Chapter Eleven: Black Holes and Revelations (from Starlight, by Muse)

If she hadn't been so utterly paralyzed by the night's events, Callie would have appreciated the luxury of the private jet. It was decorated in dark browns and reds, the seats wide and comfortable, set across from each other like in a living room. A round table made of rich cherry wood sat between them, and there was a couch stretched out across the opposing side, upholstered with velvet and cushioned with fluffy pillows, although everything was in dark masculine shades. The carpet was so thick she almost swore she felt her feet sink.

The lone flight attendant was of Asian descent, very pretty, with her dark hair cut neatly along her jaw line and her clothes all perfectly accenting her long shape. She was also very good at her job, and noticed nearly immediately that Callie wanted something.

"Would you like a cocktail, Miss?" the woman asked, her voice only containing the barest hint of an accent.

Hell, yes, I want a whole bottle of the strongest stuff you have. But instead what she heard herself saying, half-joking, "You wouldn't happen to be able to make an Apple Martini, would you?"

The woman nodded. "We have a full bar, Miss. Would you like a sugar rim?"

Callie nodded. Whatever she drank, her only real goal was not to not feel her legs when she was done.

"Here, before I forget," Vincent said as they settled down into the chairs, "this is yours. It's for when we get to Bangkok."

She mouthed the word "Bangkok." It was a sleek black leather case, like a checkbook, only wider. She realized it was a passport, with her face inside. It was made up under a false name – Regina Chatwin.

"How…where did…where did this come from?"

Vincent gave her a quick, blank look, and didn't answer. "Fasten your seat belt," he said. "We're leaving soon."

The flight attendant returned with the martini Callie had requested, sitting on a serving tray. She set down delicate blue napkins on the small table beside Callie's seat to place the glass. Then she handed Vincent a newspaper, and quietly walked away.

Callie looked to Vincent, who she realized was watching her. She sipped at her drink, noticed that it tasted extremely good. With a mild jerk of her head, she asked, "Does she cost extra?"

"Who, Mariko?" Vincent asked, glancing over his shoulder at the flight attendant. He turned back to her with a rather indifferent smile. "I wouldn't know; she works for the man who owns this plane."

"Oh," she said softly. She had thought it was his. Why she'd thought that, she wasn't quite sure. "And here I was thinking the assassin business must pay pretty well."

He blinked. "Was that a joke?"

She shrugged. She was going out of her mind. The martini was gone before she knew it, and she put the empty glass down on the table. Before she knew it, there was another in its place. This Mariko woman moved like a ghost.

The plane started to taxi, and before she was even aware of it, they were in the air. She felt the mild pressure pushing her into the plush cushions, and glanced toward the couch. It looked very inviting. Hadn't she slept before? It was well into the middle of the night now, she should be sleeping now. It didn't seem to matter…the grief and the pain had taken everything out of her. She didn't know which end was up.

Vincent flipped through the newspaper. Callie wondered how long they would be stuck on this plane, as they were technically flying half the world away. They would doubtlessly need to make stops to refuel…hell, they could be on this plane for the better part of twenty-four hours!

She took a gulp of her refreshed drink and then set it down. Her eyelids drooped, and she rested her cheek on her shoulder for a moment. A blink turned into a sudden, half-dream like image, part of one of the reoccurring nightmares she'd been having for the last three weeks. The one where Vincent was chasing her out of the jazz club, and had pressed her up against the wall, and kissed her.

The sudden chemistry of that kiss startled her awake. She shook herself, and let out a deep, distressed sigh before she could hold it back.

"What's wrong?" Vincent asked, his eyes still on his newspaper.

Her eyes snapped to him. "What's wrong?" she echoed, her voice cracking a bit. That got his attention – he looked up at her, his gaze mildly dangerous. A warning. She chose to ignore it. "What's wrong," she went on, "is that my father is dead, a demented psychopath wants to kill me, I'm on a plane to fucking Bangkok -- although God knows why -- when I should be with my brother, but I'm stuck here with you!" The last words were spat out with scorn. "That's what wrong!"

Vincent sighed, straining for patience. She had seen that look before. She was becoming unruly and he wanted to manage her. Her frustrated shifted into a blue-hot rage.

"I told you," he said, "you're here for your protection—"

She gripped her arm rests and was leaning forward a bit, staring at him with wild eyes. "But you haven't told me why!" she shot at him. "Why are you protecting me, Vincent? Why do you care whatever Rochester does to me?" Now her tone was high pitched, borderline hysterical. "Why, Vincent? Tell me why!"

Vincent gazed back at the woman across from him. Why did women always get like this? Why did they always need to talk everything to death? Why couldn't they just be accepting of the facts as they were presented? But no, they wanted feelings. They wanted intimacy. It had never, ever been to his taste. Sure, he respected women, but he wanted nothing more from them than the occasional satisfaction of a particular need.

"You're exhausted," he said, at the very limits of his tolerance. The itch to be violent with her, to subdue her, was getting uncontrollable. But she wouldn't be able to take it. He would end up hurting her, and that thought made him pause. He didn't like to think about why he was pausing; but instinct, which he put a lot of stock into, told him not to resort to force. "You need rest. When was the last time you slept?"

Callie blinked. Numbly, she tried to think. She remembered lying down after throwing up outside the bar, but not sleeping…"Don't remember," she mumbled.

Vincent looked toward the couch. "You should lie down. We're going to be here for a while. Sleep will make you calmer."

"You mean it will shut me up," she said bitterly.

"That too," he agreed, only a touch sarcastic. Then, softening, he said, "Come on."

She started a bit when he stood up, but he extended his hand to her gently, and she found herself reluctantly taking it. Defying him took too much energy, and he hadn't physically harmed her so far. She took his hand and started to rise, but the alcohol, her stress and sheer exhaustion collided together to make her slip. Her weight tipped forward and Vincent had to readjust to catch her before she collapsed against him.

Her head was throbbing. It was just as well that Vincent wasn't telling her anything, she'd never be able to take it in now, not with the state she was in. She sighed again, willing the world to stop spinning. And then she realized how intimately he was holding her, and that he was staring down at her, an expression on his face that seemed familiar and alien at the same time.

She couldn't help it. The question came out again, but this time in a quiet plea. "Why are you doing this?"

Their eyes met. That lupine green that had been burned into her brain countless times shimmered back at her. He pulled her closer to him, and Callie didn't resist.

When had this happened to him? Vincent had replayed that night over in his mind, looking for his mistakes, but he hadn't once tried to consider when these feelings for this woman had started to develop. He remembered finding her reasonable attractive when he'd first approached the cab. He remembered not wanting to shoot her in the head after she first tried to run away from him, and not quite understanding why he hadn't done that. Then there was the jazz club, listening to the music, getting lost in the mood, dancing with her, feeling her close to him…

And kissing her outside in the street. That spark that had passed through them had rocked him. Was that the moment? The point of no return?

He raised his hand and brushed his fingers through her hair. She really was rather a mess –her face was swollen from tears and strained from tension. But as he stood there, so close to that face, to this person who had somehow managed to graft herself onto a part of his spirit, he felt a sweet kind of relief. He was with her now. It didn't matter what else happened, he was finally with her.

He was leaning down. Her face was getting closer. And then Callie blinked and realized that he was about to kiss her, and turned her head away.

It hurt, but it did not surprise. Vincent was used to hurt. He could have tossed her away, thrown her onto the couch…a dozen other things flashed wickedly through his mind, but he dismissed them. He wasn't that kind of man. Instead, he maneuvered her and then gave her a mild push down into the couch cushions. "Get some rest," he said, and returned to his seat.

She looked at him, shaken. Her body had stiffened and now she couldn't relax. "Is there…is there any way I could call Ray?" she ventured.

Vincent looked up at her, a bit startled. "Why?" he demanded.

"So that he knows where I am," she said, keeping her voice smooth. "He's got to be really, really worried about me, Vincent. I mean…our father was just…!"

Vincent looked away as her voice trailed off, his jaw tightening. He let out his breath and said, much to his own surprise, "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Your father seemed like a good man. He didn't deserve…what happened."

She seemed a bit thrown by his sudden condolence, but took it in stride. "So you can understand why my brother is--"

"It's not a good idea," he said, his tone more conversational now. "Rochester probably knows you're not in L.A. any more, but he may not know where we're going. No sense in giving him a trail. On top of that, if Rochester thinks your brother knows where you've gone, it might tempt him to do the same thing to him that he did to your father. So you'd be endangering yourself and him. Your doctor friend as well." Something about the way he said friend…did he sound jealous?

She exhaled, defeated. It was too much, she should have known better. "Fine," she said in a small voice. She turned away from him and lay down on the cushions, then curled so that her back was to him and her limbs were pulled in protectively between her and the back of the couch. Before she knew it, she was asleep. If she did dream, she didn't remember it.

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Hours passed. Vincent tried to read the newspaper but his eyes kept going to Callie's back. Here she was, flesh and blood, and totally vulnerable. He had absolute power over her. She had to go where he led, do what he said…sure, she could kick and scream, but he'd win. He had won last time.

He rested his head back against the headrest and tried to shut his eyes. The deep sound of her breathing filled his ears, and when the noise outside the plane, the whine of the engines or the thrust of the air pressure, overpowered it, he felt himself straining to catch it again.

She was a talker. She probably didn't realize it, but words came out of her mouth, randomly, while she slept. She was probably in that deep sleep where you don't remember your dreams. Did she dream about him? He figured she did, but doubted they were pleasant.

He didn't want to be pleasant. Being pleasant left too much room to argue. If she started to think that he had feelings for her, she might try to manipulate him, and that simply wasn't acceptable. Couldn't she see that all of this was for her safety? Couldn't she just accept the help he was giving her, much to his own extreme inconvenience?

But then again, she was dealing with a tremendous amount of stress on top of that. Most people got pretty upset when a parent was viciously murdered. He had noticed that over the years. It had never made too much sense to him, but he had encountered, like in Ray Sr., the kind of father that was capable of creating affection instead of animosity. That was why Vincent had liked the man. He didn't ignore his children.

Callie sighed and shifted in her sleep. "Watch," she said, her voice soft and perfectly clear. She could have been having a conversation. Vincent turned his eyes away again.

He could seduce her. The thought jumped into his brain and latched on. It wouldn't be that difficult. Her body wanted him, even if her brain didn't. He could seduce her and get her out of his system. It would be easier then, wouldn't it? Without the distraction of wanting her so damn badly?

Instinct, again, told him that wasn't going to work.

How long had he been sitting here? The sky outside was starting to lighten. He could catch faint glimmers of the ocean underneath them.

A rumbling noise distracted him, and he realized it was coming from her. Her stomach was making strange, gurgling noises. Loud, almost intense noises. Sure, she was tired, but her body was also hungry.

Mariko appeared, as if psychically commanded. "Would you care for something to eat?" she asked. "We have fresh eggs, and bacon."

"Some omelets sound good," Vincent said.

"Toast? Or perhaps you would prefer pancakes; I can make them from scratch."

"That would be fine," he said, his eyes back on Callie. He felt stiff from sitting in this chair what, eight hours now? She needed to wake up. She needed to eat, build up her strength.

He stood up, stretching his muscles. The cracks and the mild tweaks reminded him that he was getting older. He didn't need sleep like most other people did – military training had long since taught him how to go without. He would catch a few hours once they got to the boat. Then it might be safe enough to close his eyes for a bit.

He approached the couch and bent down. He grasped Callie's shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. She shifted, but did not wake.

She was really deep in it, he realized. "Callie," he said, bending low, over her ear. "Callie, wake up."

Her eyes popped open and she blinked, then they drooped shut again, overwhelmed by exhaustion. "Few…few min…nuts."

Vincent shook his head, biting back irritation. He stepped over to the small bar, where Mariko had made their drinks, and poured a glass of water. The flight attendant was busy making the pancake batter, and he could hear the sizzling of the pans and smell the sweetness of the oil. His own stomach gave a lurch and made a mewling sound. He was hungrier than he thought.

Going back over to the couch, he knelt down beside her. He had to shift her so that he could reach her face, but still it didn't rouse her. He dipped the tips of his fingers into the water and flicked a few drops on her face.

Her cheek twitched.

Vincent sighed. He wiped away the drops, and then realized how warm she was. Warmer than the kind of sleep warmth that made him suddenly want to bury his face in the crook of her neck and inhale her scent. He violently shook that thought away, and flicked more water onto her this time.

She flinched, her eyelids fluttering.

"That's it," he said, his voice a bit louder. "Come on, back to the waking world."

She rolled onto her back, putting her right smack in the middle of his arms. Her shoulder rested against his chest, and she looked up at him, as if not believing this, as if wondering if he was a dream.

"Yes, it's real," he said. "Don't you remember?"

She started to flounder, trying to get herself into a sitting position. Without being asked, Vincent slid his hand under her back and gave her a light push. She groaned, her face scrunching. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Head hurts," she hissed between her teeth.

"You're dehydrated," he told her. "Drink this." He handed her the water.

She took it and eyed it suspiciously.

Vincent snorted. "Yes, I drugged it. I woke you up from a dead sleep to drug you and knock you out again."

She narrowed her eyes at the scathing sarcasm, but took the water. Then, the smell of the pancakes on the griddle reached them both. Callie turned her head, her eyes looking eager in spite of herself.

"Breakfast will be ready in a few moments," Mariko told them, appearing silently and disappearing the same way. Vincent, whose calves were bunching up from being crouched beside her, hefted himself onto the couch. It was just a bit too close to Callie for her comfort. Her body language spoke louder than any words, and he heard it.

Vincent felt weary. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do to make you trust me, is there?" he said, and then was surprised those words had slipped out of his mouth. Everything he did was usually so calculated. Being improvisational was one thing. Being vulnerable was something else entirely.

She blinked in surprise. He almost expected her to answer, but instead she swallowed the rest of the water. She set the glass down, but when she straightened again, Vincent was even closer to her, his hand sliding along the back of the couch to rest on the back of her neck. His face loomed in her vision, the salt and pepper of his overgrown stubble, the shape of his lips, the curve of his cheeks.

"I read your book, you know," he said, his mouth very close to her face.

She frowned. "My book?" She didn't think of it yet as a book. It was a memoir of that night, and a research work in progress. Then she blinked, and realized that Laurie had mentioned that the manuscript had been shifted on his desk. "How?" she whispered.

He smirked. "Jackson sent it to my employer. He sent it to me."

She was blushing furiously. Then she willed it away. He had terrorized her, not the other way around. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

"You really think," he said, his voice low, that familiar murmur she remembered too well, "that all those times I kissed you, I was just trying to manipulate you?"

"Yes," she said, before she could think about the answer. She looked away, willing him to move back. She was at the edge of the couch. The only way to get away from him was to stand up, and even that guaranteed nothing. Besides, she still wasn't sure how steady she'd be on her feet, and to tumble into him again was unthinkable.

"Really? That one outside your father's house?" She flinched. It was too much, the pain was too raw, the loss of her father. But she did remember. She remembered how tender he was, and how confused she had been when she thought about it later, wondering what he had hoped to accomplish.

"Doesn't matter," she said in a cracked voice. "Doesn't matter what you meant by any of them. It doesn't change anything."

He let out a soft breath and it spread against her cheek. "You know, I'm sorry about before, when I called you a stupid bitch."

She narrowed her eyes in annoyance. Her lips flattened.

"But really, sometimes, Callie, you can be really, really dense. Why the hell do you even think you're on this plane, right now?" He had gone back into his working mode, she could tell by the way his voice changed. That reasonable tone, the way he seemed to be almost counseling her on the way she should feel. "You realize that you're safer here than anywhere else in this world? Or worse than that, it should be me trying to kill you and not Rochester. But no, I've gone through all this trouble to save your life, and do I get any thanks? No, all you can do is look at me with suspicion…and clam up."

"What do you want me to say?" she burst out, turning to him. "You want me to say thank you?"

"It would be a start," he returned.

"Fine. Thank you, Vincent. Thank you for everything. Thank you for getting into my cab three weeks ago and dragging me around the city to watch you murder a half dozen people. Thank you for making me a target for a major crime lord because he thinks I witnessed all those murders, and can testify against him. Thank you for being the reason that this creep Rochester even knows I exist. And thank you for dragging me away from my brother, who is the only family I have left! I don't know what I would have done without you!"

His eyes, which had clamped into hers as she spoke, had slowly grown brighter, the line of his mouth drawing tighter and tighter. She could feel the suppressed fury radiating off him like waves of heat, and she stood up, attempting to protect herself. He followed, like she knew he would, and he grabbed hold of her, yanking her close to him. He wasn't much taller than her, but his presence towered over her.

"So what do you want me to say, Callie? You want an apology? Oh, I'm sorry, all right. I'm sorry I ever got into your cab! Before that night, you were nothing – you were just another speck of dust. Have you even stopped to realize that the only reason you're alive now is because I couldn't kill you? Did you even think about why?" His voice had risen slowly as he railed at her, and he was losing control. He didn't know where half the words coming out of his mouth had come from, and he knew if something didn't stop him, he was going to blurt out something he could never, ever take back.

She stared up at him, partly in fear, but partly in curiosity. "So tell me, why then, Vincent," she dared him, even though her voice shook. "Why can't you kill me?"

He grabbed her by the back of her neck and brought her face up to his. He stopped, his mouth a few centimeters away from hers, and waited. When she didn't move, he said, "Don't tell me you don't already know."

She didn't know what came over her. The memories, the nightmares, washed over her, but there was something wrong with them. It hit her, all in a rush, the horrible power she had suddenly gained.

He hadn't killed her…because he couldn't.

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Jackson: Dun dun duuuuuuuunnnn!

Me: Shut up! I can't get Vincent to stop smoking.

(Vincent sits in the chair, smoke still coming off his suit. Not to far away, Rochester, in disgrace, glowers on)

Vincent: (disjointed) Mommy? That you?

Jackson: (to Rochester) Oh, you're really screwed now.

Rochester: Really? About time.

Me: (furious) Not that, you jerk! You almost cooked him!

Rochester: Well, he shouldn't have gotten up in my face!

Me: You don't get to use those things in this fic. Hope you can hold your own without them.

Rochester: Oh, look at me, I'm shaking in my shoes.

Jackson: Wow, you're really getting into character.

Rochester: Well, not much else to do with my time, considering the entire last chapter was just Callie and foxy-boy there on the plane.

Me: Vincent, come on, snap out of it. This whole chapter was all about you! You and Callie, anyway…

Vincent: (still dazed) Me?

Me: Yeah, you, the reason I'm writing this fic.

Vincent: (tipsy) Really?

Jackson: Oh, God, you blasted him stupid.

Me: (strokes Vincent's hair) Of course, dummy!

Vincent: Aw. (pulls the writer onto his lap) You're sweet. (puts his head on her shoulder)

Me: Um…okay, you guys go review. Maybe he'll be sober by the time you come back.