Disclaimer: You know how people have really creative and funny disclaimers? Well mine is not one of them. I DO NOT OWN REBEL ANGELS AND I AM NOT LIBBA BRAY.

A/N: I really loved the kissing scene in the book; I hope this will do it justice!

oOoOoOo

My infernal self-doubt had been eating away at my insides by the time I carefully placed the message on Gemma's pillow. Once I reached the stables, I knew there was no going back.

In the face of an almost certain rejection, I nearly regretted my set-in-stone decision to tell her that I loved her, but I reminded myself that it was an unforgivable thing to ignore. I could never go on without telling her. Never.

However, most of my previous confidence (and all of my fears, as well), returned to me immediately once I saw Gemma again. She was going to the opera. With who she would be spending her time with, I was not sure. Be it Muddleton, her family, or her collection interfering friends, I was infinitely envious that it wasn't me who she was to spend the evening with.

The new, or increased, I should say, feelings were rather disconcerting, for now not only was I daydreaming incessantly about Gemma, but the air around me seemed to grow quite a bit warmer when I thought of her. My heart would beat rapidly, my breath a little quicker. Hopeless. I was hopeless.

Such was the case when I was to drive Gemma and her family to the opera house.

She came towards the carriage, and as I caught sight of her, my heart skipped a beat.

Beautiful, elegant, dazzling. These words could not express the splendor that was Gemma.

She was dressed in a white, satin gown that made her look delicate and innocent. Charming gloves covered her hands and her copper hair was swept up in an elegant bun, while tendrils of golden curls graced her forehead.

I knew I was staring. I knew I should stop. But I couldn't. Gemma seemed to be floating as she walked, I watched her, entranced. She was an angel, a fallen angel. Innocent beauty shielded the fiery spirit I knew she possessed.

My dreams were cut short, however, by her hurried brother, but as I drove the carriage I knew that I had to tell Gemma, I couldn't let this go.

The little side trip we took when we were tracking down her father further deepened my respect for her, though terrifying the journey was. She did not lack bravery and courage, even when we reached the carriage and she broke down in tears.

Shimmering tears trickled down her chin, her misery somehow making her seem more beautiful than ever, despite her brother's ill-fitting clothes.

"Gemma?" I remember saying, wanting to comfort her.

"Don't…look…at…me," she had sobbed, turning her face away. "It is all…so…horrible…and it's…my fault."

"It is not your fault," I argued feebly.

"Yes, yes it is!" She faced me again, eyes shining, melancholy face a perfect mirror of deepest grief. "If I hadn't been who I am, Mother wouldn't have died. He never would have been like this! I ruined his happiness! And…"

"And…?"

"I used the magic to try to cure him." She averted her eyes from me, as if embarrassed. "I couldn't bear to see him suffer so. What is the good of all this power if I can do nothing with it?"

Fresh tears ran down Gemma's cheeks, and my heart melted. I wished I could somehow ease her pain, though I knew it was impossible. She was the Chosen One, the one who would find the temple, defeat Circe, and live out her destiny…

I could not stand her sorrow any longer, and I wiped the tears from her face, tenderly, Gemma surprised.

"Meraa mitra yahaan aaiye." Come here, my friend. "I have never known a braver girl."

And that was true.

oOoOoOo

I was awake, but still drowsy, sitting in the stables, examining my shoes. I was ready to tell Gemma, and I meant to tell her today, whether she came down to see me or not.

I had hoped desperately that she would come visit me, since it was Christmas, or that she didn't forget my note. In all likelihood, she won't come, I tried to convince myself, not prepared just yet for disappointment. But I knew not of what to expect from her. Gemma was unpredictable. I loved that. But it unnerved me, all the same.

Suddenly, a noise woke me from my dream-like state, and I looked up to see Gemma, and all my troubles were, for the moment, forgotten.

That is, except for one, minor trouble.

"I've come to apologize for last night," said Gemma solemnly. "And to thank you for helping him."

"Everyone needs help sometimes."

"Except for you." How would you know that, Gemma?

I decided not to answer. Instead, I handed her my Christmas present to her, Amar's old knife. "Merry Christmas, Miss Doyle."

She looked shocked. "What is this?"

"Open it."

As Gemma carefully unwrapped it, I watched with baited breath. Inside was a small knife, the handle carved into a small totem. The protection symbol.

"Megh Sambara," I told her, examining her face for any sign of emotion. None yet. "The Hindus believe that he offers protection against enemies."

"I thought you had no loyalty to any customs other than the Rakshana's," teased Gemma, smiling lightly.

I looked down, uncomfortable, shoving my hands into my pockets. I couldn't look her in the eye. "It was Amar's."

"You shouldn't part with it, then," said Gemma seriously, thrusting it at my chest.

I dodged the blade, saying quickly, "Careful." I stared the knife. "It is small but sharp. And you may have need of it."

I was suddenly reminded of my ugly task, the one I would never do. Kill Gemma. She would have needed that knife against me. Would it be sufficient enough for another attack such as the one I was to make?

She smiled shyly, withdrawing her hand and the knife along with it. "I shall keep it with me. Thank you."

A moment's silence seemed like an eternity. I must tell her now, or show her. But how?

Silence again. I dug my foot into the earthy ground, the rocks crunching noisily under my shoe. Still more quiet. I ran out of things to say but I didn't want her to leave.

Search for a subject, anything to say, must start talking…

"Tonight is Miss Worthington's Christmas ball, yes?" I asked Gemma, heart beating a little faster.

"Yes."

I looked away. "What do you do at these balls?" I questioned awkwardly.

"Oh. There is a great deal of smiling and talking of the weather and how lovely everyone looks," she said dully. "There is a light supper and refreshments. And the dancing, of course."

Dancing? "I've never been to a ball. I don't know how this sort of dancing is done."

"It isn't so difficult to master for a man. The woman has to learn to do it in reverse without stepping on his feet."

Hoping she wasn't loosing patience with me, I lifted up my hands, pretending to hold someone in my arms. "Like this?" I danced round and round. What a fool she must think me.

"A bit slower."

I slowed my pace.

"That's it."

"I say, Lady Whatsit," I exclaimed, adopting a ridiculous voice, "have you had many callers since arriving in London?"

"Oh, Lord Hoity-toity," she said, to my relief, following along with my nonsense. "Why, I've so many cards from the very best people that I've had to put out two china bowls to display them."

"Two bowls, you say?"

"Two bowls."

I laughed. "What an inconvenience for you and your china collection!"

She grinned, green eyes dancing. "I should like to see you in black jacket and white tie."

I stopped, hope rising. "Do you think I would look the grand gentleman?"

"Yes."

I could feel myself blush, and I hated myself for it. I bowed, saying, "May I have this dance, Miss Doyle?"

"Oh," she cried, curtsying, "but of course, Lord Hoity-toity."

"No," I whispered. "May I have this dance?"

She glanced about her; as if afraid someone should see us. Of course, I thought bitterly, mustn't be seen with the help.

But, to my surprise, I felt Gemma's cold hand on mine.

"Ah, your, um, your other hand would be at my waist," she said uncomfortably, staring at her shoes.

I rested my palm against her hip. I could feel her warmth through the thin cloak she wore. My heart beat faster. I could feel my palm sweat. "Here?"

"Higher."

Slightly mortified, I put my hand to her waist.

"That's it."

"What next?" I said nervously.

She looked up, visibly unnerved. "We, we dance."

I turned her slowly; she was a good three feet away from me as we danced. I wished I could be closer to her. I wished I could feel her body against mine. I realized suddenly that she was purposely putting distance between us.

"I think it would be easier if you weren't pulling away," I said carefully.

"This is how it is done."

Rubbish. What kind of fun is that?

I pulled her closer to me, knowing her resistance would not match my will. Not now. I wanted her close to me, I wanted that more than anything else I ever could remember wanting.

I could feel heat emanating off her, heat I wanted more of. I was vaguely aware that her breasts were very close to my chest. I longed to feel the pressure of her body against my own, but I knew she would not permit such a thing. My heart rapped against my ribcage rapidly, as if bursting to escape.

Gemma looked around again, and I felt my hand move instinctively downward. She gasped, and my breath grew shallower. I could feel my stomach flutter.

Must tell her. Must tell her now.

"Gemma," I said softly. She looked up, innocent eyes meeting mine. "There's something I need to tell you…"

She released my hand, suddenly, pulling away, steadying herself.

"Are you all right?"

"The cold," she said, nodding and smiling feebly. "Perhaps I should be getting back."

No…I can't let you go…I have to…

"But first, I need to tell you-"

"There's so much to do," Gemma insisted, cutting me off.

She knows. She must know. I've been too obvious and she doesn't want it.

"Well, then," I croaked. "Don't forget your gift."

I handed her the knife, and our hands touched.

Do it! Do it now or never!

Her pink, petal lips were the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes, before I snaked my arm around her, pulling her towards me, closing the gap between her lips and mine.

Warm, supple lips. Lips as smooth as silk. Lips as soft as feathers.

My stomach turned, heart raced, Gemma's slender body against mine.

It was only a moment before she broke away; saying, "Please don't," and it seemed as if my heart ripped out along with her.

She stood apart from me, my Gemma, at least, I wished she was mine.

I had expected rejection, yes, but it hurt. The pain, humiliation, the thirst for more. More I could not have. More I would not get.

"It's because I am Indian, isn't it?" I asked desperately.

"Of course not, I don't even think of you as an Indian."

Thwack. Mind numb.

I don't even think of you as an Indian.

My chest hurt.

I don't even think of you as an Indian.

I felt as if I might vomit.

I don't even think of you as an Indian.

I threw my head back and laughed. How could I ever have expected any less? What a fool I'd been. A bloody fool.

I sneered at her. "So you don't even think of me as an Indian. Well, that's a relief."

A look of utmost horror materialized on her face as she understood what she had just told me. "I-I didn't mean it like that."

"You English never do."

I turned from her, legs as heavy as lead as I walked toward my bag.

She followed me; I could hear her near me. I gathered my things and stuffed them in my bag. Numb. I was Numb. Nothing could touch me anymore.

"Where are you going?"

"To the Rakshana. It is time for me to claim my place. To begin my training and advance." To be anywhere but here…

"Please don't go, Kartik. I don't want you to go."

I stopped. A cold breeze brushed past my cheeks, teasing my hair, freezing my already frozen face, and chilling my soul. "For that I am sorry for you."

"You'd best go in," I said stiffly, hearing the servants wake. "Would you be so kind as to give this to Emily for me?" I handed her Emily's present, The Odyssey. "Tell her I am sorry I cannot continue teaching her to read. She'll have to get someone else."

"Kartik, don't you want to take the cricket bat?" Her eyes pleaded with me, asking forgiveness, mercy. Something in my chest stirred. Could my heart still be there?

"Cricket. Such an English game. Goodbye, Miss Doyle."

And with that I walked away, away from her, and into the frosty morning.

oOoOoOo

A/N: Aww, poor Kartik. Gemma really blew it that time, I hate to say it.

And yes, Kartik is melodramatic and full of lame poetic imagery. But we forgive him, right?

PS: Hey, guys, guess what! If you like my writing you can check out my other current fic, The Good, The Bad, and The Angry. It's Harry Potter, and its humor, too! What a great mix, don't you think? I'd LOVE a review and I think it'd be worth your while. Give it a try, will you? Heighten my self-esteem? Please?