Unreasonable Addiction
Chapter 4: Realization
By Yumegari and LRH (Beta-read by Skylanth. , Thank you, Skylanth!)
Clair extricated herself from Brandon's tangled limbs and stood up, rubbing her knuckles. She shot a dark glance at Octavius. "What are you laughing at?"
"Heh," he said, leaning against the sword and then backward to prop himself against the wall. "Well done," he panted. "You've ... changed, haven't you?" He slid down the wall to the floor, still laughing breathlessly.
She looked at him blankly, then down at Brandon. "Yeah," she said, a tiny smile finding its way out. "A little." She blinked, and laughed slightly herself. "I'm less tolerant of being picked up and taken places against my will now." She laughed harder, closing her eyes and leaning back against the door. "If I'd just done that six years ago, where would we be now?"
He laughed outright at that, albeit wheezily. "Who knows," he said, leaning his head back against the wall and chuckling stringily.
She crouched, sitting on her heels by Brandon's side, lifting his eyelids to check his pupils with a penlight from the breast pocket of her shirt. Equally reactive. "I can't believe I hit him that-" Her head went up as a car door slammed outside. "Oh no," she said softly. Footsteps sounded on the porch, and the doorbell rang.
Octavius' eyes flew open. "Is that... Agent Lynley?" he asked, struggling to rise. He patted across the floor for the other half of the cane and sheathed the sword, pushing it against the floor as he did so. He hauled himself to his feet and swayed.
"It must be," she said, pulling Brandon's limp form out of the way so she could get past the door. She surveyed the scene hastily. One wanted criminal, one unconscious boyfriend with a sword slash across his chest, and an unconcerned cat. And nowhere to hide.
He stared into space for a moment, his breathing quick and shallow. Then suddenly he lurched forward and pushed the door shut. "Follow my lead," he said to her, pushing her toward the table and into the chair. He hid the plate and drew the sword again, taking up a position behind her. A beat later, he struggled into the longcoat again, holding it with his teeth as he pushed his almost nonfunctional right arm into it and shrugging it into place.
Outside the lab, the knocking continued, joined by raised voices. "Miss Holmes? Clair? Are you in there?"
"What are you doing?" she whispered to Octavius as the voices outside escalated. After no results, the door opened with its usual squeak, and two pairs of heavy footsteps invaded the front hallway. "It shouldn't have been unlocked," Clair heard Lynley say, and the footsteps rushed to search the house. She held her breath as they approached the back hall and the lab.
"The only way to secure any leverage at all is to lead them to believe I've already firmly established myself here with you as my hostage," he hissed in her ear. "They'll have to negotiate, which will buy us time."
She nodded as the footsteps of the agents, having cleared the rest of the house already, approached the lab door carefully. The knob jiggled, and then the door burst open, revealing Agent Lynley and his partner, who Clair didn't know, with guns drawn.
"I suggest you put the weapons down, gentlemen," Octavius said, raising his voice, still speaking slowly and deliberately. "You wouldn't want all of your hard work to go to waste."
Lynley didn't lower his gun, aiming it past Clair at Octavius with an only slightly shaky hand. "Step away from her, Doctor Octopus. We've got the house surrounded; you're not going to be getting away this time."
He smiled slightly. "My, how hostage negotiations have changed," he said. "D'you see this?" he moved the sword, bringing it up near Clair's neck. "Even if you shot me from there, the reflex action would slit her throat. Has a delightfully antediluvian charm to it, wouldn't you say? Are you that willing to sacrifice what you'd worked so hard to protect?" Clair swallowed, needing no acting whatsoever to look frightened. The blade was cold against her skin.
Lynley considered this, then slowly tipped his gun up and set it down on the floor, his partner following suit. "Just put the sword down, and we'll talk. What do you want?"
"Oh, I think you know what I want," he replied, the sword not moving. "She has certain ... supplies necessary to my endeavors. She has already ... graciously complied. I should hate to think that any interference from you or your compatriots would disrupt this arrangement." his right hand made its way to her shoulder and squeezed it lightly.
Clair remained frozen, her eyes darting between the two agents as sirens, two, then more, came down the street. Lynley licked his lips nervously. "What's it going to take to get you to let her go, Ock?" he asked.
He turned his head, regarding him with his left eye. "You aren't a negotiator, are you Agent Lynley?"
"Not officially," he said guardedly. "But I can be your negotiator, if you want. Or we can get you anyone you want." He nodded to his partner, who bent down to check Brandon's pulse. "Can we take him out of here?"
Octavius nodded. "Take him out of here," he said with a measure of disgust. "As to a negotiator," here he smirked. "I have no preference, really. We've worked things out so amicably so far."
The sirens stopped in front of the house and more footsteps clattered in. "In here," Lynley called cautiously, not taking his eyes off Octavius. "We have a hostage situation." The partner ducked forward and grabbed Brandon, who was beginning to stir, by the shoulders, dragging him out of the room.
Two more men came clomping in, stepping over Brandon, who was still being dragged out by Lynley's partner. The nearest, a tall fellow with a sharp face, wire-rim spectacles, and thinning ginger hair, stopped before Lynley, holding up an FBI badge with one hand and sticking the other out to shake. "Brian Hanover, Negotiator," he said. "What's the situation?" He led Lynley away from the door as he spoke.
Shooting Octavius a last glance, Lynley followed Hanover back into the hall. "The man is Dr. Otto Octavius, a.k.a. Doctor Octopus. The man down is Brandon Page, Miss Holmes' boyfriend. He lives here with her. The hostage is Clair Holmes, a.k.a. Clair Watson. She's been in Witness Protection for about six years to protect her from him. It's not the first time she's been held by him. She seems pretty frightened, but she's not hysterical or anything. Frozen. He's got a sword, of all things, and he's threatening to slit her throat. He hasn't made any demands, says she's already complied with what he wants, and he didn't give us any trouble about removing Mr. Page from the scene."
Hanover thought about this for a few beats. "What the hell is he doing all the way out here?" he mused. "He wouldn't tell you what Holmes complied to?"
Lynley shook his head. "Just said something about supplies necessary to something."
"Just how I like 'em, nice and vague," was Hanover's reply as he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He sat down at the kitchen table and hauled his bag off his shoulder, opening it and retrieving a laptop computer, which he opened and activated. Clicking through startup screens, he brought up an FBI database of sorts, accessing a section designated META.
"Metahuman database," he said. "Got files on everyone from the Hulk to Doctor Doom and back in here," he said. Flicking through the entries, he eventually stopped on a page dominated by what looked like a newspaper photograph of a rotund man with a bowl haircut and spectacles that looked as though they'd been raided out of Elton John's costume closet. The man wore tight spandex and a lab-coat and hung from two metal arms that centered at his waist, two more similar arms frozen in the act of throwing a car. "Here we go, Doctor Octopus. Crackpot scientist." He scrolled through page after page after page of entries and file photos that eventually started to chart a change in the man's look. Hanover must have taken speed-reading courses in his academy days, because his eyes flickered over the text and he muttered things about nuclear breeder reactors and superteams and a vendetta against Spider-man. A heist at an art museum was accompanied by a photo, also newsprint, of what appeared to be the same man only by virtue of omnipresent eye-wear and the metal arms. The spandex had been replaced by a massive leather longcoat, the bowl-cut by long, slicked-back locks. "Vitruvian Man," Hanover muttered. "Real nutjob 'f you ask me." More muttering about security technology and the name "Brigham Fontaine," and then he stopped on the last entry, accompanied by another photo, a badly-angled shot of the same individual, the coat now black, his expression carrying no humanity whatsoever. "Huh," Hanover said after a moment. "He's been getting more and more random with his Evil Plans, isn't he?"
Lynley looked over the man's shoulder, impressed, but not about to show it. "He doesn't have the arms with him," he pointed out, stung by the "vague" comment. "Not that I could see."
Hanover smiled humourlessly and closed the laptop. "Then I guess we're just gonna have to ask him why he left his favourite toys at home, aren't we?" He got back up and walked to the lab door. "Octavius!" he yelled. "Name's Hanover. Brian Hanover. Wanna ask you a few questions."
Octavius, still standing behind Clair with his hand on her shoulder and his sword at her neck, sighed. "Negotiators," he muttered, then raised his voice again. "Very well."
"Why'd you leave the arms at home?"
"They weren't necessary."
"Probably a real bitch to get em past airport security, huh? Dead giveaway. Why the secrecy, Octavius?"
"You tell me, Hanover. Why would I possibly need to hide my identity?"
"Touche," Hanover muttered. Then, "Came here in a rush, didn't you? My guess is you saw Doctor Holmes, here, in a newscast and came right away. What's the hurry, big guy?" Hanover peered into the room, taking in the sight of Clair and Octavius. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly.
"That is my concern," Octavius replied. "Doctor Holmes and I were conducting our business perfectly well before you all came along."
"What does Holmes do, anyway?" he asked of Lynley. "Isn't she some kinda brain surgeon?"
"Neurosurgeon," Lynley said, nodding and racking his memory for the details from her file. "Apparently, she's pretty good. We've had to keep her out of the news a few times before this thing with the Governor's son slipped through yesterday. Back when she was a student, she was into research, but she's practical now. One reprimand on her record for improper testing, but the details are confidential."
"The important ones always are," Hanover muttered. He looked through the door again. "You say Octavius has held her hostage before. Any details on that?"
"Yeah. He kidnapped her from the lab of her university in NY, took her somewhere, she didn't know where, and had her operate on him. She was shocky, sketchy about details, but apparently, he just let her walk out. She was bruised around the neck as if she'd been strangled, and down her back, with a lot of odd little punctures, but no real injuries. The city paid for some therapy and she went back to a normal life, but then someone called in a tip that Octavius was threatening her, and we stuck her in the Program."
Hanover leaned against the wall and looked at Lynley. "Octavius is a nuclear physicist. Or, at least, he was. His interests are all over the map. But I've never seen anything about his taking an interest in brain surgery... unless..." He looked through the lab door again, squinting. He watched as Octavius conferred almost inaudibly with Holmes. The sword remained steady, however...
"He use his right hand at all, since you came in here?" he asked, turning to look at Lynley again.
Lynley rolled his eyes upwards, thinking. "No," he said at last. "Except to hold her shoulder. Why?"
Hanover simply nodded as though that confirmed a suspicion. He looked back though the lab door. "Octavius! It's Hanover again."
Feeling himself start to wilt, Octavius took a deep breath and straightened his spine. "Yes?"
"Kinda noticed you don't look so good, there, pal. Little trouble with that arm? Whole right side, maybe? What do you really need Doctor Holmes for?"
"I already told you, that's none of your concern!" Octavius snapped.
A clock chimed. An hour had already passed. He squeezed Clair's shoulder again, and she noticed his grip had weakened further. She twisted, careful of the blade, and looked up at him, trying to ask silently how he was doing. She knew, once the t-PA treatment was started, it had to be finished on schedule. Almost as though reading the silent question in her eyes, he shook his head, then looked at the syringes and vials she'd left at the other end of the table. The sword moved away from her neck but was still held nearby. Clair stood slowly and crossed to the other end of the table, getting the needle and a new vial. She was careful to keep her movements as controlled as possible as she drew the correct dose, checked the syringe for air and came back stiffly to his side.
"What are you doing, Doctor Holmes?" Hanover's voice rang through the otherwise quiet room.
"Don't answer," Octavius muttered, gesturing that she help him with the longcoat sleeve.
"It's important that I know the situation, Doctor Holmes," Hanover persisted. "I'm sure you understand that."
Remembering the fear she had felt on their first encounter and using that to shrink her voice, she spoke while rolling up the sleeve far enough to reach the vein. "It's a tissue plasminogen activator," she said, making the injection smoothly before pulling away. "It degrades atrophied hemoglobin."
"Y'don't say," Hanover said drily. "Mind repeating that in English for us, Doctor? What's it do?" When Octavius shook his head, Hanover returned his attention to him. "Something you don't want us to know, Octavius?"
"Many things, Mister Hanover," came the lofty reply.
"Yeah, I thought so. What leverage you got over Holmes, Octavius? Gotta be more than that antique you're waving around. Got her family tied up in some cellar somewhere? Got some piece of gonzo science ready to explode at the press of a button? Implant something in her boyfriend? I know how your type works, Octavius. Never do anything half-assed."
Octavius' grip tightened on the sword and he hissed in anger.
"Temper, there, Doc," Hanover said breezily. "Just answer me one question. What do you plan on doing with Holmes once this thing's done?"
Octavius visibly calmed himself, leading Clair to the table with his nerveless right hand. She sat and he resumed his position behind her, sword under her chin. "Now that all depends on whether you or your men do anything rash, now, doesn't it, Mister Hanover?"
"Let's say we don't."
"Then it'd be a miracle," Octavius muttered. Then, "I will release her. Like I did last time."
"What happened last time?"
"That is also none of your concern, Hanover!" Octavius growled. "I tire of your incessant questioning! I tire of your voice! Leave us!"
"Now you know I can't do that-"
"LEAVE US!" Octavius howled, the sword digging against the skin of Clair's neck. "LEAVE US OR SO HELP ME SHE WILL DIE!"
Hanover looked about to say something, but withdrew and closed the door. As soon as it closed, Octavius dropped the sword and leaned against the table, panting, sweat beading on his brow. Clair turned around, rubbing her neck. "Careful," she said quietly, hardly voicing the words. "Is it getting worse?"
"It's the same as before," he panted, leaning heavily against the table. "Pounding headache. Can't tolerate sounds... light... blinding..." He shuddered violently and his left hand started to twitch. "Can't think... same as before..."
"I can give you a painkiller," she offered. "It'll steady you, but you'll feel a little muzzy. A little more muzzy," she corrected. "You have to keep this up or they take you away. I'll help all I can, but this is mostly up to you."
He shook his head, hair swinging. "Can't afford to ... lose ... lucidity..." He swayed, then sank to the floor, left arm shaking as it struggled to hold him up. "Need ... a moment... calm myself..." His breathing was as laboured as ever and he knelt there, breathing loudly, struggling to calm himself.
There was a quiet brrrt and Frank appeared, making his slow three-legged way toward Octavius to rub against the other's leg. Octavius looked down at him, chest still heaving. He gazed at the cat for several moments. Clair crouched next to him, and checked his pulse. It was slowing, which meant that his blood pressure was probably dropping. She looked up, thinking. "I could add a stimulant. It's not the best idea, but it would keep you alert."
There was a pause, and Octavius nodded, his breathing still laboured. The cat climbed onto his leg and draped over him, paws kneading at the fabric of his trousers.
She got up and opened the chemical storage cooler, searching through the vials, discarding one after another until she came up with two. "Clear off, Frank," she muttered, pushing the cat away once she was back at his side. "Okay, this is propoxyphene napsylate, a pain killer, and the stimulant is boraphine. It's going to speed up your heart rate and raise your blood pressure, but you'll feel stronger."
He nodded again, pushing the sleeve up a little further. "How much longer do we need to continue this treatment?" he wheezed
"Four more hours," she said, injecting first the painkiller, then the other into the vein. "You should feel this right away." She pushed the cat away when he tried to climb back onto Octavius' legs. "I hope it helps."
Octavius sat back, rubbing his arm. "Hnnn..." he said, looking away. Truth be told, he was feeling some kind of effect. The painkiller was fuzzing his consciousness, making him sleepy. His hand twitched. His spine floated, there was no other way to describe it. His eyes fluttered and he sighed, leaning back until he felt his back press against the couch, and counted his breaths. This was not going to be pleasant, and the last thing he needed was to be woken up from a sleep state by a suddenly spiking heart rate. He waited, fighting to keep his eyes open.
She peered out the window, through the mostly-shut curtains. "They've surrounded the house now. How are we going to hold them off long enough?"
"I don't know," he mumbled. "I don't know everything, it just seems that way..."
She looked back at him. "Come on. We'll think of something. Are you feeling the stimulant yet?"
He sucked in a breath and let it out in a gusty sigh, pushing himself forward and reaching for the table. Bracing on that, he hauled himself upright again. "Hnnn..." He looked at the window as well. "Blast. How to get rid of them..." He squinted at the window, thinking.
"Tell them to leave," she said, thinking as well. "You have a hostage, they have to listen to you, don't they?"
Octavius shook his head. "Heh. It's not that simple. They have a job to do, after all, and that job is rescuing you from my clutches. They've a ingrained tendency toward persistence that borders on the suicidal."
"How long until they come back in, do you think?" she asked. She could hear the police moving around outside the lab, and kept her voice down.
Octavius growled in his throat and looked up at the door. "They're too close. Too many of them." He seemed to think on this, his breathing growing faster again.
"Stay calm," she said placatingly, twitching the curtain the rest of the way shut. "We'll get out of this."
"Do not tell me to 'stay calm!'" he spat suddenly. "You have nothing at stake in this! HANOVER!" he suddenly roared, bending and retrieving the sword. "I wish to speak with you!" The sword poked lightly against Clair's collarbone and he struggled to get his other arm around her chest from behind. "I know you're listening!"
Clair took a deep breath, suddenly nervous. Abrupt mood changes were rarely a good sign, and even though she wasn't afraid of Octavius, she remained well aware that he was a dangerous man.
The door opened. "I'm here," Hanover's voice said as he stood in the gathering shadows. "What do you need?"
"I need you and your men to leave this house!" Octavius spat.
"That's out of the question, Octavius, you know that."
"Gather around its perimeter if you must, you vultures, but LEAVE this HOUSE!"
"How many hostage situations have you participated in over all these years, Octavius? Most people can't count that high, I'm sure. It's not like you to go forgetting the rules of engagement, here," Hanover said calmly, with the air of a preternaturally patient teacher. "The hostage-taker makes his demands, sure, otherwise it wouldn't be a hostage situation, would it? But you know there are limits to what you can demand in regard to our tactics. The stage is set, Octavius, and it's pretty small. If we leave the house, there's no telling what you would do."
"If you do not leave this place, there is no telling what I would do! If I am forced to ask again, Doctor Holmes here will start losing body parts, and I'm certain none of you want that!" The intensity in his voice grew to a fever pitch and she could feel him shaking. "I will start with her ears. After that, perhaps her toes. I wouldn't want to rob her of her fingers so quickly!" His grip on her tightened a fraction.
Hanover appeared to think on this. "Do you have a phone in here, Doctor Holmes?" he asked. She nodded carefully, not sure what the situation was at the moment. Octavius didn't seem entirely in control at the moment.
"Give me the phone number, Doctor Holmes," Hanover said placatingly. "We'll retreat to the perimeter and continue negotiations. Will that suffice?" His gaze moved back to Octavius.
"Yesss..." Octavius hissed, fury still evident in his voice.
"It's five five five, five six eight seven," she stuttered.
Hanover nodded. "We'll withdraw, then, Octavius. And in ten minutes, I will call Doctor Holmes' phone. Do I have your word that she will answer?"
"Yes," Octavius hissed again. "Now leave."
Hanover quietly shut the door. Octavius wilted, dropping the sword on the table and releasing Clair. He found the chair and dropped heavily onto it, rubbing his forehead.
"You were scaring me," she said. She flexed her hands, which felt preternaturally cold. "But at least they're convinced."
He took a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh. A beat passed. He looked up, watching her twitch her fingers. A strange feeling spread through his chest like someone had just burst a bag of warm jelly. Another sigh and he shook his head, reaching out to wrap very warm fingers around Clair's. "Can't afford to have chilled fingers," he muttered.
"You're always warm," she observed. "At least we know your circulation hasn't been impaired."
"Hnn," he said, reaching out to pick up her other hand, pressing them together between his. He looked down at them, possibly noticing how small hers were compared to his.
She noted that as well. His hands enveloped hers completely. She had always noticed hands. Maybe it was a side effect of being a surgeon, relying so much on the skill of her fingers, but she regarded hands as important. His were not unattractive; well-formed and strong, with long fingers.
Hers were cold. And trembling ever so slightly under his palms. He waited for them to warm up, and noticed how near they were. Strange. He never let people near him, and yet she always seemed to be somewhere within his personal space. It didn't anger him as much as it would have normally. His gaze traveled to her face and he watched her, realizing that her hair was shorter than it was the last time he'd gotten this close of a look at her, six years ago.
She ducked her head, escaping his gaze to hide the blush that was threatening. "You have nice hands," she blurted out before she could stop herself, and she cursed herself silently as seven times an idiot.
An amused snort escaped him. "It's not exactly what I usually expect to hear from hostages, even willing ones."
"We don't exactly have a typical hostage to bad-guy relationship," she pointed out, smiling.
"True, that." There was a pause as his gaze moved to the window, then the door, then the television, then back to her. "I feel strangely compelled to ask what you've been doing these six years." He hadn't yet let go of her hands, even though they were warming by now.
"Not much of anything, really," she answered. "Once I graduated, the FBI moved me out here and placed me at HarborView, and I've been there ever since. I like it here, but it's not half as exciting as New York."
"Why did they move you then? It seems to me that if they really thought I was a threat, they would have moved you straight away." he looked at her sidelong with his left eye. "Or have you been going around getting yourself kidnapped by other 'evil geniuses?' Should I hunt down the Lizard when I get home, perhaps? Or the Vulture?"The barest hint of a smile crept across his features at that, turning up one side of his mouth.
"No, nothing like that," she laughed. "They weren't going to move me at all, until someone phoned in an anonymous tip that you'd made some threats." She looked at him quizzically. "You didn't, did you?"
He shook his head. "No," he said, looking a little puzzled. "Who would falsify something like that?"
"If the Program ever found out, they never told me," she shrugged. "I didn't even find out about the tip until I came home from the lab one day and found all my stuff being carted out of my apartment. I've had a lot of time to think about it, though. Whoever did it effectively got me out of the neuroregenesis field. I can't do any heavy research at all now."
"Neuroregenesis," Octavius thought about this for a moment. "Biotechnology." His fingers tightened as he momentarily forgot he had Clair's hands in his. "Osborn," he grated. "I wouldn't put it past him to try to eliminate any competition he didn't figure could be bought."
"Osborn, as in Oscorp Osborn?" Clair asked, wiggling her fingers in his grip. "Why would he be interested in any of this?"
He loosened his grip. "Oscorp is a biotechnology firm. And Norman Osborn does not like advances that aren't made under his eye. It's a wonder he didn't try to buy your discovery."
"He couldn't have if he wanted to," Clair pointed out. "As soon as they found out that I'd done 'unsanctioned human testing,' my research was officially confiscated and the results locked, while a government team took the whole concept back to square one to try and get the same results."
He growled softly at that. "There's nothing quite like the government at forcibly reinventing the wheel, is there?" His eyes lit on Frank, who sat licking his leg obliviously. "And yet you continued research on your own anyway..."
"Obviously." She smiled down at Frank. "They couldn't confiscate what I knew about it. And the research was more important than letting them make it complicated." She looked over her shoulder at a stack of battered notebooks, all dog-eared and labeled with that same smiling zombie. "I'm going to be in trouble again when this is all over, if the police take too close a look at what you're here for."
"It looks as though I was wrong," he said, gazing at the stack of notebooks. "You didn't let them stand in the way of doing what you're meant to do. A drive I'm quite familiar with."
"I know," she said. "If we let bureaucracy stand in our way, science would stagnate under the sheer weight of tests to test tests." She rolled her eyes. "It is ridiculous, how far they're willing to go to prove that something doesn't work, while it's working right in front of their eyes."
"Which is why you simply go ahead and demonstrate that it works anyway," he said, releasing her hands and pushing himself to his feet. Leaning against the table, he made his way to where the notebooks sat stacked in a pile and flipped open the top one, looking down at it.
"If I did that publically," she pointed out. "I would go to jail, and I can't do my research from there." She looked at the number on the spine of the notebook that he had opened. "That's my notes from Frank's recovery. He went through a behavioral pattern very similar to yours, actually." She looked away. "On a smaller scale."
"There's always the life of a renegade," he murmured, looking back at her. "But strangely I don't think I'd want to see you do that." That one-sided smile again. "You might put me out of business."
"Oh yes, I can see that," she smirked, crossing her arms and leaning on the table. "The renegade neurosurgeon. Watch out kids, she'll steal your brain and make it dream in a jar." She laughed warmly. "I just can't picture it."
He chuckled at that. "Oh, that's only because you've set your sights too low. Why make brains dream in jars when you can tailor that neural serum of yours to have any effect on the nervous system you wanted. It could open the door to all kinds of things. Biochemical mind control... A thriving drug market... Then the next thing I know you'll be parading about in something skintight and scrambling Spider-man's brain from the inside out. Something I wouldn't mind seeing," though whether it was her in a skintight outfit or Spider-man dead wasn't clear.
"Don't give me any ideas," she chuckled. "It's only too possible, with this stuff. I'm working on a delivery system that would eliminate the whole hole-in-head thing. A carrier virus that would deliver the serum to the soma without letting it reach the myelin sheath." She pulled out the third notebook down in the stack. "See, it's only theoretical right now, though I was about to start tests, but with this, a simple injection would deliver the serum." She flipped through the pages of diagrams and rambling notes, her eyes bright with passion for the subject.
He watched her, unable to take his gaze from the sight of her eyes or her slightly flushed face. Even when she stopped on the page in question and pointed out the schematics and the descriptions, he still watched her.
"See, it's..." She looked up from the page to find him watching her intently. The blush returned in earnest, making her feel about twelve years old and lighting her ears figuratively on fire. "It's... uh..." She trailed off, watching him watch her.
He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the notes, but shuffled closer to peer at them. Almost unconsciously, he placed his hand on her shoulder to steady himself. He leaned forward, his hair brushing her cheek.
Acutely aware of his proximity, she struggled to bring her thoughts back together. "It's, um, if I could get the funding for a better lab, I would test this. Use a relatively inert virus, because you don't want it spreading." She could feel the heat from him, and almost leaned back into it. "Something that would die off after a while."
"The equipment you need could probably be easily procured, though I doubt you'd want to go through the channels necessary to get them," he said softly, still looking down at the notes. "And I'm not sure if I'd want you to, either..."
She couldn't think. Something was wrong in her own head, she couldn't keep a train of thought, and her heart was taking on a rhythm all its own. "Why not?" she asked softly.
"It's a dangerous, deadly life and once you set your foot on that path, you can never leave it. If you did... I would feel strangely compelled to protect you," he breathed.
She twisted to look at him, searching his face for . . . something. "Then you'd know what it feels like."
"What what feels like?" came the answer, barely audible. If at all possible, he seemed to draw even closer.
"To want to protect someone who's part of your life through the oddest series of chances and events, and to suddenly care..." She broke off, then continued resolutely, her voice a mere whisper. "And to care suddenly about someone so much that their life, their, continued health becomes the most important thing in the world."
His hand came up, almost of its own volition, to slip a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers intensely hot as they brushed her ear. "I suppose I do, at that."
She reached up and caught his hand. "When this is over," she said, studying it, then looking back up into his eyes. "Take me with you."
He blinked. "Take... take you with me?" he asked, the question Why? clear in his tone.
"This isn't my life," she said, looking around them. "I left my life behind in New York six years ago. Ever since, it's been like living outside myself, reading a book about my life that someone else is writing. Only here, in my lab, do I ever get to feel alive. And now they'll take all of this away from me again. And you..." She lost the string of words. "I'd worry about you," she finished lamely.
"You would worry about me?" he echoed, the smallest hint of a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "There's more, isn't there?"
Clair nodded. "And I'd miss you. I know it sounds trite and cliched, but there it is. I feel more, more when you're around. Like I'm using my whole brain, like the volume's turned up and everything is sharper..." She laughed. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"
"No... no, you're making sense," he said, his gaze caught on something far off, his tone that of one who'd just come to a realization. His fingers curled around hers. "You're making ... perfect sense." He looked back down at her, into her grey eyes.
Her breath caught as she looked back into his eyes, and she tipped her face up to his, smiling slightly. "So you do understand," she whispered.
He dropped his head a fraction further, looking at her through lidded eyes that she could see, now, at this small, close distance, through the sunglasses. "Yes... I think I do," he murmured. "I think I understand." They were so very close now, it was almost as though his gaze could read her thoughts.
As if it were inevitable, she rose on her toes, closed that tiny distance and brushed her lips against his, then pulled back, startled by her own temerity.
A beat passed. Breathless silence in which he grew perfectly motionless. In an instant, his hand, which had been grasping her fingers, slipped into her hair and he leaned forward, pressing his lips, hot and insistent, to hers. His right hand grasped her shoulder, fingers curling lightly around it but just as hot as the other hand, intense heat soaking through the fabric of her shirt.
She melted against him, deepening the kiss silently, one hand sliding behind his neck, the other fisting itself in the collar of his coat. It was like kissing the sun, all heat and power and electricity.
He growled softly in his throat, a sound almost like that of a huge, purring jungle cat, both arms around her, now, pulling her against him, and he leaned forward even further, lips capturing hers, possessive, tingling with intensity and heat. His eyes had slipped shut and his breathing had grown deep and heavy, his racing heart thundering in his chest. The kiss lengthened, an exquisite eternity-
The phone rang.
