Chapter Twelve: You're All I Have (from the song by Snow Patrol)

It was unbelievable. If she had been anyone else, she would be dead. But no, somehow that night everything had gotten turned around. She had been his prisoner, and somewhere along the line, he had become hers. The look in his eyes, which filled her vision, was so desperate, so lost…it shocked her. Could it be? Could it be that this man, twisted and broken as he was, had feelings for her? That perhaps he even thought he might love her?

She let out a breath that was almost a gasp, and then he couldn't take it anymore. He closed the rest of the distance, and she found herself closing her eyes and parting her lips. She had to know. She had to know the truth.

He kissed her.

It was gentle, but demanding. All the other times it had been passionate and forceful – he had been trying to get something out of her, get her to do something. The feelings had come almost as an afterthought, although they shook the whole foundation. Even outside her father's house, when he had been more thoughtful and subdued, there had been something dangerous lurking underneath.

There was danger now, certainly. And a terrible urgency. But he was tender with her, which shocked her even more, and allowed her to prolong the kiss. His mouth moved over hers, the stubble of his beard scratching her in delicious familiarity. His hand had moved so that his fingers were entwined in her hair, but not painfully – no, delicately, tangling himself up in her burnt auburn locks. The other hand was on her back, his fingers splayed along her spine, moving up and down, causing sparks of electricity.

Tentatively, she reached up and grasped his shoulders. She felt him tense, but when she didn't push, he relaxed, and she could feel the muscles in his arms. Then, she did something she had hitherto thought unthinkable – she reached up and stroked the back of his head, and was stunned to feel how soft his silver locks were, how pliable and smooth.

She heard something, and realized it was a moan in the back of his throat. The rush of sudden power over him went to her head, and made her dizzy. She shifted the kiss this time, her teeth grazing his lower lip. And then, almost out of control of herself, she flicked her tongue against his upper teeth.

His body seemed to surge in her arms. It convulsed and tightened around her, and then the spasm passed, and she almost smiled. It was true. Vincent had feelings for her. All this time she had been so upset over how he had affected her, she hadn't spared a single thought for how she might have affected him!

He gave a little growl and his mouth suddenly smothered hers. It felt so good…it was insane how good it felt! It shouldn't…she was going crazy, it was the grief, it had to be, it had dislodged her, was making her do unimaginable things. It was like playing tag with a wild lion – any second he could turn on you and eat you alive.

Sparks of reason flickered through her brain, and a voice demanded, louder and louder, that she stop this. But she was drowning in him…like playing in a riptide, letting it carry you away.

Finally, when he broke for air, she turned her head away. It took a full minute for her to get enough of her wits about her to put pressure on his arms and get him to release her. For a moment, it felt like he wasn't going to do it. One didn't crawl into the cage and then simply knock to be let out again. His body was rigid, almost vibrating against hers.

"Vincent, please," she said, keeping her voice breathy and sweet, "please, stop."

"Why?" He was equally breathy, but she heard that predatory tone in his voice.

"Because," was all she could manage for a few heartbeats. "Because this isn't right. I can't do this."

"You can't? You are."

She shook her head. Why couldn't she think straight? Dammit, she had gotten giddy and ignorant and didn't stop to remember that the reason Vincent had been so successful influencing her last time was because she had been so attracted to him, at least initially. She had forgotten the power he had over her, which was still very real and very toxic.

"Please," she said, her voice still soft, trying to be innocent. Maybe she could appeal to that man inside him that didn't want to hurt her. That part of him she had just noticed, that had feelings for her. "I'm not ready for this. Please, Vincent."

Reluctantly, so reluctantly, he eased his grip. He stared at her for several long minutes, and then they were interrupted by a soft cough.

"Breakfast is ready," Mariko said.

Vincent made a gesture toward Callie, as if she should go. She turned, going to the small dining area where two fresh omelets and a stack of pancakes awaited them. Her step was unsteady, but it took Vincent another five minutes before he could join her.

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This was, by far, the worst night in Dr. Laurence Gregg's life.

When they had discovered that both Callie and Bill were gone, Ray had assumed the worst. But what was the worst? If someone had killed Bill to get to Callie, wouldn't there have been a body? Or maybe both of them had been taken. And then there was the unfathomable – that Bill had taken Callie.

Laurie couldn't bring himself to believe it. Bill had been with the hospital over five years, and Laurie had known, when he was hired, the kind of past he had. He worked at the hospital not for money or glory, the both of which he'd already enjoyed. It certainly wasn't for glamour or excitement, of which there was none of the first and too much of the second. No, Bill had worked at this job because he was one of the rare few who saw it as a calling, a vocation, a need to do good in the world. After this job, he was going to promote him to the head of the orderly department, and he was almost sure that Bill wouldn't accept the promotion.

But Bill was gone, just like Callie. Laurie tried his house, and got nothing.

Ray had been livid. He was already at the edge, dealing with the violent death of his and Callie's father. This had cracked him down the middle. First he'd reacted violently, starting to throw things and generally wrecking Laurie's office. Laurie had called on some other orderlies to help restrain Ray, although Ray was not his patient and they couldn't exactly strap him to a bed, but they'd managed to hold him down long enough to sedate him, which had taken the wind from his sails.

In the ensuing hours, the police had gotten to work, but their results were not good. There was no way to know where Callie had been taken. If she had been executed, it would have been done quickly, and the body would be nearby, but there was no sign of her in the subsequent search.

Laurie knew. He'd read the things that Callie had written. Vincent was not a local. If he'd taken her, then he would have gotten her out of the country as quickly as possible. And worse, if that Rochester had gotten her, they wouldn't know for sure until the body dropped.

It was bleak. It was awful. He had never felt like such a failure and disappointment in his life. And worse, so much worse, he felt guilty for letting Callie down. He felt grieved over her loss, as if she had died. So he sat in his office and snuck shots from the bottle of whiskey he usually kept locked in the bottom drawer of his desk, which he rarely drank except when the day's stress threatened to snap him in half. He had gotten half-way through a bottle that was three quarter's full when the telephone rang.

Laurie looked at it. It was his private line. It was also well past three in the morning and the place was deserted, except for the few foot cops who had been left to watch over the scene. Ray was in the room where Callie had been staying, as it was the first available bunk that they had that wasn't in the ward – although Laurie had threatened to put him down there if he didn't at least try to get a hold of himself.

The phone kept ringing. Six, seven, eight. Finally, he reached out and picked it up.

"Dr. Gregg," he said.

"Hello, doctor," came a familiar voice. It sounded tired, but nonetheless the power was still there. "I take it you're having a bad night."

"Rippner," Laurie said. "Why do I get the feeling that none of this is coincidence?"

"Well, you are a doctor," came the snide voice. "One would hope that would mean you had some brains. But if it's any consolation to you, you're not the only one whose been having a bad night. And I'm here to make it all better."

"Oh, lovely," Laurie mocked, even through the slur of alcohol. "So you're the doctor now. What do you want, my head on platter?"

"If I did, you'd give it," Jackson mocked. "You know perfectly well how much Calliope Fanning means to you, Dr. Gregg. So I'm sure that you'll be much more responsive to the offer I'm about to make."

Laurie sighed, weary. It was true. He would put his head on a platter to get her back. "Name it."

"My employers don't want you publishing that book," Jackson said, reiterating what he had already said before, both to him and to Callie in the restaurant. "They want you to cease and desist all research, any mention of Felix Reyes Torrena, or of anything that might legally pertain to him."

"So what do you want, my word? There's more to it than that."

"Indeed. Let's just say that we know what channels to watch. We'd ask you to turn over all your research, but who knows, you might be foolish enough to make back-up copies and neither of us could ever get a moment's rest over it. So we'll make it very simple. Anything gets out with her name on it, in any connection to that night in question, and it's a straight up execution."

"So I agree to this, and you return Callie to me?"

"I can arrange it," Jackson said, although there was something in his voice, something fidgety, that made Laurie doubt that he really could.

"Why bother?" He knew he was being risky, but he had to know. "Why return her? You obviously want her dead."

"Yes, but you don't," Jackson replied smartly. "Dead, there's nothing to prevent you from attempting to destroy our client. Alive, and it's a continuous threat we get to hold over your head. And hers, incidentally."

"So how do I even know she's still alive right now?" Laurie dared. "Let me talk to her."

"She's not in my present company," Jackson said simply.

"So how do I know that you can do what you say?"

"You don't," Jackson snapped. "But is that a risk you want to take?"

"It's more like your risk, Mr. Rippner," Laurie said, getting some steam. "Until I get proof that Callie is alive and safe, I'm not giving up anything. If you can guarantee me her safety, then I'll give you whatever you want."

There was a pregnant pause. "Fair enough. Give me your cellular phone and I'll see what I can arrange. But don't do anything foolish, Laurence. You'd hate to jeopardize her, wouldn't you?"

Laurie gritted his teeth. He gave the number, and then Jackson hung up.

Ray was not going to like this.

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Breakfast was delicious.

Callie tore through her omelet and pancakes, alternating one to the other, stuffing herself until she felt nearly delirious. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. And as she sat there, feeling her strength coming back to her after rest and a meal, she started to feel something like sane again.

The mere thought of her father was a knife-like pang in her heart, but what would he have said? He would have told her that she had to deal. He was gone, she had to accept it, because there were more important things – especially to him.

She knew, deep down, that her father had died because he'd refused to give her up. He'd died for her. She'd be damned before she would let that sacrifice go to waste. But worse than that, she was starting to feel the first glimmerings of wanting revenge. She pushed them aside – they were ridiculous. Not only was the task inestimably dangerous, but she had no way to even think about accomplishing it.

"You full?" Vincent asked her. She glanced at him across the table. He'd barely gotten half-way through his meal. She had scarfed it down like a hog at a pig's trough.

She noticed her empty place. She was about to say no, she really wasn't, but Mariko beat her to it. Another omelet, this one a bit smaller, and a few more pancakes glided gracefully onto her plate.

She sucked down another glass of orange juice. She had never really liked orange juice – too much acid for her taste. But this stuff was fantastic. Delicious and sweet, no pulp, just the right thickness. She could have drunk this stuff for the rest of her life and been happy.

Vincent went back to his meal. Callie noticed that he had let the pancake syrup get into his omelet. It sent a sharp jab through her ribs – Laurie did that.

Oh, God, Laurie…she wished she could call him. He was the only voice of sanity right now, as her brother was no doubt still consumed by the loss of their father and crazy with worry over her disappearance. Laurie would be worried, he would be upset, but he would be rational. She had always liked that best about him, how rational he could be, even when everyone else panicked.

What would he tell her? She was stuck in this situation and she had to make the best of it. So to go over the facts: 1) Vincent was not inclined to harm her. He wanted to protect her. Truthfully, after what she'd seen, she was pretty sure he could do it, too; 2) Vincent had feelings for her, but how could she know for sure what they were? Men were disposed of doing stupid things when it came to their lusts, but she doubted that Vincent was such a victim of his urges. So it had to be more than lust he felt, didn't it? Why couldn't he say it, though? Why couldn't he just come clean and tell her?

Laurie had emphasized that understanding your patient was critical – not feeling pity or sympathy, but being able to understand on an empathetic level where the other was coming from. Vincent was coming from an empty life – no mother, no father, foster homes, abuse, and God-knew what else. No ties of any kind, no romantic affiliations, never been married…she wondered if he'd ever been involved with a woman. Not just sex, but men who had abandonment issues generally tended to be unable to establish any kind of intimacy with a member of the opposite sex, or even their own. Being physical was not a problem – the mind didn't have to be connected to the body. In today's world, people were just things, commodities. He more than likely bypassed the traditional method of getting laid for the world's second oldest profession.

So, her doctor's mind told her, having intimacy issues, he would be unable to express to her what his feelings were. He probably didn't understand them himself. Which was why he was acting the way he was acting. If it was weird or out of character, though, she couldn't be sure. She only had one night with him against which to measure everything else. To her mind, though, it was out of character. The cool Vincent, who was in control and who got things done, no matter which way, seemed hesitant.

There was an old saying – he who hesitates is lost.

It had to be making him crazy. Which made him more dangerous. Her mind switched from the doctor track to the victim. He was holding her by force. She was still a prisoner, his prisoner. She could not come and go as she pleased. She was limited. So she had to guard herself carefully. Being at the mercy of a man who had feelings for you that he didn't understand could be an extremely ugly situation, indeed. He might start to resent her. His frustration could get the better of him and he could get some pretty whacked ideas about how to handle them.

She had to push him away. She couldn't let him get comfortable with the thought of having her around. She couldn't be too cooperative or too trusting. She couldn't lead him on in any way. So kissing him again was definitely out. She should never have done it before. Which now made pushing him away a big risk, she realized. Vincent had probably faced rejected multiple times in his life and always at critical junctures. It would lead to anti-social behaviors like he exhibited. If she rejected him, would her life become forfeit? If she gave a no-holds-barred I'm-not-interested attitude, what might that trigger in him?

She was screwed. Blued and tattooed. She couldn't lead him on, and couldn't reject him. So that left one very uncomfortable alley. She had to figure out what she did actually feel for him, and walk that line.

Vincent had handsome. Even his behavior had not detracted from the smoothness of voice, the Adonis-like qualities of his face, his pure animal magnetism. And the thought that he had feelings for her…well, the thrill she'd experienced before at that discovery was what had led her to her current dilemma.

Suddenly she realized he was looking at her across the table. "So you are full?" he asked, puzzled. Callie jerked to realize she hadn't touched her second helping. Quickly she plied her fork into her food and shoveled it into her mouth.

Great, now she'd really gotten his attention. He watched her eat – that drove her nuts as it was – with the kind of curiosity that unnerved her. But she got through it, because yes, she was still damn hungry. When she finished cleaning her second plate, she gulped another pint of orange juice and leaned back with a half-sigh of contentment.

She closed her eyes, suddenly sleepy again. Then she felt Vincent's hand close on hers, which had been resting on the table. They weren't that far apart, as the table was small in the enclosed space. Startled, she pulled her hand back and her eyes opened. She pulled herself up straight, admonishing herself for doing exactly what she wasn't supposed to do.

Vincent looked down at where her hand had been, and then at his empty one. His brow wrinkled, and she felt a stab of panic. So much for walking the line – her first time out on the rope and she'd already toppled, without knowing if there was a net below. Then he withdrew his hand and his expression was tight.

"We should be landing in about four hours," he said. "When we do, we'll be boarding a boat and crossing the gulf."

"The gulf?" she echoed, confused. "What gulf?"

"The Gulf of Thailand," he said, as if it were obvious, and he was not amused. "It'll be an overnight ride. When we land in Bangkok it will be night for them."

"Then why did we eat breakfast?" she muttered, having gone stupid in her uncertainty.

"Because, Callie," Vincent sighed, "I was being considerate of you. You're still on continental North American time. Don't worry though, you'll adjust. And if you don't, well—" He shrugged.

"Fine," she said, standing up, irritated at his sudden attitude. Nevermind she was the reason he had it. "Where's the lavatory?" she asked.

Vincent eyed her suspiciously for a moment, which she didn't hold in any specific regard, as Vincent looked suspiciously at everything. Then, when he didn't say anything, she added, "You have parachutes on this plane?"

"Why?"

"Figured I'd try to escape," she quipped, smirking down at him. "Either that or just go to the bathroom. You decide."

"Lavatory is down that hall," Vincent said, pointing over his shoulder. Then, for good measure, he added, "And parachutes are locked in a cabinet on that side." He pointed the other way.

Callie nodded. "Well, that settles it. Lavatory it is." And she went.

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(Vincent comes into the room, in a new suit, looking slightly miffed. He sees only Jackson and Rochester, munching the pizza and watching television.)

Vincent: Where's the writer?

Jackson: (around the pizza) Working.

Vincent: About damn time. On what?

Rochester: Well, sometimes she's working. And the rest of the time she's reading Red Eye fanfiction.

Vincent: Excuse me?

Jackson: (smirks) You heard him.

Vincent: Why in the hell would she do that?

Jackson: Don't know. Maybe she's going to give me my own fic after she's done with yours.

Me: Don't start.

Rochester: Did you finish?

Me: Can't. I'm blocked.

Vincent: Well that's what happens when you read Red Eye fanfiction.

Me: Who told you that?

(Everyone eyeballs Jackson)

Jackson: It wasn't me! It was Ironhead over there.

Rochester: That joke is getting old. You need to be smoked too?

Jackson: (ignoring Rochester) And when are you going to give me my own fic?

Me: You have over 500! All the good ideas are taken. And I'm not big on you and Lisa.

Jackson: Well, she is hot.

Me: Yes, she is. (Everyone looks strangely at the writer) Hey, I'm straight, not blind.

Vincent: Wait a minute. You said you're blocked?

Me: I'm on chapter seventeen. It's an incredibly hard chapter. The hardest I've ever written.

Jackson, Vincent, Rochester: How hard is it?

Me: Not funny.

Vincent: Wait a minute…you're not putting me through some kind of existential hell, are you?

Me: I'm not an existentialist. But yes to the hell part.

Vincent: Wonderful.

Me: All right, guys, I need inspiration. (they all stare at her, dumb) (furious) I said I need inspiration!

(Everyone scatters)

Me: Go review. Give me some inspiration.