Title: Wings of Crimson
Author: Summer [Indian Summer]
Date Published: 07.18.2004
Rating: PG-13, for now
Summary: At twenty-five, Grace Polk's soul is darker than it was at fifteen. Her life has spiraled out of control, and she's lost all that's important to her. Her daughter, her boyfriend, her father. She's been looking for comfort in the arms of the wrong man, but what happens when the man she can't forget comes back?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from "Joan of Arcadia" or the words of Ovid.
Author's Note: Grace's present relationship may be a little hard for some of you to grasp, but eventually it will be sorted out. I promise. Please review.
Prologue


"The cause is hidden. The effect is visible to all."
-Ovid


As she sleeps, he studies her. Her shoulder-length hair, a dark brown, so different than it was years before. Her relaxed face, peaceful in sleep. Her legs, bronze and shapely, with a tiny crimson and blue tattoo on her ankle. This is where he pauses. He knows it well; without even looking he can trace the design, recreate it. It's a tiny butterfly, its wings outstretched, its body, where crimson met blue, violet.

Each time he sees it he feels a pang of something, searing at his heart. It's not simply jealousy, but he'd be lying if he said there was none.

They'd only been together a few weeks when she told him the story behind it, how the blue symbolized her ex, the crimson herself. The violet, she'd whispered, running a finger over the tattoo's middle, was their child.

He looks at her now, trying to remember what she'd been like when the child was born. They'd had a very different relationship then, one where they barely acknowledged each other's existence. She'd been younger, he thought, and more optimistic.

As he runs his fingers through her dark hair, he recognizes the strangeness behind this thought. She'd never been very optimistic, but back then, she'd at least had a fighting spirit, the idea she could correct the world's problems, if she only pushed herself that little bit harder, for a tiny bit longer.

She'd called her daughter Zara. She brushed him off whenever he asked about the name, telling him it was special to her. He doesn't dare tell her he knows the meaning behind the name, that he always has.

She opens her eyes, now a dull gray, and he remembers the days they were so vivid and full of life, the days before she lost her daughter.

.

.

They've never had a normal relationship, so he isn't surprised when she sits up, pulling the sheet with her. He isn't surprised that she doesn't smile, that she doesn't say anything.

He watches her with wonder as she dresses, admiring her petite body. She pulls her 'Free Tibet' T-shirt over her breasts, braless. There's something symbolic here, he recognizes, as she slips into her black pants, something free. Because even after everything she has been through, there's still a freedom in her spirit, something that can't be suppressed.

She offers him her trademark smirk as she plucks her car keys from his nightstand, and he reaches out and grabs her hand, his eyes silently pleading with her to stay.

She shakes her head sadly, not breaking eye contact. "Gavin…" she murmurs, her eyes understanding.

He watches her as she grows uncomfortable, as the fight-or-flight instinct he knows so well from her teenage years kicks in. He drops her hand and watches as she flees, his apartment door slamming behind her.

And a thought occurs to him.

At twenty-five, Grace Polk is still the scared fifteen year old she likes to pretend never existed.

.

.