Title: Thieves in the Night – Completely ripped off from the title of one of my favourite tracks, Thieves in the Night by Black Star.

Rating: PG-13 - It will end up at an R eventually. I'll assume it's PG-13 for now, but I don't know the American rating system, so…

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, folks, and sorry about the ridiculous delay. I wasn't satisfied with the ending of this chapter, and I'm still not really, but here goes nothing. Also, I forgot to thank Ria for being my beta. I love you, kid! So yeah, read and let me know what you think. Thanks!

Disclaimer: The cheque's in the mail, I'll let you know when they cash it.

II. Only Aggressive

A beautiful crown moulding adorned the ceiling of Rory's room. It wove a delicate pattern of curves from the walls inward, all reaching toward the centrepiece, an intricate light fixture of dangling crystal. The curling plaster reminded Rory of a labyrinth, a subtle maze through which one could wander without ever knowing how gently one was being guided towards one's fate, until a dead end was reached. She could gaze at it for hours on end, carefully picking her way down various paths, following them until they stopped, always at a distance from their destination; so far, none had ever attained the chandelier.

"Room service!" The brisk knock at the door paused Rory's reverie long enough to wonder who had sent her breakfast.

"Non, merçi," she replied, flatly.

"I'm sorry, madame, but it has been ordered," came the rejoinder.

Pursed lips the only sign of her frustration, Rory tossed off her covers and padded into the suite's sitting room, pausing at the door only long enough to open it. She proceeded to the bathroom without a backward glance at the little man who entered, his eyes deftly averted from the sight of her naked form disappearing around the corner. Stepping onto the cool marble tiles, Rory, too, avoided her reflection in the mirror, heading directly for the shower.

Carelessly turning the knobs, she welcomed the gush of water, literally drowning out the sounds of her meal being arranged in the other room. As the steam rose, she relaxed, once again safely ensconced behind a muffling of senses and hidden from any unwelcome probing. The hot water was an attempt to sear away memories of the flesh, stories the pores of her skin could tell about the previous night. She was trying to recall and forget events simultaneously, ingrained habit and new defences struggling against each other. Despite the combined efforts of water and mind, images flashed before her closed eyes.

A sumptuously adorned penthouse. Men and women, interacting, drinking, smoking. Sound—laughter, mostly bitter and hollow. Cold air. Eyes. An attractive man, tall and refined. White, a long, slim white line. A hand offered and—she winced—taken. A dark room, more laughter—hers?—and a bed. Lips, hands, heat—

With a gasp, Rory flung her head back from where it had fallen forward, eyes closed, letting the water splash on her face. Hands pressed against the wall to hold herself up, her entire body shook. From passion, maybe, or the after-effects of a night of indulgence, or the cold water that now coursed in rivulets across her skin. Slightly frantic, she shut off the shower and stepped back into the Roman bath-style room, thankful that the mirrors were still fogged up. She grabbed the nearest towel and stalked out.

The man had vanished, leaving behind an elaborate tray of covered dishes. Rory removed the silver lids, tossing them off to reveal a feast of fruits, breads, confitures, cheeses and meats. The food looked delicious, but she merely nibbled at a piece of melon, eyeing the fresh pot of coffee, prepared American-style.

That was Old Rory's vice. New Rory had enough without it.

Instead, she lifted each plate carefully, checking the undersides of the elegant ceramics. Her frustration grew with every dish inspected and she resisted the temptation to drop them on the floor, knowing that she oughtn't piss anyone off too much. Finally, only the coffee pot remained, and she wasn't far enough gone in desperation to ignore the irony as her fingers found a small, plastic bag attached underneath. Nearly crying with relief, and all the more distressed by the emotion, Rory dropped to her knees in front of the tray and gently tapped out two small, green pills. She paused, then added a few more, leaving the bag nearly empty. Without hesitation, she tossed the pills back, downing a bottle of water to ease their journey. She remained kneeling, fists clenched and eyes squeezed shut, not hearing the tinkle of the crystal chandelier, nor feeling the slight draft, simply waiting for relief. Waiting, waiting for....

—"Fucking hell!" A familiar voice.—

... darkness.

* * *

"Elle doit passer la nuit, monsieur."

"Mais—Elle récupérera?"

The answer was lost as a cart of some sort rattled by outside. Rory fought to open her eyes. They felt swollen, as though she'd cried herself to sleep while experiencing allergies. She didn't have allergies, however, and though she remembered the last time she'd cried all too well right now, it wasn't recent. Grinding her teeth, she tried to raise a hand, intending to wipe the sleep from her eyes, only to discover her movement hindered. Panicking, she managed to open her eyes a crack, only to be dizzied by the sight of her arms and legs, tied to the bed. Restrained.

She closed her eyes briefly, willing the blood to re-circulate through her head, then reopened them. Observing her condition passively for a moment, Rory considering the slender but firm-looking bands circling her wrists and ankles. Another heartbeat and she was struggling wildly, flinging herself back and forth, pouring her terror and frustration out in a soundless shriek. The bed shook, slamming into the expensive equipment flanking it, and the bedside tray flew across the room with a clatter. Her restraints hardly stretched.

A nurse suddenly dashed in, alerted by the racket Rory had caused. She glared at him as he tilted her head back and calmly forced her mouth open, depositing two pills. Trying to spit them out, she found her efforts made futile by the grip he had on her jaw, which he maintained until she swallowed. His task accomplished, the nurse moved aside, rearranging the room, and gently admonished her. Within seconds, she relaxed, and felt a familiar fog rise in that nebulous region between inner and outer feeling.

Her slow smile disturbed the nurse, though he couldn't pinpoint why as he gently shut the door behind him. After all, how was he to guess at her thoughts, currently amused by the irony that a very similar poison to that which had landed her here was being used to further subdue her?

* * *

He slumped against the uncomfortable seat, hands sunk deep in his pockets, eyes bloodshot and clothes rumpled in a way that made obvious their recent use as pyjamas. The comforting, efficient sound of the hospital was weakened here, in the waiting room, by evidence of what efficiency had no control over. A man and a woman sat across from him, wound up so tightly he doubted they were breathing. They were joined at the hand, their white knuckles as painful to see as the distant look in their eyes. A few seats further down sat an older woman, absently holding her coat together over what was obviously a nightgown. He imagined she'd been here all night, waiting, ears attuned to the sound of any potential harbinger. Her skin was darker, but her knuckles were the same shade as those of the couple opposite him, and her eyes saw the same terrifying sight, staring blankly, oblivious to the strands of grey hair lying in their path.

In a sense, he felt guilty because he knew he didn't belong. Rory was going to live. She had lived the last time, and yet again the Fates had been kind enough to spare her. He wasn't sure whom he should thank. He wasn't even sure if it was his place to do so. It had been made extremely clear to him how little he mattered.

They had had an agreement. He looked out for her—as much as one could be said to look out for another while keeping them awash in any chemical they desired—and she allowed him to. His supply was endless and, lately, it seemed her appetites matched. But then, he understood. He knew what it meant to be where she was, if not the finer details, and he realized that if he refused her, she would simply flee. Likely somewhere lacking any friends and anyone to drive her to the hospital when she lost control. In fact, he was sure of that now, since the slightest pressure on his part had resulted in her current state, imprisoned on a hospital bed, twitching.

He and Rory both knew that he had been biding his time, hoping to work his way close enough to not only catch her when she fell, but get a firm grasp on her and tug her out, eventually. Perhaps he'd gotten impatient or frustrated; perhaps it was the influences he'd been under, no better than her own, really. The point was he'd pushed at the limits of their unspoken agreement and she'd reacted.

Since her arrival in Paris, they had shared his apartment, platonically. He would keep his mouth shut about almost everything, commenting only on occasions when he gauged her mood to be receptive. Those, admittedly, were rare, and he winced, recalling their last conversation. They had both been high, enjoying a quiet evening together, when a remark of Rory's had sparked a memory. The more he questioned her, the more agitated she grew, until they were yelling at each other. By morning she was gone and he was left with the terrifying task of hunting her down in the most touristed city in the world.

A hunt that had ended that morning, five weeks later, on the second floor of the De Crillon Hotel. The suite wasn't under her name, of course, nor that of her alias, but Jean d'Eau, a character whose sense of humour he would like to permanently dent. His breathing became ragged as he remembered the panic he'd felt upon flinging open her door. Rory had been on her knees, smiling, an overturned bottle of water forming a dark circle in the carpet at her side, silver domes of various sizes strewn around her. She had sat back on her heels, appearing peaceful for a short moment, before tilting over in slow-motion to sprawl between the tell-tale baggie and the stained carpet, her blank gaze fixed on the dancing crystal chandelier.

"Monsieur et Madame Gerard?" A soothing voice snapped his thoughts forward six hours. The couple stood hesitantly, and at the nurse's indication, followed her from the room.

He decided at that moment, ensconced in a stiff, green hospital chair, the buzz of expectant air resounding, that he would never, ever relive that feeling.

A few seats down, a middle-aged woman shook her head with sympathy, regarding his white knuckles and vacant gaze.