Part Three: Knight's Rival

It is a long time before he turns from the window. She wonders what he expects: his doom to have come at last? His own small personal Judgement Day, a tiny Armageddon? Or are his dreams as haunted as hers, did he know that she was on her way?

She supposed the gun that was pointed at her was a good indication of who he was expecting.

It wavers slightly as he sees who it is, then his grip firms and she can see his finger tighten on the trigger. She cries out and takes a step nearer.

"Stop," he says, and she thinks he is whispering; but she can see the livid red scar on his throat, unbound by any scarf or any concealment, and she knows that this is how he talks now; that arthritic croak in the back of his throat is all he can manage. She'd done more damage than she thought, and not quite enough, at the time. But she was instantly sorry for it now. That harsh, cruel whisper is a reminder of why he has good reason not to trust her, so she falters to a stop.

"I came for you," she said, unwisely, and his head jerks up, reflexively, startled.

"You came for me," he repeats. "Why would you do that, Leese."

Another half step and this time he doesn't command her to stand still; but he watches just as avidly as before, and she knows she stands on dangerous ground. Whatever softness it was that she had seen in his eyes when she first met him, it was cloaked and hidden now. She hadn't regained any importance to him except as an intruder that needed to be dealt with; it was still him first.

"I worry about you," she says, taking the high road and telling the truth, chancing the consequences: mocking or outright skepticism, a likely refusal to believe her. "I worry about them catching you and I know I'm insane but I couldn't help myself, I had to come."

He walks forward now, and though his face is still dark by the light from the window behind him, she can see the glinting in his eyes. He's intrigued and curious and dangerously skeptical. She stands still and bites her lip, willing him to see the truth in her eyes, hear the honesty in her voice. The gun is between them, and he brings it up to place it almost tenderly against her throat, the cold metal making her jump nervously though she tries to curb this reaction. He is very close, and his eyes are cold and they glitter like ice. She gets the feeling he's been in this room for a long time.

"I'm sorry I couldn't let you know I was going," he says, softly. "But it was dangerous. It still is, regardless of why you're actually here, two can't hide as easily as one, and they probably followed you." The gun drops suddenly and he looks at her with disgust. "If this is your notion of revenge, leading them to me, I say its pretty idiotic on your part to come in alone."

"I didn't lead anyone," she said desperately, "you have to believe me. I was very careful that no one saw me or knew where I was going, I didn't tell anyone. No one knows. I swear."

The gun is back at her throat, nudging, almost playfully, as his other hand explores the tendrils of hair that have come loose from her ponytail, twisting them around his fingers and pulling them tight, to see if he could hurt her. He's taken another step closer; when he shifts his weight, his belt buckle brushes against her waist.

"You swear," he says, with something near affection. "Listen, sweetheart, I'm trying to decide if I should blow your head off now or wait five minutes. The dumbest thing you ever did, in a lifetime of dumb things, is come here now."

"They're after you, aren't they?"

He tips his head towards her, solicitously. "What, no comment on my death threat? No hitch in your breath, no frantic panic, no stumbling backwards away from my odious presence—"

"Jackson," she says fiercely, "Jackson."

He seems almost struck dumb by her use of his name, whether or not it was actually his real one. That's how he introduced himself to her the first time; subsequently she relished calling him Jack, since he didn't like it. She was that kind of girl.

"Jackson," she says again, "you want to kill me, kill me. It'll make you feel better, go ahead and do it. I knew full well I was putting my life on the line coming after you, and if there's a fifty-fifty chance of my living or dying, well. Toss the coin, Jackson. Swing the sword, and see if I duck."

"It'll catch you," he said without thinking, and their eyes met again, sane and insane and full of wonder. Her gaze drifts; his mouth is too close not to be looked at, her dreams too real not to be thought of. She leans forward, and he slaps her across the face, looking wounded.

It wasn't a hard hit, but she reacts, and hits back. They both watch each other, warily, stunned, uncertain, angry. The gun is back against her throat, a threat, a power that he doesn't feel he can afford to relinquish.

"Don't lie to me," he hisses, that awful anguished whisper sounding crazy rather than angry, and clearly he is infuriated by this. "Don't you ever ever lie to me, girl."

Her hand on her face, holding the warmth of his hand onto her skin, not letting it flow away; "I'm not lying."

Its hard for him to breathe, he gasps and sputters and his chest heaves. His eyes dart nervously to the door, back behind him to the window, back to her as though afraid she'd leave. He steps backwards and waves her forward with the gun, motioning her towards him. She comes, towards the window, which he jabs at with the gun.

"They're probably watching," he rasps to her, "I know one of these days they'll do more than watch. Doesn't matter if I get taken in by the authorities or my own people, the outcomes the same. No one's going to let me get away twice. A slash to the jugular." A wry grin as he motions towards his scar. "Lots of blood and very effective, very messy. Trust me, I know. There's no recovering. I didn't realize it at the time, how gentle you were in comparison, but I guess I must have been distracted."

"Jackson," she says, and covers her face with both hands, blocking out the light. He takes her hands down, roughly, and forces her chin up so she has to look at him.

"I need to know what you're doing here, Leese," he tells her. "I need to know, so I can deal with it. As it needs to be dealt with."

"What hope do I have of convincing you?" she asks, helplessly.

"None at all," he assures her. But he's closer again, and the gun is still at the ready. She glances at it and then back into his eyes.

"I hate you," she says, "that's why I came." Before he replies, her hands take him by the throat, she presses on that scar with hurtful force; the gun wavers towards her head but he won't pull the trigger. She pushes the skin down and watches his air cut in half, just enough to stagger him, then lets up the pressure and pulls him the rest of the way towards her, stealing what's left of his air from his lips.

"I never wanted," between kisses, as he gasps and his eyes are wide and he hasn't yet begun to respond, "to be anything other than what I was," and he's understood now, his lips are softened, "but I see that all things color my perceptions," she can feel the gun at her back now, but not pointed, and the belt buckle she noticed earlier is pressed bruisingly against her, "and you changed me, you bas—" He's succeeded now in cutting her off entirely, and forcing her attention back on the situation in hand.

She pulls at his shirt and he reaches and grasps but he won't let go of the gun.