Dedication: For Arwen, who asked for a trip through the looking-glass. Enjoy!

"I love you."

At first, he sincerely thought that he had misunderstood her; her voice was low, and he had been engrossed in his book. It was entirely possible that she had said something different from what he had heard, and though he had nearly convinced himself of the likeliness of this scenario, he still had to force himself to tear his eyes from the safety of his book, and look at her.

Some part of him had known in advance just how completely the expression on her face would shatter any attempt on his part to deflect not only her confession, but also the feelings associated with it.

He waited there, the book still open in his hands, and let her twist in the proverbial wind as he tried desperately to collect himself, to sort out the tumult of emotion that had greeted her words. There was shock, certainly; a bit further down, and more complex for the distance, there was annoyance. Beneath those two, there was a vague slash of something not unlike regret, and he closed his book, fighting the urge to sigh.

"I know," he said, trying to steer her toward this last, desperate means of recantation.

She would, however, not be moved. "No, you don't."

Part of his composure evaporated under the pressure of knowing that she had crossed the point of no return, and his expression hardened over the wound, as his instincts demanded. "Why?" he asked, more harshly than he could recall ever having spoken to her.

"I wish I knew," she said, as though she didn't.

Another of his carefully-formed mental barriers cracked, and his ability to keep his expressions under control crumbled along with it; he felt his lips twist into a grimace as he rose from his chair, and he turned his back to her, perhaps out of some lingering, misguided urge to protect her feelings. "What do you want me to say?" he eventually managed.

"Nothing," she replied.

He turned to face her again. "What do you expect from me?"

"Nothing," she repeated.

"I can't--" He inhaled sharply, and nearly choked on the rush of air. Even as he fought to get himself under control, he could feel his inner darkness rising, could almost see it flash through his irises in his mind's eye. "You know nothing can ever come of this," he managed, and though his tone was level, it was clear to him that he would not be able to hold himself back much longer.

"Yes." He heard resignation in her deadened voice, and was furious at the thought that she had known his answer in advance, that she might have spared them both this awkwardness, this idiocy, this… betrayal.

"Then why mention it? Why not keep your mouth shut?" A fresh wave of emotion, too jumbled to decipher, passed through him, and he shuddered. "Why did you have to… change everything?"

"Nothing has to change." She began to advance, then wisely backed away, restoring the distance between them. At least she was not yet too idealistic to forget how dangerous he could become. "I just…" A strange quality, a sort of second wind, entered her voice. "I was sick of hiding. I was sick of lying to you."

I was sick of hiding…. I was sick of lying… I, I, I. He allowed himself to glare at her, allowed his grip on the darkness' leash to slacken, if only a bit. What about me, and my feelings? Did you ever consider them? Did you ever consider what you'd be throwing away if things turned out this way, and I couldn't return your feelings? How dare you put me in this position? Each of these points, and more besides, hovered in his throat, ready and waiting to be given voice; instead, however, he simply said, "How selfish of you," and the words carried with them the combined force of his rage and, less prevalent but still present, his disappointment.

She said nothing, and he turned away from her in disgust. He could no longer bear the sight of her, and the darkness had already begun to recede, with his strength bleeding into its undertow. "Leave me," he said.

"But--"

"Leave me," he repeated, and was almost surprised by how businesslike his words had become. "I can never return your feelings, and if you continue to nurture them, you will only be hurting yourself… and I care too much about you to let you do that." He took a breath; she made no attempt to speak again. "We never had this conversation. As soon as you leave, it will be forgotten… erased."

"You know that's impossible." He heard her advance, more steadily this time… or perhaps just that much more desperately. "Even if I leave, and never mention it again… I can't change the way I feel. I can't just forget that I--"

"Don't say it again." To hear her confession a second time would be to court madness.

He could sense how very torn she was, and tried to take comfort in the fact that this struggle to obey him could be interpreted as evidence that she did still care about his feelings, that she wasn't nearly as selfish as she seemed. "Alright," she finally said, and he knew that she had surrendered. "I'll do as you say; I'll leave you alone, and I won't mention it again." She paused. "But don't think for a moment that I feel any differently. Don't think, even for a second, that I could ever stop loving you."

"Get out," he pleaded, and his own weakness stung his heart in much the same way that the rising bile stung his throat.

Once she had left, he stood very still, trying to restore order to one of the few aspects of his life that, until tonight, he had believed would remain secure, preserved from upheaval. He began to realize how much he had come to rely on her soft, self-effacing presence, how accustomed he had gotten to her wanting nothing for herself, how easily he had taken her low-maintenance nature for granted and, by extension, disregarded her essential humanity.

Perhaps the sin of selfishness was not exclusively hers.

He crossed the room in a daze, and though he fully believed she was gone, he locked the door anyway. The act of sealing the world outside was comforting, and he sighed in equal parts frustration and relief as he sank into the chair he had occupied a mere few minutes ago, when all had been right with the world. He considered the ways in which this exchange might affect their relationship; he wondered if there was any way to forget about it, to sweep it under the rug and dance around it, as though it weren't there at all. Most importantly, and most bitterly, he wondered how he would go on without her unconditional support, how their partnership could survive if he couldn't help hunting for an ulterior motive in each of her seemingly-innocuous glances, or seemingly-selfless favours.

There was, however, no persistent doubt in his mind that he would carry on. It would be difficult, yes, but life had taught him nothing more completely than how to cope with privation and disappointment. He would be fine on his own, just as he had always been.

Her feelings, on the other hand, would just have to take care of themselves.