A/N- Glad for all the reviews, as always. Not much else to say…again. Sorry about the delay--I was sick. Diagnoses? Writer's Block, the horrible, horrible illness that all of us suffer from, once in a while. Evil illness.

"Ugghh… " Elizabeth spat again into the ceramic bowl she was leaning over, trying to get the taste of stomach acid out of her mouth. Gabriel was kneeling beside her, his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

"What time is it?" she asked, after spitting again.

"Around midnight, I think."

Midnight…then she had been like this for over half an hour. After walking her back to her room, she had felt more sick, so Gabriel had offered to stay until she had fallen asleep. And she had…for all of an hour. Then she had woken up, and barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up her stomach's contents. It was a good thing Gabriel hadn't left, or she strongly suspected she would have fallen into her own vomit.

And wouldn't that end Christmas on a pleasant note.

"Alright, alright…I think I'm better." Elizabeth stood up shakily, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

"Here." A water glass and a damp cloth were put in her hands. She drained half the glass and gargled the other half, spitting it into the sink. She used the cloth to wipe her face and then mouth; she was uncomfortably hot.

"Merci." She set both down next to the sink and made her way back to her bed. Gabriel followed, looking worried.

"Ange, I think you may have a fever."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. It is winter after all; I usually come down with something or other during that time." She crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up. "I'm alright…why don't you get some sleep?"

He pulled the chair over from the vanity table to next to her bed and sat down. "I'm not tired, so there's no reason for me to sleep."

She closed her eyes and turned over. After a few minutes when she found she was still awake, she turned over again and met Gabriel's eyes. "Are you going to sit there all night?"

"If it doesn't bother you, yes."

"It doesn't bother me. Goodnight…or good morning, depending on your point of view."

"Goodnight, ange."

She turned away from him again and laid down on her side. As she drifted off, (and when she knew Gabriel thought she was asleep) she could've sworn she heard him singing softly to her…or maybe just to the empty air. The lyrics were odd and twisting to her half-asleep mind, but she tried to listen to them as clearly as she could before losing consciousness. What she could remember of the song before she fell asleep went something like this:

Twisting thorns wrapped 'round my heart

The truth I cannot say

Black blood's dripping from unseen wounds

Why must it be this way?

Feeling insane, but it makes perfect sense

Why my mind's so grim and bleak

Filled with thoughts that seem so foreign

And of which I do not speak.

Black; the color of protection

Why do I need it?

The grip on my emotions used to be down to a perfection

But I still can get by

Day

By Day

By Day…

Because, like a rose grows on a trellis,

So does my hope that I can tell you, soon,

What it is I've been meaning to say

After this, Elizabeth fell asleep.

And dreamed.

Gabriel sat silently in his chair, watching Elizabeth as he slept, and at the same time not exactly seeing her.

He wasn't sure the party went exactly as she had planned it, but it was one of the best times he'd had that he could remember. The dancing had been his favorite part of the entire night…no, day. Hell, life. He wondered if they could ever do anything like that again…just dance, and forget everything…maybe next time there could be music.

And no going out on the balcony afterwards. This time, no random drunk demon will appear to cut off your words.

And so what if that happens? He challenged himself, but half-heartedly. He already knew the answer to that.

What if he did say what he was meaning to? What if she rejected him? What if she just gawked open-mouthed in silence? What if she thought he had lost his mind?

What if she didn't love him back?

What if she did?

What if…what if…what if. Every question he asked himself seemed to start with those two, evil, despicable words.

"What if."

If you spent your whole time wondering what might happen, you'll always be too cowardly to just tell her!

So what? You heard her, she's happy the way she is. If it goes on like this, she won't be upset.

She doesn't even know.

She doesn't know…doesn't know what? That you love her? That you torture yourself by keeping your thoughts to yourself and padlocked?

Gabriel shook his head, hair flying from side to side. He hadn't changed yet, and was still in his formal clothes (minus the coat).

His mind abandoned that subject and jumped to another, which, unsurprisingly, involved Elizabeth. What if (oh, joy, those damnable words again) she was seriously ill?

You worry more than a mother! She said it herself; she usually get ill like this during the winter. Everybody does, to be rational. And Elizabeth would know if it was more than a minor fever: she's the one that is sick, not you.

Think about something other than her for a moment, Gabriel, or you'll drive yourself insane!

A little late for that, he thought dryly, but moved on to think about music; the second most important thing in his life. Rose is third now, I suppose, and painting is fourth. Myself, I don't believe I even make that list.

The most recent song he had come up with was one he had just sung a minute before, when Elizabeth had fallen asleep. Whether he had intended to direct the song at her or to nothing at all, he wasn't sure. Like music, lyrics could form in his head from a few words that interested him, even for a moment. The hard part was matching the lyrics to the music…finding the right song to go to the right words took some time…but was not terribly hard. Not for him, leastways.

Regrettably, all of his lyrics (and music) of late seemed to be…gloomy. He couldn't remember the last time he had written something cheerful.

Maybe you're just not good at that: cheer. Ask Elizabeth to help, sometime; she has enough for the both of you.

Not true! I'm a happy person…sometimes…

Oh, really? Name the last time you did something, willingly and without hesitation, out of joy, not out of fear that she might reject you, or some absurd thought such as that?

I danced…

Only because she asked you to ask her. And even then you weren't all for it.

I was happy when we were dancing! And I was happy when we read together, and was happy when we raced each other, and was happy when we talked, and whenever we talk. Or do anything. As long as its with her.

Gabriel cut off his thoughts for the time being and watched Elizabeth sleep. How could she look so peaceful, even when she's ill?

She mumbled something in her sleep and flopped over on her back, head tilted to one side. A curl fell across her closed eyes, and he brushed it out of her face before realizing his hand moved. He remembered Alison doing the same for Kal as he slept.

Would they ever end up like that? Running to avoid society? He hoped not. The castle was the only home he had ever known, and, reflecting on his recent trip to the village, had only been out of it twice in twenty-six years, since the time he was born.

Never mind about that: the castle walls are strong, and your parents also spelled them to last for generations. Nothing is going to get through them or break them down; not even time.

What if she wants to move? Surely no-one can want to stay in one place for the rest of their lives. He was an example: only been out twice in over two decades, and was now believing he was ready for the insane asylum. He talked to himself, his piano, his roses, Rose…surely that was not a good sign?

Whatever sign it is, it matters little or none. Don't plan Elizabeth's life out before she does. She's capable of making her own decisions. If staying with you is one; fine. If leaving is one; fine. Let her choose herself, and don't pressure her into leaving.

Gabriel sighed and looked at her again: his gaze had drifted unconsciously around the room as he thought. "I love you, ange. I love you. There, I've said it. I love you more than anything else."

" 'M hungry…get me a pureed rat and some wine…" she mumbled in her sleep, before switching her position to her side again.

"Of course, ange," he whispered. Was he upset or glad that she didn't hear him? Maybe he felt both. Yes, that was it. "Stay asleep, now. You need your rest."

"…a glass of wine, please…" she mumbled again before falling silent. Her breathing regulated again, deep and even.

After a while, Gabriel also dozed off, not moving from the chair.

"A glass of water, then leave me alone, please." Jason said as loud as he could without aggravating his already horrible headache.

I will never drink eight straight bottles of vodka. Again. He clenched his teeth as the pain resumed its relentless pounding.

Gods, it feels like someone's stabbing me with a red-hot dagger. He mutely accepted the water from his servant, which went away as soon as the glass left its hand. Apparently, they all now feared him falling on top of them and pinning them to the ground for a long period of time before he could drag himself up.

He took as sip of the water and tried to remember the events that had happened during his intoxicated period.

Vague images of him appearing in random places for a few moments then disappearing came to him. Apparently, he had transported himself (while he was very, very drunk) to the local pub, a church, a family's home, the middle of an abandoned field, an underground cave filled with vampires, and Gabriel's castle. Then he had re-appeared at his domain, on the kitchen table, and slept it off. And that meant about nine hours or so of him, Lord Jason, one of the greatest demon sorcerers in Europe, sprawled out on a table, snoring and drooling and muttering half-formed phrases brought on by delirium.

Just wonderful.

He tossed the glass into the fireplace were it shattered. He had finished the water, and saw no problem with disposing of the glass himself.

Usually, at this time, he would check up on the two through his glass orb, but, currently? His hangover was so bad that he didn't really give a damn if they threw themselves off their balconies.

See, this is why Marie wanted you to quit drinking. No wonder she always got so upset! You're worse when you sober up then when you're running around in a drunken stupor!

Jason flapped his hand and grumbled at himself to be quiet. Marie this, Marie that, Marie, Marie, Marie! You're crazier about her than Gabriel is about Elizabeth!

Were crazier, he automatically corrected himself, then: No, I still am. Except for the minor fact that she's dead and I haven't seen her in thirteen years…

Jason shrugged absently and peeled off his robe: the room was uncomfortably hot., despite it being winter. Under his black robe, which was his clan's uniform for their sorcerers, were a par of black breeches and soft boots. The robe acted as a shirt, if a overly-long one, so he didn't wear one under it.

He frowned slightly at the deep scars that ran across his abdomen. Jason never was one for vanity, but he still hated them. They were long, jagged, and deep. Instead of the pale color most scars were when they had healed, these were black as night; a reminder of the demon, if he even could be called that, who had inflicted them.

Demon, don't make me laugh! That thing is exactly what Kalendrakk's name means in his kind's tongue: a heartless abomination. Too bad he carries such a deep hatred toward every thing that breathes (except for his Princess, of course); he would've made an excellent assassin. Near-limitless strength, practically invincible, and, of course, the lack of most emotions…yes, it is a pity.

Even more of a pity that Alison thinks of Elizabeth and her pet as friends, or allies, at the very least. To have such an advanced illusionist such as the Princess working for him…He tucked a silver lock of hair behind his ear. It'll never happen, Jason, and you know it. Kalendrakk protects her with his life, which you know, no matter how powerful you are, cannot extinguish.

He turned and looked into the fire, orange-red light reflecting off of his face and in his red eyes. He had inherited them from his father; his mother, actually, was one of the Fey, so that made him a half-demon (a fact that he kept closely guarded). His skeletal body and cat-like features he had inherited from her. His hair, he supposed, must have come from somewhere down his father's bloodline, for neither of his parents had silver hair. His father's was black, and his mother's was tawny. And, like his father, he had ears that tapered into points. In his left he wore a small golden hoop, which caught the firelight and held it, turning it into a ring of molten gold.

The headache forgotten for the time being, Jason extended his left hand (and dominant hand) with his long fingers outstretched toward the fire.

Fire manipulation was one of the first things he had learned to do, when he was first learning his family's craft as a child.

Over three hundred years ago.

The fire abruptly turned a deep onyx, shot through with garnet streaks. He had always found the combination of the two colors attractive.

They were the colors of Marie's hair.

As he watched, barely using any magical effort at all, the fire separated into three strands, then arranged themselves in a neat plait. When it was finished, the fire collapsed on itself into a neat orb, which hovered in the fireplace. Jason twitched his fingers ever so slightly and the orb levitate out of the fireplace and into the center of the room, where it stopped, exactly between the ceiling and floor. The black-and-red fire orb gave of light, but it was a very dim and muted glow.

And much easier on his eyes. Especially when he was hangover. He dragged himself out of his armchair and lay out on the couch, the eerie colors of the fire-orb playing over his body, like a child's engraved tin lamp that spins when a lit candle is placed in it.

It was a good idea, Jason thought, to sleep until the next day. A very good idea indeed. By then, his headache would have completely faded, and he could think straight.

The orb floated perfectly still, boldly taunting him with the color (or colors, actually) of Marie's hair until he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

His last conscious thought was to get himself another two favorite colors that looked good as a fire-orb.