When he returns to the room she is sitting on the edge of the bed. It's dark already, the moon full and boastful in the sky, but it feels like a hundred years since he showed her the body.

It seems impossible that just last night they were in this same room making love, when he was doing what he could to fortify her for what was to come. He wanted her to know she was loved, just as he did when he held her in the bath, the cold water rushing down.

He failed in saving her twice now. Once from death and once again from the truth.

She doesn't turn her head when he closes the door. She's gazing at the chalkboard, the message he had left for her there.

All Apologies.

He turns the chair from the desk to face her.

"I swiped these from Constance the other day," he says quietly, pulling out a half-full pack of cigarettes.

She looks at the pack and gives him that sideways smirk he loves so much. He is so relieved to see it.

"Yeah, I guess they won't kill me, right?" she says, pulling one out. But her voice is sad. He holds the lighter up for her. She inhales, exhales. "Well, cigarettes still taste good," she says, mostly to herself.

As she smokes, she drifts off again, her eyes settling absently on the painting of the skull. It caught Tate's eye when she first moved in. He couldn't begin to piece out all the strange and beautiful things about Violet that made him fall in love with her, but the way she filled this space - this room where he'd lost his own life, made him feel like he might get a chance to feel some precious hint of it again. That painting and the gumball machine filled with baby doll parts on her desk, when he saw those he knew he wasn't dealing with an ordinary girl.

She wasn't afraid of things the way you'd expect. Even when he'd surprised her in the rubber suit, she insisted he hadn't scared her. Even if it wasn't true, he loved that she wouldn't admit to being afraid. And she had wanted him to take her right there on the beach, and, god, he would have if they had both been on the same side of existence. She even stood up to those kids on Halloween, told them off right there in the driveway – one against five.

But today - today she had been afraid. She had been afraid of him. And he realized he must have a heart, because he felt it breaking when she begged him, Please, Tate. Please, she said. I don't want to die.

He looks at her carefully now. She's wearing a long black T-shirt with black leggings and his cardigan he'd given to her earlier when she said she felt cold. It's much too big for her. She looks so sweet and small. He shivers at the memory of shining the light down into the hole, to show this girl the discarded version of herself. He'd tried hard to protect her from ever seeing it. I had this idea, he told her, that if you chose to die, with me, you wouldn't be so sad.

She rises from the bed and moves to the window. He watches her watching the night, the flare of the cigarette glowing when she inhales from it. She flicks the ashes on the floor.

"Violet?"

"Hm?" She doesn't turn her gaze away from the moon.

"Do you want me to leave you alone tonight?"

She doesn't answer. She drops her cigarette and douses it with her shoe. If she wanted to, he would give her that, for as long as she needed it. He felt pain at the thought, but just as he'd promised her once before, he would leave her alone if that's what she wanted.

But then she turns to him. He tries to read her face. Her eyes show hints of green in the soft light.

Wordlessly she discards his sweater, lets it fall to the floor. Her hands go to the hem of her shirt and she pulls it up over her head. She unhooks her bra and that falls, too. She kicks off her shoes and pulls off her leggings and panties and suddenly she is standing there before him in her perfect beauty.

She walks to the bed and lies down. "Come here," she says. He moves cautiously to the foot of the bed and, just like the last time she'd welcomed him when she could have taken him up on his offer and sent him away, he climbs over the iron railing and lays down beside her. He waits. He will do whatever she wants. He will give her whatever she needs. She lies very still, studying the ceiling, then turns to the message on the chalkboard, resting her gaze there.

"What are you sorry for, Tate?" she whispers.

A rush of emotion floods him. It swells up in his chest, pools as tears in his eyes. What is he sorry for? The question is a deep well and the answer could pull him down so far he'd never be able to claw his way out.

When he doesn't answer, she turns her face to him. A tear escapes down his cheek. She brushes it away with her thumb. "Shhhh..." she sighs. "I don't want you to leave me alone, Tate."

She strokes his hair gently. He closes his eyes to feel her delicate fingers weave into his curls. When he opens them again she's looking at him intently.

"Tate?"

"Yes, Vi?"

"Touch me."

He raises his hand to place the tips of his fingers on her forehead, he slides them down slowly along the curve of her cheek. She closes her eyes, her face set in concentration, as if she's testing her new knowledge. Even though she's dead she can feel this... and this. He brings a finger to her ear, where he traces the line of it. He draws the finger down the length of her neck, skims it along her collarbone. His hand sweeps over her shoulder, down her arm, to her delicate wrist. He carefully straddles her body then, takes her wrists in his hands and guides them to rest against the pillow on either side of her head. He leans forward, pressing soft lips to her scars. He kisses them softly, reverently. She shivers.

He slides down to touch his lips to hers. He presses gently against them, a question. They answer, opening for him, enticing his tongue to reach inside. He moans into her mouth as their tongues engage, exploring, caressing. They take their time, sinking deeper into the sensations of the kiss. His hands cradle her face as their mouths converse in their own language of secrets and wishes. At last he relinquishes her lips, leaving them swollen and red, to continue his journey down her body.

He gently grasps her breasts, kneading the generous handfuls, before taking a nipple into his mouth. He sucks it, dabs at it with his tongue, he presses kisses against the petal soft skin before plunging his mouth down, drawing up, plunging down, and drawing up again. He lifts his head to put his mouth to its twin, stroking it broadly and then flicking it with his tongue, teasing with soft nibbles, making her whimper and coo.

He kisses his way down her stomach. Running his tongue along her hip bone, his hands grasp her thighs, opening her to him. He gazes at her loveliness, glistening and pink. He glances up to see she is watching him, her eyes bright with anticipation. He reaches his tongue out to taste her, one long, slow lick up the length of her folds. A groan from deep in her core rises to her throat. Her head falls back. He waits, watching from his perch, until she looks at him again. He darts his tongue over her clit, eliciting her tiny whimpers. He draws back, pauses for a beat, and dips into her wetness. He draws back again, waits, locks her gaze, and dips again, deeper. Her head falls to the pillow, her chin raised to the ceiling. He keeps her writhing hips still with a firm grip on her thighs and begins to lavish her pussy with deep, steady strokes. A moan escapes from his throat and she bucks from the vibration of it. Her juices flow, sweet nectar he eagerly laps up. His hands reach blindly for hers, finding them, he holds on as he plunges his tongue in again and again, deep and warm and wet. She tightens her grip as he licks her closer and closer to release. He wants to taste her pleasure. He presses open mouth kisses to her delicate folds, coaxing her higher, higher, until her body thrashes, she cries his name, and a rush of juices herald her arrival.

He rises from the bed to quickly undress. She watches him, whimpering impatiently for his return. He climbs above her, aligning their hips. She lifts her head to kiss him. Their mouths open as he pushes inside. Their mutual cry is smothered by the tangle of their lips and tongues. Her walls embrace his cock with delicious wet heat. He plunges into it again and again. They moan and cry and bite and scratch. His arms encircle her, his curls swipe her cheek as he loves her with every thrust. It's you and me, together, for always.

They rescue each other from the darkness this way, holding on tight, their bodies assuring, without any words, they will find their way into the light.

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...

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Thank you to everyone who read this story. "Smoldering Children" is my favorite episode because of how it explores the two sides of Tate, and Violet's conflicted feelings about him. He is beautiful in that episode, and sad and scary, too. It was fun to explore all of that in this story. Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I really appreciate it! May you all wake up tomorrow morning to find Tate standing at the foot of your bed. :)