When the World Stops
AngelsFred
A/N: I tried to make my writing style as close to FredsAngel's as possible since she wrote the first two chapters (or 1& 3 now). Unfortunately, she left a cliff-hanger of sorts; so this chapter might sound a little odd. (As close to mine as possible? You use too many big words. And you don't like dialogue. And you don't like fluff.) There's a lot of conversation in this chapter and it's fluffy. Sort of.
A/N 2: This is the first time that something I've written from a female's POV has ended up the way I wanted to. Yay! Go me! Sorry; I had a FA moment. (If you weren't 4 hours away…) FA writes well from the POV of either gender (ha, majoring in music; what a waste of talent), but I just do not understand women at all. (Hey! What about me?) I've spent the better part of 18 years trying to figure you out. You are truly an enigma that boggles the mind in ways I didn't think possible. (Okay, now I'm confused.) Then my job is done.
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Chapter 4
My heart stops. What in the hell? I recognise the voice, but I must be going insane; there is no way he can be here. Okay. Just relax, Toni; just breathe. And I slowly turn around to find myself face-to-face with the source of the depression that has ruled my life for the last two years.
"How'd you find me? And how did you get in? There are security charms and anti-apparition wards for a twenty-kilometre radius around the estate," I say to the redhead in front of me, my voice laced with acid and bitterness.
"An old Muggle trick," he answers, holding up an out-of-shape paperclip. "I assume you know what this is since you've decided to pose as a Muggle, Antoinette." He lets out a hollow laugh. "As if one of the Toussaint-Johnson daughters could be a Muggle. And to answer your first question: at twenty-two, your mind works the same way it did at twelve. When you're upset, you head to France; it's the only place you feel safe. Kind of ironic actually, seeing as your whole family was slaughtered in this very castle."
I hate him so much. "You finally got something right," I spit out. "Well, actually, not quite. You see, I used to feel safe in your arms, too, but due to circumstances beyond my control, I haven't had that luxury lately." Shit. I just saw a flicker of pain in his eyes and it felt like someone stabbed me in the heart. That was not supposed to happen; I'm supposed to getting over him, not feeling his heartbreak.
But the hurt disappears as fast as it surfaced and Fred cups my chin and tilts my face up towards his. "Well, don't worry about that anymore," he whispers in his husky, sexy voice. "I promise I'll never leave you again, Angel."
I feel weak in the knees just listening to the sound of his voice. Ninety-percent of my brain is screaming "Damn it, Toni, you are not allowed to feel this way! You hate him; you don't love him anymore." The other ten-percent is wondering if he looks as good naked as he used to, and that part is winning my inner argument. But somehow, I manage to push him away. "Don't touch me and don't call me 'Angel!'"
He looks at me sadly. "Angel –" He gets no further before he feels my hand make contact with his left cheek.
"Damn it, Weasley! What part of 'don't call me Angel' did you not understand?!" My hand might have slapped him of its own accord, but I must admit that it felt damn good to hurt him like he hurt me. For about a nanosecond, anyway; now I feel that stabbing pain in my heart again.
"Angelina Antoinette Toussaint-Johnson-Weasley!" He used my whole name; I can't believe he used my whole name. (Most people never realised that my sisters and I had hyphenated last names.) Even my own parents never called me by my full name when they were angry with me (which was often, in my mother's case). "Will you please just listen to me?" He's begging; no, he's grovelling and it's pathetic. No, it's not; it's sweet, that bloody voice at the back of my mind says.
Well, if I want to get over him, then I have to be just as callous to him as he was to me. And in the exact same tone of voice he used two years ago, I say "No."
"So what you're telling me is that you have time to rendezvous in New York with that brainless hack, Alex Daniels, but you can't listen to me, your own husband?"
I'm fighting to keep my voice cold and unfeeling, but it's hard when Fred's words are eating me up inside. "EX-husband. And what I'm saying is that we've been over for a long time. TWO YEARS, Fred, officially; in reality it's been closer to three! You can't have me sign divorce papers and then expect me to still be waiting when the whore you left me for decides to leave you!"
"Angelina, I haven't been with anyone else! Do you know how hard it was for me to sign those papers before I sent them? Or how much I wanted to die when I saw the look on your face as I slammed the door after I said that I didn't love you? These last two years have been just as much hell for me as they have been for you; probably more."
"Whatever. Look, Fred, it doesn't matter what your reasons for divorcing me were; all that matters is that we haven't been together for a long time and I've gotten over you and found someone better."
"Yeah. Alex Daniels, Brian Stewart, Franco Bugatti, Jason Kennedy, and a bunch of other celebrity 'bad boys.' Daniels was the only one who lasted more than two weeks." He laughed bitterly. "But Lauryn Campbell… I didn't even know that she was your type. Well, now that I think about it, she was exactly your type. But you must have changed in recent years; after all, the Angelina I knew would have sooner kicked someone's ass before they laid a hand on her." He's referring to all the tabloid stories that my brief relationship with Canadian motorbike racer Lauryn Campbell was abusive.
"One: I don't have a type. Two: Lauryn and I have never dated; we were just good friends who liked to go shopping and clubbing together. And she has never, ever hit me; if she had, she'd lying six feet under right now. And three: Alex is a great guy who cares about me a lot; he's not a talentless hack. I really think that he might be the one." I'm lying through my teeth, including the part about Lauryn hitting me. That's what ended our relationship: she accused me of cheating and beat me with a lead pipe. Two weeks later, when I got out of the hospital, I tried to run her over with my Corvette.
Fred snorts. "You most certainly do have a type: tall redheads with brown eyes that could be dead ringers for me. Campbell looks exactly the same way, which leads me to believe that you're lying about the extent of your relationship with her. Finally, I never said he was talentless; I said he was brainless. And there's no way you can be in love with him…" He pauses before adding, "because you love me."
"I most certainly do not," I retort with false indignance. But he sees right through me. Abby was the only person who knew me better than he did. I used to love him for that; now I despise him for it.
"You're lying, Angel. You should stop; it's a bad habit and it doesn't become you. Besides, you suck at it," he says with a bit of a smile on his face. He always has to get a joke in.
"I am not lying! And my name is 'Antoinette' or 'Toni;' not 'Angel!' 'Angelina' is dead; you killed her!"
"Well in that case, let me see if I can bring her back to life," he murmurs and bends his head down. His lips are now millimetres from mine and I involuntarily tilt my head up to close the minuscule amount of space between us. For the briefest moment my mind tells me that this is wrong; that I shouldn't be doing this. But it can't come up with a good enough reason why and it feels so right being in his arms again, so I just succumb. Hell, I'm tired of fighting, anyway.