I'm sorry I wasn't able to get this up in time for the holidays :-(, but I've been sneaking work on it as much as I could. I hope everyone had a wonderful time and best wishes for 2012!
Gentle warning to anyone with sensitivities to abuse issues, I tried not to get too graphic with Dimitri's history, but I know just about anything can be triggering. I've put most of the flashbacks in italics, but Dimitri also talks in present tense about what happened with his father. PM me if you'd just like a summary of this chapter.
Dimitri and VA are all Richelle Mead's!
Dimitri watched Zeklos and Katya's backs, their body language slowly changing from tension to teasing. When their forms retreated farther down the path and around another corner, Malina finally spoke.
"How's your nose?"
Dimitri moved cautiously, unsure about the see-saw of events and emotions that had brought them to this point. He pulled the towel away. "Better," he noted carefully. "Done bleeding."
"Good," she said.
She didn't move, and after a few moments, he interrupted the tension. "I still have to go to the infirmary. That's where they'll expect to find me."
Another long silence, then - "I need answers," Malina said abruptly.
He had no problem imagining her questions. He looked down, avoiding her eyes. "I should go -" but her hand on his arm stopped him.
"Please," she said.
He deflated. Zeklos's words had been entirely too optimistic: in all likelihood, he was leaving, and he'd realized too late that he wanted more with Malina. He would have preferred to keep a more careful hold on what he shared, but at this point, what harm could answers do? "Can we walk?" he bargained. He couldn't imagine sharing while standing still. He also couldn't imagine sharing while still residing in his own skin, but for her, he would try.
He couldn't wait for her answer and started walking, Malina easily catching up to him and matching his stride. He couldn't volunteer what she wanted so he stayed silent.
"What happened when you were thirteen?" she asked finally.
He let out the breath he'd been holding. It wasn't the question he was expecting but it would do. He fought the urge to walk faster. "When I was thirteen I almost killed my father."
"You must have had a good reason."
Her answer came without hesitation and her unconditional acceptance made him pause. "I broke his spine," he admitted. "and his legs. Most of his ribs. Busted up his face pretty bad, too."
He waited for her anger, her horror. It didn't come. "What happened?" she asked simply.
He closed his eyes, trying to block the flashback. "He'd just fed. On my mother." Almost anyone would suspect that the insult Zeklos claimed to have used had some basis in fact - it was the standard derogatory for a woman in a dhampir commune - but many of his classmates had been raised in similar circumstances and knew the truth was more complicated. His other classmates would have assumed that Zeklos's insult was horrific but less than accurate. Malina nodded slightly, not shocked or appalled, as if he was only confirming something she'd already guessed.
"He wanted -" he swallowed, his mind instinctively fighting against the images, pulling back to give only generalizations. "He treated her badly. For as long as I can remember. Very badly. He didn't care if I saw, just if I tried to interfere. He liked using his air specialization to stop me - he'd choke me, cut off my breath. He said he liked it because it left less bruises. He didn't seem to mind leaving bruises on my mother."
"So what happened this time?" Malina asked, very softly.
The images crashed through. Laughter echoed. The diamond necklace sparkled on her neck, the line of white stones interrupting the bruises like a bright scar. Blood trickled from the punctures. Her eyes stared at nothing, glazed, and her mouth curved upward in a vapid smile.
"They had just - shared blood," Dimitri's voice dropped. He kept walking, Malina at his side, not seeing the snow-dusted sidewalk, the looming building to their right, or the gently sloping expanse to their left. Instead, the past saturated his senses. He could even smell his father's cologne, mixing unpleasantly with the warmer smells of baking and home. In the scene crowding his vision, his father moved closer to her on the couch - he hadn't even bothered to hide their perversion behind closed doors - and brushed his lips along her bruised neck. Her back arched, bringing her skin closer to his fangs. Dimitri - the younger version of himself - stood in the doorway, agonized. He hated his mother's weakness, her addiction, but he hated his father more.
"Leave her alone," he said.
His father didn't even turn. "We're just having a little fun." He sunk his fangs into her again and a small moan of pleasure escaped her lips. His hand disappeared under the hem of her dress. Dimitri glanced away, disgusted, angry, and worried, mentally tracking the other members of the household. Karolina was out with friends - she refused to stay in the house when their father was present. Sonya and Viktoria were in their room playing; Dimitri had been watching them. He had considered taking to take them to Yeva's, but during their father's last few visits she had refused to help. He shouldn't have left them - they didn't need to see any more of their father's abuse than they already had and he couldn't risk letting them become targets - but they were playing safely and quietly and his anger had drawn him downstairs.
His father's guardians were outside, one circling the house as near guard, watching all points of entry, while the other patrolled the neighborhood as far guard. But even when they were close they never interfered with their Moroi's actions, perfecting the guardian seeing-without-seeing, standing back no matter what old or new abuses his father performed. Sometimes his father didn't even need to use his magic to keep Dimitri from his attempts to interfere. If the guardians were close by, they would stop him.
Guardians protected Moroi. They came first.
"He'd brought her jewelry, a new dress - he did that a lot -" Dimitri continued, grasping at the present despite the vividness of the flashback. Answering Malina's question was even harder than he expected. Allowing the memory to take hold was hard enough, but what details to share, which ones to leave out? How to explain the all-encompassing horror of his father's frequent abuse?
"She didn't care about the presents, and she always promised us - my sisters, me, our grandmother - that she didn't want to see him anymore. But every time he came she'd let him in. Then he'd get her to wear what he brought. He'd get mad and hurt her if she said no."
"Did he hurt her a lot?" Malina asked, still quiet.
Dimitri flinched at the other images her question triggered, a hundred different scenes flashing by like a deck of shuffled cards. "A lot," he agreed. "And I never knew what would make him do it."
"What made him do it this time?" she prompted again, gently.
His father smiled, easygoing and relaxed, kissing her neck lovingly - kissing the bloody marks he'd just made - and ignored Dimitri. He brushed her hair away from her face. "You used to be so amazing," he murmured. "I remember you taking down Strigoi like it was nothing. Now look at you. You're weak. Addicted and weak. It's so sad. I bet I could take you now."
In an instant the kindness in his voice twisted, turning dark as the thought hit him. "I really think I could."
Even in her drugged stupor, his mother caught both his meaning and the change in his tone and tried to rouse herself. "We don't have to fight," she slurred.
"Not a fight," he said, his voice turning completely cold. "Just a little test. If a Strigoi came in right now could you protect me? I don't think you could. I don't think you could even protect me from me." He pulled her to her feet and backhanded her lightly. "Come on. Guard me."
"He was taunting her," Dimitri said, once again pulling his thoughts back to the present. "He said that since she was an addict she was weak. She was," he added angrily, "but it was his fault. He made her weak. And that day he made fun of her for it. And hit her."
He backhanded her again, harder, and her head rocked back from the impact. Dimitri started forward automatically, and without even looking at him, his father cut off his breath. Sometimes Dimitri thought ahead enough and took a few deep breaths first - then his lungs were ready when his father retaliated. This time he'd moved too quickly, too impulsively, and he had no reserves. He stumbled, flailing, panicked, trying to pull in any sliver of oxygen but his airway was completely blocked. Terror mounting, he knew that he might have less than a minute before he passed out, and his father might not remember to release his hold once he lost consciousness. Dimitri had researched it once, at school. In less than four minutes he could be dead.
"You're weak," his father sneered at his mother, hitting her again. "You're worthless."
Dimitri's momentum and fight for breath had brought him closer to his father than he had been in years - he usually stayed as far away from him as possible, or was kept away by magic or guardians. Now, even with lungs wrung empty and vision graying around the edges, he realized with a start that he was bigger than his father. Not as tall, but nearly, and much more muscular and solidly built. For as long as he could remember he'd harbored traitorous fantasies of physically stopping his father, but, notwithstanding the other barriers to attacking him, he was simply too small. He'd grown quite a bit in the past year. Big enough now to stop his father.
He fought his body's need for air and forced himself upright, taking two steps closer to his parents. "I would protect you," his mother protested feebly. "I just won't hit you."
That statement might have saved her, this time at least, but then she added, "I could never hurt any Moroi." His father pulled back his arm one more time but Dimitri was ready.
"She wouldn't defend herself," Dimitri told Malina quietly. "She was a much better guardian than I will ever be. So I stopped him."
He waited again for Malina's horror that Zeklos wasn't the first Moroi he'd attacked. Instead she moved closer to him as they continued walking, slid her hand into his, and squeezed.
He held onto her and escaped the flashback, shutting away the sounds of breaking bones and screaming. He'd lost control once he'd started hitting him, done more damage than he'd intended. He couldn't bring himself to be sorry. "The guardians came back. Stopped me. But not before I'd almost killed him."
"But he recovered?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral.
"He did."
"And what you did stopped him, for good," she stated.
"It did." He didn't try to explain that it hadn't been quite so straightforward or easy, but in the end she was right: his father no longer intruded on his family's life.
"But it still affects you," Malina said quietly.
He wanted to deny it, but the evidence was too clear.
"You attacked Ivan tonight because of it." she continued. "But I didn't see what actually happened. Why did Katya say that Ivan lied?"
"Because he didn't say anything," Dimitri admitted reluctantly. "I attacked him. Unprovoked."
"I don't believe that. Even if he didn't say anything about your mother, something made you think that he was taking blood - or that Katya was giving it," Malina pressed.
"I was wrong."
She paused, considering. When she spoke again her voice was deceptively gentle. "So if it was all your fault then why did he lie?"
Her tone was so reasonable that he almost tried to answer. The complications of where to start saved him. "I don't know," he said instead.
"Dimitri," she continued, her tone still soft but more urgent, more dangerous. "Ivan lied for you. You attacked him and he's protecting you. Why would he do that?"
"I don't know!" he repeated, pulling away from her.
"I think you do!" she snapped, her frustration breaking. "Dimitri, there's obviously something you don't want to tell me and I've done my best not to push, but I think it's important and we don't have any more time! What exactly is your history with Ivan Zeklos, why is he so determined to be your friend, and why is he putting himself on the line to protect you?"
He shadowed his eyes with his hand, an unconscious gesture that usually helped him gather his thoughts. This time his hand brushed painfully against his injured face and his own frustration spiked further. "I don't know! I just know whatever it is it's not what you think. He's not my friend and whatever he's doing it's nothing good."
"Why are you so positive you can't trust him?
His father handing him his first American Western - not for a birthday, not for a holiday, just a considerately chosen, kindly given gift - flashed in front of his eyes.
The infirmary loomed but Malina stopped, blocking the path. She crossed her arms, her stance solid, containing her anger. "Who knows about your mother giving blood?" Malina demanded, pulling him out of the flashback - one, in its own way, that was even more unwelcome than the rest.
"Just family," he answered automatically. "Katya," he amended, not wanting to hurt Malina again with references to their closeness, but needing to be honest with her where he could. "A few others probably suspected or guessed. But no one has ever said anything."
"I would never say anything," she said dismissively. "Does Ivan know?"
If Dimitri was completely honest, he couldn't be sure. "I don't know. He seemed to. Maybe he just guessed."
"Who knows about your father?"
Dimitri felt ripped open, vulnerable, but he answered what he could. "Family. Katya. Doctors. We couldn't tell." He tried to explain without explaining. "No one would believe us."
Malina flinched hearing Katya's name again but didn't comment. "Does Ivan know?"
"I don't know," he answered again. "Maybe. Maybe not." For reasons he couldn't examine too closely, he tried to be fair.
"Who knows about your beating up your father?" she asked more gently.
He looked at the ground. "No one knows. His guardians told the hospital he'd been in a car accident. No seatbelt. Thrown from the car." He allowed himself a bitter half smile. He'd done enough damage that the explanation was plausible.
Her next question came carefully worded, and even more carefully delivered. "Could Ivan suspect?"
It was his turn to flinch. "Possibly."
She moved, coming closer, and he froze. He could anticipate a sparing opponent with near-perfect accuracy, but he couldn't guess what she intended. She stopped inches from him, her hands coming to rest flat against his chest.
"Thank you for finally trusting me, about your mother, and what you did to your father," she said, frustration telegraphing through the pressure in her hands. "I just wish you'd trust me with the rest."
He moved to shake his head but instead just lifted his shoulders. He wanted to tell her, wanted her to know everything, wanted to stop censoring his every thought. She now knew more about him than anyone in the world, more than even Katya, but even more now, because she knew and accepted and believed so much, he couldn't risk losing that over Ivan Zeklos. Not even if the guardians came to expel him in the next moment and he never saw her again. "I'm sorry," he answered finally.
Her hands curled into tight balls. Her body coiled. She didn't push him, but she didn't step away. "Did you really believe that I'd tricked you?" she exploded. "That everything between us was a lie?"
The warmth and pressure of her hands seeped through his clothing, into his skin. He thought of the excuses he could make, how he could explain his horrible behavior, but he owed her an honest reply. "I did." He admitted. "But I wasn't thinking. I know you would never use your magic to hurt me - or anyone." He did know her, he'd been beyond foolish to deny their connection for so long. "I'm sorry. I was wrong."
He looked into her eyes, her face so close that she was all he could see. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you," he said. He ached to brush away the stray curl laying against her cheek, to cover her tight hands with his, or even to just pull her into his arms. But he didn't presume to touch her. "I'm sorry I didn't trust my feelings for you," he finished quietly.
She dropped her hands. "I guess that's something." She almost smiled, but he could see the effort behind it. Her frustration spiked again. "But it doesn't really matter. There's no way they'll let you stay and you won't tell me enough to let me help you!"
"It wouldn't help," he said, still honest.
She didn't answer, but she didn't look away, and he couldn't bear to leave things so close yet still so broken between them. "If by some miracle I can stay I promise I'll make it up to you."
"That's a big promise," she said, her voice tight.
"I'll keep it," he said.
She tilted her head, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read. "Okay." she said finally, her frustration still present, but muted. "Let's go in and see what happens."
Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!
Another Queen of Overthinking Things note - I know in VA Rose said "tell me you beat the crap out of him" and Dimitri gave her a sly, sad smile that grew when he answered, "I did" - so that doesn't quite fit with my interpretation that Dimitri almost killed his father when he beat him up. My explanation is that at that point in Dimitri and Rose's relationship there was attraction and the beginning of feelings but not love yet, so Dimitri wouldn't have been as completely open with Rose yet. He was also trying to show himself in the best possible light, like we all do when we like someone, and admitting that he nearly killed his father wouldn't have been as positive. He's also older in VA and has worked through a lot of his issues from being raised in a home with abuse, and his father did recover, so how much damage he did isn't as much of an issue once we get to VA.