out to be able to see perfectly well was something he'd come up with, she was sure of it. He looked…old, too. Her George would be the same age as this one, but this George looked to be another ten years older. Could it be that remaining in the Rogue for as long as this George had done so would have such a detrimental affect on his life, or was it something more…personal? Like, say, herself. Gulping slightly, she finally revealed herself to him. "It's me- It's Alanna."
His only response was to snort at her, "Look, I dun know if you think that's supposed t' be funny or not, but it might o' 'elped if y' looked remotely like 'er."
"It's a spell," She managed to choke out, "I had to change the way I looked so I could sneak out of the palace easily." Remembering that she could remove the disguise at will – well, with a few spoken words and crumbling one of the small blocks of wax in her pocket, she spoke up. "If you let me, I can change back."
He narrowed his good eye at her, "What do y'mean?"
"I just need to recite some words, do another spell, and it'll ch-."
"And I'm supposed t' just trust that you'll not be doing another; not a spell that'll be 'arming me?" He replied, "I'm supposed t' trust some strange girl who claims t' be the bloody queen while sneaking' into m'room?"
She sighed in exasperation; Goddess, but men could be difficult! "Look, I can tell you things that only I, only Alanna, would know." She answered him confidently, though internally she was slightly worried – what if things before her marriage to Jon here had changed as well? "If you're convinced, then I can change back."
After a moment of consideration, George cautiously agreed. "Alright then, tell me something that'll stop me from slicing up that face o' yours."
Eyes widening in surprise, he certainly sounded…bloodthirsty, she fumbled for something of note. "Uhh. Your mother's name is Eleni." She blurted out; it had been on the tip of her tongue, the first thing she could think of, but in hindsight it was not the best of choices.
It seemed George knew it too, looking at her skeptically; "And? I may try t' keep that under wraps, but it ain't something no-one but Alanna would know." He began toying with the knife in his right hand, "If that's all y' got, then perhaps…"
"No!" she spluttered, "No! That was just-" she wracked her brains for a good example, smile spreading across her face when she found a good one. Of course, if things were different here from before she married Jon, then she was in for a lot of trouble. "The first time you kissed me," She told him, "was the day before Jon's nineteenth birthday." Allowing a small smile to creep onto her face, both from the memory of that incident and at George's dumbfounded expression, another scrap of information floated into her mind, "Oh! And the first time you expressed an interest in marrying me was the day before I left for the Drell River Valley." She hoped that would be enough for him; they were certainly memories only she and George would know – and she knew them very well. They were…important to her, memories of George's interest in her, and she'd never told another living soul, not even Jon. She wondered on that, quickly – why hadn't she told him? She'd never really mentioned George's interest in her at all; was it just because she knew he'd be jealous? She didn't know, but…maybe she should save such thoughts for another time – perhaps turn her attention back to the man who was still holding a knife to her face.
He stared evenly at her for a long while, considering, before the hand wielding said knife eventually dropped down beside his leg. His good eye was wide in astonishment, "By the Crooked God," he muttered. "It is you."
Nodding, she restrained the urge to roll her eyes, "Can I do the spell, then?" She realised that doing so wasn't really necessary now – he believed that it was her, so why should she need to change back? Still, it would be nice for George to be confronting a familiar face rather than this…palace maid. As he nodded his assent, moving away from her, she reached into her pocket and retrieved one of the wax blocks. Holding it in an open palm, she intoned the words Thom had drilled into her, power pervading her words as her Gift rose within her. A nimbus of purple energy surrounded her hand, focusing on the cube of wax before moving to sheathe her entire body in its glow. At the completion of her incantation, she clenched her open palm into a fist, crushing the block within it. The illusion covering her shattered like a pane of glass, and she was herself again.
"Mithros…" she hear George whisper in wonder, "I- so it is you. Even wit' what you'd said, I still…" He stopped suddenly, letting a small smile spread over his face. Almost as suddenly as it had appeared, however, he dropped his gaze to his feet. When he looked up at her again, he seemed to be drinking her in with his eye – caressing her body with his gaze as if he were thirsty for the sight of her. She preened a little under his attention – he wasn't her George, but it was close enough, she supposed. It felt nice to be wanted, be it George or Jon. No! Not Jon, just George! What was her mind going on about tonight?! She cursed her loss of focus, she couldn't be thinking about anyone but George at the moment. A view which appeared to be accurate, seeing as how when she turned her attention back to him, she noticed that his gaze was changing though - she could tell; he was looking at her with a much…harder…expression now.
"What?" She asked, somewhat confused.
"You're here." He stated again, though with a questioning tone to it. "Why?" the icy chill had returned now, and his next words were said as if he was merely talking to a stranger, "I thought I made it perfectly clear last time y' came 'ere that y' weren't t' do so again."
That certainly threw her, "Huh? I mean…what?" She cursed inwardly for a moment; Thom had said there had been a falling out between the two of them - she shouldn't have expected George to take her into his arms again as soon as she showed up. It seemed that whatever had been said or done between this Alanna and this George, or however long ago it had happened in their past, it was still a very bitter memory for him.
George frowned at her, "Y' mean, y' dun even remember…?" His voice was – again – icy cold, though she thought she could discern a painful tone to it as well. If it was such a bitter memory for him, the very idea that she had forgotten such a conversation was just too horrible for him. She needed to fix this, but how?
"No! I mean…" Sigh. "I don't mean that. George, look. It's complicated, but I can explain."
"Oh, I dun doubt that," his mouth compressed into a tight line, and he injected the words with a great deal of sarcasm, "Your Majesty. But that dun change the fact that-" he shook his head, "Look. I dun care why you're 'ere, or what excuses you might 'ave come up with for coming 'ere when you made it quite clear last time what you think o' me. So…just leave."
"George, look-"
"Go." He whispered back, averting his eyes from her as if to put her out of mind.
That ticked her off. "Stop!" she stated firmly, voice hard but not yet raised to a yell. "Just…stop, alright? I need to tell you something."
"Is that right? Well, what if I dun want t' 'ear your excuses, Your Maje-"
"That's just it!" she managed to choke out, exasperation getting the better of her, "I'm not her! I'm not the Queen."
He turned back to look at her then, "So you were lying earlier, then? You're not Alanna?" He rose, bringing his knife back up again, "I knew that something was…different…about you from t' moment y' stepped in 'ere. "
"No, George, wait! I am Alanna, but I'm not the queen." He was still looking at her, confused. Which was probably just as well, "I'm not the Alanna you know; I'm from a different…" What had Thom called it? "A different Universe." Ugh, that couldn't have been phrased any better, could it?
George glared at her, pointedly refusing to lower the knife. "That's…that's certainly not what I was expecting y' t'say," he admitted, blinking in surprise, "but y'still gonna be leaving now. If y'not Alanna, then I dun want t' talk t'you anyway, and if y'are 'er, then I made it perfectly clear years ago that I dun want t' talk with you, and you - she made it perfectly clear that such arrangements were fine with 'er." He nodded to himself. "And that's that."
"No! That is not that! I am Alanna, but I'm not the Alanna you know; and I do want to talk with you!"
"Y'seem about as short tempered." The droll reply came.
She narrowed her eyes, advancing on him regardless of the knife aimed towards her. "All the more reason to believe that we're the same." She seethed, "I know you, George, in ways which no other person but Alanna would know."
Standing stoically across from her, a few paces between them, George didn't even appear to breathing. "Aye? And 'ow do y'figure that?"
Frowning, Alanna took another pace towards him, peering up into his hazel orbs. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, why would y'know anything about me, lass." She noted the slight tremor in his voice as he used the epithet she loved so much, "We 'aven't talked in years."
"I know you, George." She told him with conviction. It was true, she did know him – though she could tell that this George was different than her own. But they couldn't be too different, could they? Everyone else she had met here was the same as they were in her world, with the obvious exception of Thom. But George…she did know him, and she still loved him as much as she ever had, didn't she? "Even if our lives are different in this world than my own, I still know you." These…feelings…for Jon were just nasty, evil, lusty thoughts that had arisen due to the situation they found themselves in, she knew that; or at least felt that she knew that. So, with George here in front of her (albeit a slightly different George), she knew how she felt again. He'd melted to her, as well, she could tell – his frosty demeanour that he had been displaying when she had first come in had given way to pained responses and more emotional questions. He was responding to her, something which she wanted to continue with, to be loved by him again. Because she could also sense that he still felt for her, for this Alanna; and her own feelings for George were solid in her mind once more, or so she…no, she knew. She repeated it like a mantra in her head, over and over as reinforcement, before finally expressing it to the man standing across from her "I love you."
Never could she have expected the reaction she got from uttering those words. George's neck snapped up, his eyes now locked on her face, anger roiling up within their hazel depths. Glancing down, she noticed that his knuckles whitened on the grip of the knife as he clutched it with all his strength. "Get out." He whispered, maniacal eyes fixed on her own.
She gaped, heart clenching in pain. What was this? What had- why had he taken what she had said this way? "But-"
"I said get out!" he roared, spittle flying as he waved the knife dangerously close to her, "Get out and take your filthy lies with you!"
She only had time to see George sink to the bed in pain, head in his hands, before she raced out of the door. Tears stinging her eyes, she flew through the crowd in the Dove's lower common room, before throwing open the heavy door (the few men who attempted to stop her were rendered too awestruck to intervene as they realised that a teary eyed Queen was attempting to pull the door open) and racing out into the night.
***
She ran.
The streets became a blur as tears filled her eyes – how could he have said that? – and she was barely conscious of her surroundings at all. Such a fact led to her falling over many times, tripping on a raised cobblestone or the like. The pain of such accidents melted in her awareness, however, as the pain in her heart consumed her. She knew it shouldn't have an affect on her – after all, this was not her George, but…it was hard to rationalize pain away. So she ran.
Eventually, she found herself near the Palace Gates. She had no idea how she had gotten there, but either instinct or blind luck seemed to have pulled her through. The Palace, yes – she could do with a good sleep now, to rest and to think. She had told Jon that she would be returning, anyway, and it would do no good to have him angry with her too…
George…Shaking her head, she strode towards the gates; the heaving breaths she was taking indicating that she must have been running for a good long while. It was worrying, she felt, that she could run seemingly for miles without even realizing where she was going. Still, perhaps she wasn't in quite as bad shape as she had thought she was.
"Stop there!"
She cursed; of course the Guards would be quite vigilant, especially with what Thom had told them about current events. She stopped just before the gates; what else could she have done? Moreover, she realised with a start, she had not yet re-invoked her disguise – she was the Queen…albeit the queen in dirty rags. Maybe the darkness would hide her face? She could hope…
The Guardsman moved down out of the gatekeep, holding a sword up in front of his face as he stood in front of her. "Right, now then. What is your business in the castle at this hour, and can anyone vouch for you?" Alanna barely held back a sigh of relief, he hadn't noticed.
She soon realised why; he had his head buried in a roll of parchment, ready to note down her name and business if she were to be allowed entry. If he looked up…but no, she couldn't let that happen. She'd find herself in deep water if rumour of this little excursion were to spread, she knew – and such rumours could require her and Jon to lay low for a while, something which she certainly didn't want. Or did she? It might be best for her to spend a few days relaxing – she had planned to spend most of it in the city with George, but that plan was looking less likely by the minute. So, discretion was needed.
But how to go about it? She couldn't very well ask the Guard to go and fetch Jon, could she? And he might even recognise her voice; she cursed - if only she'd gotten her disguise back up before this very encounter! Moreover, her mind simply refused to work, refused to think of another solution in it's current state of depression. George…
No! She needed to focus, she couldn't let such thoughts put her off, to fix her mind on the tas-
"Miss?" The Guard had been confused by her silence, looking up at her. "Are you alr-?" his eyes widened in shock; "Great Mithros! It's th-!"
"Be quiet!" she snapped to the guard, it was the last thing she needed to have some fool guardsman announcing her presence to more fool guardsmen. Sigh. "Just open the door, Guardsman."
He was still gaping, a look of sheer puzzlement emblazoned across his face while his mouth opened and closed like a fish. "Uhh, ah…"
Rolling her eyes, Alanna's frustration and unsettled nerves got the better of her, "Do it!"
"Yes, yes." He rushed off quickly, before rushing back into her line of sight, "Your majesty." She glared as he bowed, and followed him as he raced off again. The Gate creaked open, and as soon as she could she slipped through the gap. Pointedly refusing to turn back, she could still almost hear the Guardsman running around to tell his fellows about their itinerant queen.
So far? It had not been a good night.
***
"What a night," Jon sighed as he made his way into their rooms. She'd quietly made her way back up through the palace floors, keeping her head down and acting like a Maid until she was able to slip into Thom's room and retrieve her previously left behind clothing. From there, she'd made her way back here, and was enjoying a nice period of lying down. Being horizontal had not eased the weight from her mind, however – why had George reacted like that? Why did he act like he hated me? "I swear, those damn Scanran's don't half push and prod. I felt like I was before a Magistrate!"
He obviously doesn't feel something for me; that's why he reacted as he did when I told him I loved him. He couldn't be all that different from my George, could he?
"Alanna?"
Jon's voice wormed its way into her consciousness, "Hmm?"
"Are you alright?" She looked up, staring into Jon's concerned blue orbs. One could be lost in those…
Again she had to force herself to focus, "Yes, yes. I'm fine." The lie rolled off her tongue easily, not even a tremor in it.
It didn't trick this, her greatest friend, however. He tilted his head to the side as if to say please, don't try that on me. He sank down onto the bed beside her, "Alanna," he began, still keeping his gaze fixed on her, "you can tell me. What happened tonight?"
Could she tell him? Something had seemed…off…earlier when she had mentioned George. Possibly something had- No. She could trust Jon, she could believe in him. She had to, it seemed, if they were to get through this. "George." She choked out, "I went to see George."
He nodded; of course, he already knew that. "What happened?"
Tears began to well at the sides of her eyes again, but she wouldn't let them fall. She had been through the madly crying phase already - she was over that now. It still hurt, however, to think on it. "He hates me." She whispered simply, "I got him to believe that it was me, that was easy enough. But then…" shaking her head to, she supposed, deny the prospect, "He was so cruel – I can tell that what I, what the other Alanna, did to him in this world was horrible. He hasn't gotten over it; and then when I told him that I loved him he yelled at…-" she noticed Jon leaning slightly away, shifting his weight on the bed, "What?"
"Hmm?" he queried, innocently. "I'm sorry? You were still describing what happened."
She frowned, "No. Why did you do that?"
"What?"
Don't give me the run around! "Why did you move away? Just then?"
He blinked. "I didn't." he muttered, unconvincingly.
Rolling her eyes, she gave him a slight grin. "Oh you so did, and you know it too." He shrugged, and her grin widened. "Why?"
Jon squirmed for a response "I was trying to get comfortable." She just looked at him, imitating his little skeptical head-tilt. "Okay, fine. You want the truth?"
She let an eyebrow rise up, "Ah, yes. Yes I do. What I've been trying to get since the beginning of the conversation, actually." She enjoyed this, this banter between them. It was a staple of their relationship, always had been, and it allowed her to focus her attention on something else...
…Though not for long. "I moved away because I was uncomfortable," Jon replied, sighing heavily. "And I was uncomfortable because I…I can't help it – getting uncomfortable – when I hear about you and George; your marriage."
"Why?" she truly had no idea what he was talking about.
He sighed again, about as heavily as before. "I don't know. I just-" he trailed off, pensively.
"Just what?" Blushing slightly, he turned away from her. She began to worry, and reached out for his shoulder, putting a hand on it. "Jon? Please – you can tell me."
He laughed softly at her repetition of his own words, "I suppose I can, at that." He whispered, taking her hand in his. He turned back to her, though he kept his eyes downcast. She supposed that was for the best – with her own seemingly re-ignited lust for the man, and his current proximity, it was probably quite a good thing that she couldn't drown herself in those bottomless pools. "I have to tell you something, and I think it might come as a surprise."
She nodded, the worry increasing. What was he going to tell her, and what did it have to do with George and her? "Okay. Fire away."
He licked his lips, obviously very nervous. "I think that I'm…" he cut off, pursing his lips. What he wanted to say was obviously something very…difficult to get out.
"Jon," she told him, leaning in slightly to him, "You can tell me anything, you know that, right?" His eyes rose to peer into her own, and she found herself thinking about his handsome jaw again. Maybe if she just ran her fingertip along there…? No! No, no, no! Bad Alanna! The thoughts remained however, and she squeezed out the next words as if to just reaffirm her own thoughts – "After all, we've been friends for decades; nothing can come between that." Not even these thrice-be-damned lusty, wrong thoughts! Shoo!
So wrapped up in her own thoughts was she that she didn't notice the flash of pain spread across Jon's face, before he dropped his gaze again. "You're right, of course." He mumbled, "I can tell you anything." Nor did she catch the self loathing injected into the last sentence.
Finally getting her focus back (and she was most unimpressed with her own thinking. For a moment there she had wondered what it would be like to sit alongside him and- Well, she was most annoyed with her lack of focus tonight. She supposed that what George had said to her shook her up a lot worse than what she had originally realised – it was that which was causing these thoughts, yes. Though that small, annoyingly logical part of her brain kept reminding her that she had been fantasizing about Jon earlier this afternoon…but she stomped that voice quickly!) "Now, Jon," she began after she'd regained her center, "What was it that you think you are?"
"What?" he asked suddenly, "Oh, right." He glanced away from her suddenly, though he retained his grip on her hands. He took a long breath, as if steeling himself, though his words were delivered a shade flippantly, like they were easier to say than he had expected. "Yes. I think that I'm falling out of love with Thayet." He told her quietly.
She gaped, shocked. "Oh Jon, that's…" she swallowed the bulge of emotion in her throat. "I'm sorry." She twined her arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly. Perhaps a little tighter than she should have, "Are you sure? I mean, is it just because-"
"Because we're here?" he finished her sentence, his head to the left hand side of her own, "Well, that is a tiny part of it, I suppose. I guess being here has made me…re-evaluate things. But I was feeling this before we even arrived here. I don't know, I guess it's just that we're not the same people we were when we married; and while I love that Thayet, I don't feel the same now."
She didn't know what to say to that, and resigned herself to just offering him support in the only way she could. She stroked his back, hopefully in a soothing motion. Comfort was something she wasn't used to offering, but it was Jon! She could certainly try for her best friend! "I'm sorry." She whispered.
Jon shushed her, "It's not your fault, don't apologise." He told her, "I'm not even sure if it's such a bad thing."
That confused her, "What?" she withdrew her arms then, but allowed him to grasp them as they slid down his arms. She sat across from him now, hands clasped in his. "What do you mean?"
He looked at her intently, "Because I don't think I was happy. I don't think she was happy, either. At least now I'm not deluding myself."
"You weren't happy?"
"No." he shook his head, "No I wasn't. I don't think I could be."
"Why not?" she asked, genuinely curious.
Jon continued to stare at her intently, softly running his thumbs over the backs of her hands. He licked his lips again, before he steeled himself once more. "Because I don't think I was with the woman I love."
She frowned, "But who then?" Did she know her? He'd been with Thayet for the past twenty years or so – could he have had a mistress in that time? She didn't want to think it, but who else? Maybe an old love, a flame from his past like…
Like her.
Oh.
Her widening eyes must have given Jon an indication of her thoughts, and he leant towards her. "I know I shouldn't be doing this, putting you under this pressure," he whispered softly, "but I had to get it off my chest."
Alanna was frozen, "W-w-what?"
"I love you, Alanna." Jon told her softly. Frozen as she was, she didn't put up any resistance as Jon tentatively ducked his head in towards hers, pressing his lips to hers…