Another installment for you all, accompanied by a kiss on either cheek, comme les francais, and my gratitude for your kind words of encouragement.
Rebekah may have gotten under Matt's skin.
He lies flat on his back in the dark, two hours left until he agreed to meet her in the lobby, probably six hours until they land in Paris, and sleep is proving impossible. He keeps remembering her body pressed against his on the dance floor.
Not remembering. Feeling.
But he's not going to get up and knock on her door. They are not there yet.
He is cautious in relationships, keeps his head clear. It took months of stolen glances and lingering shoulder squeezes before he asked Elena if he could kiss her, that summer before freshman year. Asked, his heart in his throat, and she quietly said yes before she leaned in to kiss him. There was no mistake because he moved slowly. Same with Caroline, as much as it frustrated her. Where other people rush in – Vicki, Caroline, Tyler – he waits. Not that it solves everything, it just keeps the complications to a minimum.
Rebekah's kiss in the parking lot was a shock. In the moment, it was overshadowed by the giant explosion about to tear them both to pieces. But he can't forget it. She launched herself at him, past her fear, past his. She was brave enough to kiss him and save his life at the same time, and what did he give her in return? An under-enthused yes to her invitation, with probably the cruelest thing he's ever said as a caveat: "what happens on the road stays on the road." She deserves more than that. No wonder she thought he was faking it.
But she moves so fast, and with such determination. Three days from non-explosion to airport, three days to quit his job and send a letter to his mother's last known address, three days for Rebekah to somehow get him a passport that should have taken six months to process. She's strong and impulsive, a combination that makes her dangerous as a vampire, but also exciting as a… what is she to him? He can't say yet.
She's just on the other side of this thin wall. If the air conditioner would turn off, he could hear her breathing. It's bizarre, this constant near-intimacy they've begun. Why didn't he think to take her on a date before they left? Even a movie, or dinner, or a walk around the block would have helped. But no, they are essentially on the longest first date in history because she's cute and has no patience. Their intimacy is all the more pronounced and awkward because they have no past to rest it on. Nothing but a few short conversations and the memory of her eager lips against his, once.
There's no question that being impulsive is bad. Being impulsive causes mistakes. Being impulsive with an Original vampire is a recipe for instant, gruesome death. But. Still.
He flomps his head into the pillow a few times, then throws his arm over his eyes, but it doesn't help. He feels her hips against his, her back twisting against his hand. If only his brain could tell the rest of him that wanting something and not immediately getting it is not the deadly thing in this scenario.
This flight is easier: a quick shot from Dublin to Paris that ends almost before it begins. They are in a cab moments after collecting their bags, speeding toward the Eiffel Tower. Matt watches trees and cars and buildings whiz past from the back seat.
The cab driver pulls over halfway down a street in a lively neighborhood. People fill the sidewalks, stopping to chat, waiting for a leashed dog to piss on a tree. While Rebekah pays, Matt unloads the trunk. It chafes, but why fight it? He won't be paying for anything and there's no way they'd be here if it was the other way around. But he can lift things, so he does.
The lobby is dark, sparsely laid out with a few velvet sofas and tables. Mirrors rise to high ceilings, once painted bright reds and yellows but long since muted with the remains of cigarette smoke, which lingers in the air. A tall woman hands them keys and a hand-drawn map of the neighborhood with little symbols indicating shops and necessities: a steaming cup of coffee, a baguette, a thermometer, subway tracks. She speaks French quickly, with the undertone of a dare, but Rebekah rattles it right back at her. It mostly sounds like they're speaking English backwards and they both have colds. Listening to Rebekah, he wonders how many languages she speaks, and if it's easier for vampires to learn them, or if she learned like anyone else would, after living here a while and struggling to make herself understood.
Their third floor rooms are comfortable and small, joined by a tiny tile bathroom that smells heavily of rose soap. Matt's window opens onto the street; across the street from the hotel, people drink and talk at café tables on the sidewalk. He sits back on the double bed, its springs whining in response, and notices he's not exactly bored. Just… at ease. Kind of free. It's new.
The bathroom door squeaks open an inch, and then there's a quiet knock. "Are you decent?"
"What do you think I'm doing in here?" he chuckles.
Rebekah swings the door open wide. "Damn. Fully clothed."
He smirks, standing. "Ready to go?"
Matt feels a change in himself. He's invigorated. Optimistic. No longer on high alert. Rebekah suggests a cab but he scoffs and offers his elbow. The afternoon is warm and bright, and so are they.
They walk past shops, parks, fountains, metro stations. They fall into short silences. They stop for small dogs because Rebekah squeals like their adorableness causes her physical pain when she sees them, and only petting them can cure her ache. They encounter a crepe stand, and it turns out the only things better than crepes are French strawberries.
At the foot of the Basilica of Sacre Coeur, a white stone church on what seems like a mountain in the middle of the city, Rebekah sits down on a bench. "Isn't it beautiful?" she muses, gazing upward at it.
Matt takes in the double set of broad stairways leading upward. There have to be at least two hundred steps from bottom to top, probably more. "Race you," he taunts, launching toward them.
"Wait!" she calls, but he's already sprinting away. It feels good to run, to exert himself. It's been too long since he had a workout. These aren't as steep as the bleachers he used to run before practice, but there are so many more of them. He resolves (thirty, thirty-one) to go running on this trip, as many mornings as he can manage. He needs time alone to think, to push his body in the way it needs to be pushed.
A tourist whistles as he presses past them.
"Gaining on you, Donovan," Rebekah calls. He knows she could whiz past him without a second thought, but the fact that she's not, that she's playing along, is something he appreciates. She prefers fun to winning the contest, even or maybe especially because she could win effortlessly if she wanted to. And this (one hundred and seven, not even halfway up) is pure, kid-like fun.
His heart pounds but he digs deep and picks up speed. "Not a chance," he hisses over his shoulder.
The last ten steps burn like acid in his thighs but Rebekah is at his heels so he takes them two at a time, until finally he's at the top step, bent over, wheezing and laughing at the same time. He feels Rebekah's hand on the small of his back. "It is beautiful up here," she whispers with reverence.
He waves in her direction. "Right. Yeah."
"Matt, stand up."
The city sprawls before them. It is infinite. There is so much to look at that it takes him a few minutes to feel like he's even begun to really see the view. "Amazing."
Rebekah goes inside the basilica, reads the engravings on the outside, the monuments to men who sacrificed themselves for one cause or another. She reports back to Matt, who hears but doesn't listen. He leans against the stone railing, gazing out over the city. He could stay here forever.
"I think I want to climb a mountain," he responds when she asks him if he's ready to go back down and see Montmartre.
"A mountain?"
"Yeah," he says, "a big one."
"Everest?"
"Maybe." He can't tear his eyes from the horizon. "Is there a mountain in Africa?"
"There's Kilimanjaro."
"That. I want to climb that."
She leans her hip against the railing beside him. "All right. Should we leave tomorrow?"
He laughs and turns to her. The light in her eyes catches him off guard; it is strikingly immediate after gazing over a city for nearly an hour. "Not yet. But someday, Africa."
"Come on, then," she says, slipping her hand around his elbow and leading him down the steps, slowly this time.
Among the steep, narrow alleys of Montmartre, the afternoon light is turning a faint pink. "It's what the song is about, the pink light here," Rebekah explains, out of nowhere.
"What song?"
"You know, that song. La vie en rose." She hums a few vague notes.
"If it's French and it's not fries, I don't know it."
She wraps her other hand around his bicep, catching his arm. "You're not the caveman you think you are, Matt."
He's about to respond with something like how do you know? when Rebekah pauses beside a small bistro. The front wall is open to the street and there are maybe four tables in the whole place. "Elijah says the chef here is a genius."
"Are there strawberries?"
Rebekah chuckles and gets the attention of a waiter, who seats them close to the street. Soon they're halfway down a bottle of red wine and Matt is facing a plate of snails.
"Just think of them as mushrooms drenched in melted butter and garlic," Rebekah suggests.
"But they're not."
"Maybe they are," she counters, failing to hold back a smirk. "How do you know unless you try them?"
"They're slimy bugs with no legs."
"So they'll go down easy."
Matt gurgles his disgust, lifting his glass for another swig of wine. "You first."
She picks up her fork and reaches daintily across the table, skewering one and letting the butter drip for a moment. Her lips open slightly and even though he knows that it's so she can eat a snail, it's still sexy as hell. She appears to realize the affect she has, judging by the way she drops it onto her tongue and chews, maintaining eye contact until she swallows. "Your turn," she sings.
He gives her a playful glare as he registers the multiple layers of this exchange. Yes, there is flirting, and it doesn't feel half bad. But there is also power at stake, something he has sorely missed since they left Mystic Falls. And the fact is, whether or not he eats a snail is entirely within his control. Of course, not eating one would kill the mood. And he has to remember that she played along on the stairs, even though she didn't have to. So it is, actually, his turn, and he decides he's willing to take it. "Fine," he announces, picking up his fork. He scans the plate. "Which of you sorry bugs wants to be food?"
It's dark when they leave the restaurant, but still warm. Montmartre is strung with lights, dangling on cords between trees, balconies, and street lamps. Street musicians have taken up residence on stoops and in courtyards, strumming and singing. Couples walk arm in arm. So do Matt and Rebekah.
"What do you think of Paris now?" she asks.
He shrugs. "So far, so good, but I'm going to need a ton of art tomorrow. I was promised tons of art."
Rebekah chuckles. "Tons."
They stroll, not exactly aimlessly, but nearly. A comfortable silence settles on them both. He's having a good time with Rebekah, as weird as that is. He likes the weight of her hand on the inside of his elbow, the sway of her hips as she walks in step with him. The way her lips curl into a flirtatious smile at the slightest suggestion.
"This is romantic," Rebekah eventually sighs.
Matt's shoulders stiffen; the word sets off immediate, clanging alarm bells. Inside his head, without any real definitions, he can safely enjoy all of this. But calling it romantic out loud is dangerous.
She must sense the shift; she stops. "I mean, the night. All the people, the lights. It's a beautiful night. That's all."
He doesn't respond right away. He may even be holding his breath. Because no matter how drawn he is to her mouth at this very second, no matter how easy it is getting to forget what she is capable of, he needs to remember.
"Matt, I didn't mean you and me," she backpedals, sliding her arm out from around his. "We are not romantic."
"Rebekah," he begins. But what can he say? They aren't. They shouldn't be.
"Like you said. I'm a vampire. You don't trust me." Her eyes sparkle with defiance.
"That's not…" He can't finish.
She takes a few lingering steps away. He follows.
"I trust you," Matt begins again after a few blocks. "I just don't trust the vampire part of you."
They keep walking. Matt starts to recognize awnings and street signs; they're getting close to their hotel.
"It's not like werewolves," Rebekah finally says. "I decide what I do."
This isn't news; maybe it's supposed to be comforting, but it almost makes things worse. It brings into perfect focus the fact that it was her, 100% her, that chose to kill Elena. And him. "Look, you said it yourself," he reasons, "you did terrible things. Not lately, but for a long damn time before. How do I know you're not heading for an evil vampire relapse?"
Rebekah's hands fall limply at her sides. The breeze lifts a few strands of her hair, and like the jerk he suspects he is, he doesn't miss the way it exposes her neck sloping toward her shoulder. She faces Matt squarely, a quiet earnestness burning in her eyes. "I'm not. I want to be a good person, like you are."
It's exactly what someone like him would want to hear from someone like her. "Why? The cure is gone."
"Because more than anything, Matt, I want to be worthy of you."
Do not be discouraged, mes amis! The romance of Paris has an effect on us all...