Brody Warfield was not a man accustomed to simply laying around. Everything in him told him to get up and do something. In the two days that he'd been at Baudelaire Castle-as he mentally referred to the rambling old house-his mind had been racing, demanding movement. But his body, his battered body, had demanded rest and sleep. In this case, his body had won.

Because it had, he'd spent much of his time sleeping or lying around on the couch, drifting in and out. He began to feel guilty that Violet, little more than a stranger, was forced to care for him day and night, helping him change his clothes and move about a little. Hell, she'd even had to help him shower when standing for so long had proved too difficult.

During the day, he was most often lying on the couch, or propped in a chair next to the window. At night, with the help of the clever little hidden elevator she'd showed him, she helped him upstairs to one of the many guestrooms. Knowing she slept across the hall, alone but for the cat she called Quigley was its own kind of torture.

And now, on this third day, she'd helped him outside, where he could sit on the front porch in an old rocking chair. Quigley wound around his feet, rubbing against his leg and purring in a way that had Brody chuckling, patting his lap so that the sleek cat leaped up, curling up and purring in delight as Brody's large fingers petted and stroked. And while he sat there, letting the sun warm his face, she roamed the beach, her feet bare as she tilted her face up towards the sun, a small collection of sea shells in her arms.

This was where she belonged, he thought, out in the sunlight, with the breeze teasing her hair and her toes in the sand. Far too often she locked herself away in the building of wood and stone, secluding herself with her books and her tea and her cat.

Why she would choose to hide herself away, he couldn't say. God knew she was smart. He'd heard her working in the night, the muffled sound of hammering and sawing echoing through the halls. And there were strange inventions hanging around everywhere, from the automatic rolling pin in the kitchen to the mechanical crowing rooster on the roof-something he'd heard long before he'd actually seen it. And once when he'd thought to waste some time with her books, he'd picked one up, only to find it full of complicated equations and technological terminology that he hadn't even been able to begin to understand.

She was, by all accounts, a bright, creative woman who willingly locked herself away on this island, surrounded by the sea and the sand and the trees. To a man who thrived on the comfort that came with being surrounded by others, he just couldn't understand. God knew he wanted to, but she just wouldn't open up to him.

When Violet turned towards the house, she found him staring at her again. He was always, always staring. It was enough to make a body uneasy. She shifted the seashells she held in the crook of her arm, using her free hand to brush a strand of hair back away from her face. Damn it, he was making her conscious, which wasn't something she'd had to worry about in quite some time. No doubt about it, he'd have to leave soon.

With a small sigh, she walked forward, keeping her eyes defiantly on his as she approached. "You've color back in your face, at least. Best come inside now, before that color turns to a burn." She said mildly, walking past him through the door. She heard him rise slowly and follow her into the kitchen, where she was meticulously placing the shells she'd collected out on the counter. God knew what she'd used them for, but it had pleased her to find them, to collect them and brush away the sand to reveal the beauty of them.

As he always did now, Brody sat at the table in the chair facing the window, the cat winding around his legs. And, just like always, he watched her brew the tea, her long, slim hands strong and steady as she lifted the kettle and poured the steaming liquid into mugs. And just like always, he touched her arm as she set his cup down in front of him, waited until she met his gaze.

Offering a smile, he was ridiculously pleased by the cautious wariness that came into her eyes. "I'm grateful," He said simply, just like always. And, just like always, she sighed, eased her arm away and patted him once on the shoulder, the only contact she gave willingly.

"So you've said. I suppose you want a cookie for being such a polite boy." When he only kept smiling at her, with such patient amusement in his eyes, she turned away, took a moment to steady her pulse as she reached for a tin, pulled out two cookies that she had baked recently. Placing them on a plate, she slid those in front of him as well. And if she felt a bit of a tug, watching this big man with the goofy grin eat the cookies she'd baked, it was easy enough to dismiss. After all, he'd be gone soon enough. And there would be no more tugs, and no more patient smiles that made her feel ever so uncomfortable.

With another sigh-she sighed far too much, in Brody's opinion-She settled down across from him with her own tea, her chair angled enough that she could still see out the window a bit. "As to the matter of your returning to the mainland," She said, and immediately had his attention, his eyes narrowing on her face. She wasn't looking at him, but at the window, her gaze on the clear blue waters and, just beyond that, the jagged rocks.

"There's an old boat stored in the shed out behind the house that I've taken a look at. It's in need of some repairs, of course, but its sturdy enough, and should get you back to the mainland without issue. Once your wounds are healed and the repairs are finished, we'll get you back home quick enough." She thought of the old boat she'd found in the shed, and thought that 'some repairs' was a bit of an understatement, given the tiny boat's questionable condition, but still quite apt. He would be gone from this island within two weeks, three at the absolute most. And then everything could return to how it had been before.

While she thought of returning, Brody's only thought was in how he could convince her to let him stay. She had been brought into his life for a reason, of that he was positive. It wasn't merely coincidence that had plopped him on her doorstep, no sir. This, in his mind, was fate. And who was he to question fate?