Note: Mm. I like this chapter. :D I'm so happy I'm ahead of this fic, because I'm writing my Secret Santa gift (for whom, you shall learn this Christmas Eve xD) and it's insane when you throw exams on top. It's just…gah. Holidays are stress-filled, no? Anyway, thank you to all my readers, and, uh, you can go read.

Chapter Seven: Uncertainty

He was looking at her. Just then. If he wasn't looking at her, then that meant he'd caught her looking at him, and Gwen would rather die than admit that. "Nothing happened that night," the cook had reminded herself over and over. "Nothing at all. I'm just being stupid, that's all. I'm rebounding—it's normal."

He called you beautiful.

"He always calls me beautiful," Gwen muttered, slamming the refrigerator door. "This is nothing new."

But he was looking at her right now, wasn't he?

…Which also meant he knew she was looking at him. Crap.

"Hey, Steiner." Gwen grinned and waved her celery stick at him in greeting. "How's Claire today?"

"Fine. Happy." His hand ruffled through his silver locks, unable to hold eye-contact for long. "It's fairly empty today, isn't it?"

"Oh, did you forget? We're closed today," Gwen explained with a smile. "I'm just grabbing some food 'cause I'm hungry. After that I'll probably—" The sentence broke in half, a celery stick snapped in two. "Um, you want anything? You can bring Claire out, if you want; no work means you've got time for play."

The child's name had that same effect on him it always did: the thief's eyes brightened, and he immediately removed himself with his elegant—yet somehow quickened—gait. I wonder if he ice-skates, Gwen thought in passing. He'd be wonderful at it—so fluid, so full of grace. I should ask him someday. She let her head rest on her arm, Steiner reentering with a chubby baby Claire in tow.

"I think she's hungry," Steiner announced, the little frown on his child's face clearly agreeing with him.

"And what would the princess like to have today?" The blonde grinned. "We've got crushed peas, crushed carrots, and milk for your eating pleasure on our baby's menu. And with your special employee discount, you can have any of the three for—" Gwen paused for a dramatic interlude. "—absolutely free!"

Claire just whined.

"She doesn't like the peas," Steiner answered for her. "Carrots are good, but she'll need the milk, too. She has such a big appetite—it's like there's a bottomless hole where her stomach's supposed to be."

Gwen laughed. "Do you hear what your daddy is saying about you? Do you?" Her hands scooped up a bowl, a spoon, and a jar of mushy baby food and laid them on the counter like merchandise. "So, will you feed her today, or will I?"

As always, Steiner picked up the spoon. The funny thing was, at first glance, Gwen would have never labeled him the paternal type. He seemed someone groundless, something slippery—a man who couldn't be caught. Yet here he stood, anchored to this little girl and trying to feed her with a choo-choo train trick Gwen had taught him just days ago.

"Open the tunnel, baby. Come on, your daddy knows what's best for you. You want to grow up big and strong, right?"

Claire clapped her hands together, giggling. "She loves your voice," Gwen heard herself say aloud. "She lights up whenever you speak."

"Does she?" Enlightened by this knowledge, Steiner beamed. "She does, doesn't she?" He stroked Claire under her chin, tickling her so that she ducked into her bib, eyes squinting in delight. "If you want, Daddy will talk to you as long as you like; he'll even sing to you, if you just eat this food. Baby, princess, darling, please eat."

Squealing, Claire reached out to touch her father's cheeks, and Steiner took the opportunity to stick the spoon in her mouth. "Not so bad, is it?" he murmured, and oh, Gwen had never seen such eyes filled with love, never witnessed such care and affection in any other human being.

It's like he's more than just her father. He's…her guardian angel.

Warmth radiated from the father and daughter, but Gwen felt strangely cold, watching from the outskirts of this love. Being jealous of a baby didn't make sense, did it? Envying that kind of focused devotion—wanting that kind of honest love—was nothing short of pathetic, foolish.

But don't we all look for that?

"Well!" Her own voice startled her, speaking with a cheer she'd forgotten she possessed. "I'm going to be going out, so bye."

Gwen skipped out towards the door only to be stopped by Steiner's protest: "Why? Where do you need to be?"

"Oh." Gwen blushed, mumbling, "See, every day I get off, I go over to…okay, so there's this ranch, and I go racing on horses, and it's kind of stupid, I know."

"Horses? You race horses?" His tone wasn't insulting, as she had been expecting, but merely curious.

"Yeah. I'm actually pretty good." Her hand went to her neck, rubbing it in embarrassment. "But I need to practice, so…"

"Maybe we'll come by some time," Steiner offered. "Claire might like to see the horses. Girls…" He paused, turning to her for approval. "Girls…like those, don't they?"

She almost laughed; the look in his eyes was so helpless, so needy. "If you really want, you can come by the ranch tomorrow. I can't promise you'll have anything interesting to watch, though."

"Fair maiden, I'm sure it will be fine. It's not like Claire and I are doing much, are we?"

Fair maiden. That again.

"Doug will tell you where to go," Gwen told him with a wink as the door locked behind her with a tidy little click. "See you then."

The first thing that had attracted Trent to Claire was, funnily enough, her smile. Often, when he'd come to Forget-Me-Not, his travels took him past the local farm, and there she'd stand, working and sweating in her field all day long. He'd glance, from time to time, over the mushrooms and herbs gathered in his arms to see her stretching her stiff body and going to grab herself a drink of water. One Wednesday, Trent had watched her only for her eyes to land on his, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Hello?"

His heart beat faster than a hummingbird's wings; his voice died with every step she took closer. The mushrooms and the herbs fumbled in his hands, and with a final stab of humiliation, they fell onto the ground, leaving him with nothing. "Oh, I—"

"Here, let me help." Her slender, tanned arms scooped them from the dirt and she laughed. "Didn't mean to startle you. I was just, uh, wanting to say hello. I'm Claire. And you would be…?"

"Doctor Trent. From Mineral Town," he felt compelled to add. "I, well, I spend my days off gathering medicinal herbs here for my stock."

"It's such a hot day, though," Claire had said, and her hand pulled back a strand of her golden hair—a habit Trent would recognize quite often in the time to come. "Would you like a drink? I've got ice."

She'd been so free, so trusting. And yet, Claire had been intelligent, too—dedicated, set, ambitious. Everything Trent himself could admire. Everything anyone could ever want to be.

Time was a cruel artist. He drew his masterpieces so painstakingly detailed, and yet in an instant, scribbled them out under chaos and despair. What a mess he'd made of them both, Trent thought to himself bitterly. What a complete transformation had taken over his wife, and, in effect, over him.

"Where have you been?" Claire accused him quietly. The words came out hollow, too tired to nurse anger in her weary body. He hadn't expected her to be awake; he hadn't thought she'd be sitting at the dinner table, a plate set up on both their sides.

Trent stiffened. "At work—"

"No, Trent. Where have you been?" Those hands that had once seemed so petite, so soft, now hid her face from view with a screen of shame. "All this week, Trent. You've been gone all week. It's been seven days, and it will become longer than seven days. You're avoiding me." Her hands fell, revealing her agonized expression: eyes wild. "You're abandoning me."

"Willow isn't here. Whether I am or not doesn't make a difference. Whether I am at work or at home won't change whether they find her," Trent answered softly.

"But it affects me, Trent. It matters to me." That voice which had once been so steady and so sure now cut through the soundless room like ice, cracking under pressure from all sides. "Do you have any idea what it's like going about for food, for shopping, for anything out of this house? Enduring pitiful looks as you walk by? Having people speak to you like—like you're less than them, like you've failed at something simpler than breathing?"

"Claire—"

"You don't. You honest to God don't. And I don't think I could make you know what that feels like—not if I had all the words in the world. They'd all be wasted on you, you know that?" She stood, and there was something remarkably powerful about this woman—something imposing in her regal, dignified carriage. She seemed a queen, Trent thought to himself, and yet he felt far from being her king. "Do you want to move out?"

"What?"

"Do you? Because I have been waiting, and waiting, and waiting for you for days now, and I always get a phone call telling me you're busy. Busy." She laughed bitterly. "You liar."

"I could accuse you of the same thing," Trent retorted flatly. His words shook her from her pedestal, and he continued, enraged: "There are days, Claire, that I've wondered about Skye. Wondered why he chose our child, and why he chose you. Days that I've wondered even if…" No, he would not finish that thought. He would not, he would not, he would not.

"What are you saying?" Claire whispered.

"I'm saying I want to trust you. But I'm also saying that I've never been a blind believer." He stared her down. "I'm not blind, Claire. It's simpler to pretend that I am, sometimes, but now it's not so easy."

Claire shook, thoughts swimming and panic seizing. Why was the room dark—no, wasn't it bright, wasn't it day? When did time decide to stop? When did everything become red? "That woman got to you, didn't she? She told you those lies. She told you—"

"Dammit, Claire, it's nothing I couldn't have seen myself if I'd just chosen to look!" The control had broken; the dam had burst. "Who do you think you are, Claire? Do you think you're the only one in the world who knows pain? Do you think I don't go to sleep, every night, wondering if I'm the only one who's laid in this bed?"

"Shut up! For God's sake, shut up!" Nightmares swirled through her mind, omens of this day—yet nothing compared to the reality that was his disappointment, her betrayal laid naked before the world. He doesn't understand. No one understands. "You don't know what you're talking about, Trent! You don't—!"

"No, I don't!" Trent roared; how the anger surged once freed from its iron gates! "I don't, and that's the problem, Claire—I should know! I'm your husband. I'm your other half. If I'm supposed to be there for you, for better and for worse, I need to know on what ground we stand. Right now, I'm standing on an earthquake, and I don't know where I'm supposed to turn. To you, Claire? You?"

"You're supposed to trust me," Claire insisted, her voice high and scared. "No matter what I've done, or what I haven't done, you're supposed to stand by me."

"Dear God, Claire, you wanted me out of the house just minutes ago. Make up your mind." His hands tightened into fists, and suddenly even looking into her eyes took so much effort, so much strain. "What do you want from me?"

"Trust, Trent. Is that so much to ask?"

The queen had fallen; the scepter had snapped. Memories danced before Trent's eyes: this woman laughing, smiling, holding his hand, cradling his Willow. Now, nothing stood before him but a broken woman, battered and bruised by time. Her arms wrapped about herself like a shield, and Trent wondered when exactly he'd stopped trying to penetrate its iron defenses.

"I'll trust you, Claire," he heard himself reply, "once you give me reason to."

The door shut, and neither could, for the life of them, remember wishing for something as simple as a plank of wood to come between them.

The last time Claire had gotten drunk, she'd been young, stupid, and foolish. It had been once, but it might as well have been an eternity—never could she shake the memory of hurling the remnants of her mistake into the toilet seat, of hearing the laughter and stares from what she'd once called friends. Part of her had died, and no matter how she strived to find it, Claire knew she'd never recover it: her dignity. Never again, she'd told herself. Never again.

But she wanted to die, right now. She wanted something to kill her, slowly and painlessly.

The lights flickered; the liquid sat like fire in her throat. One drink, two drinks—they were all the same after awhile. One more wouldn't make a difference. One more wouldn't change a thing.

The world swirled about her, and Claire stumbled to walk forward, her feet playing tricks on her eyes. Forward, left, back. Right, side-step, stop. When you're stoned, it's not about anything anymore—nothing makes sense; nothing has to.

It's an escape. That's all I need: an escape.

She couldn't say how she wound up passed out on her field, or how her clothes lay wrinkled and dirtied when once she'd cared so desperately about her appearance. Her head hurt like hell; her body felt like crap. She was living: this pain hurt too much for her to be anything but.

And the memories: they remained the same, ever the same.

Standing up, she quivered, retching once more into the brush. No one would care, no one would judge her, no one would know. Not Willow, not Trent, not Skye. None of them were there for her now—none of them stood by her, after all this time.

You can't rely on anyone but yourself in the end, can you? She tumbled forward, and her eyes narrowed, the thought beating through her skull with its steady refrain. No one but yourself, yourself, yourself.

Outside her window, music was playing. Slow playful notes slipped between the shutters, and she closed her ears to their calming melody. In Nami's hands sat a crystal shard, and in it she could see her face reflected tenfold as if upon a funhouse mirror, a chandelier's diamonds, a lake's surface.

He'd written this song, long ago, under the autumn leaves. Maybe she could pretend not to remember its rhythm and melody, but her memory took its snapshots too vividly, too clearly for doubt to sneak by.

Before, she'd just been Naminè Stone, and he'd just been a stranger hidden by a bright green hat. The air had smelled of incense, of rosemary and thyme, and his words had sounded so sweet, so beautiful in her ears.

His hands had danced on the guitar, plucking at the strings with a dexterity Nami knew she could not mimic, not even if she'd dedicated herself, for years and years, to learn how to do so. Innate, that was the word that came to mind—his body needed no hints from the mind to know exactly how to play his music.

"Did you like it?" His voice had broken away from the lyrics, easing into a conversation Nami had never expected he'd give. "I know you're there, behind that tree. It's okay. I don't mind having an audience, you know."

She'd made excuses, stumbling forward with cheeks hot as sin, and he'd just laughed in her face. Nami remembered bristling at that, shouting at him the first of many times.

Oh, God. How moments linger.

Her mind flashed through dozens and dozens of images: of standing in the rain, of having his guitar placed in her hands to play, of writing poetry side by side on the beach. Each time, unbeknownst to her, he'd crept ever closer, until Nami found too late the desire in his eyes. "There's something between us."

"No. There's nothing, and that's all you're going to get from me: nothing."

"See, that's the one thing I'll never understand about you, Nami. Why are you always trying to push people away, when you need being with them so terribly?"

"Stones are cold," Nami whispered to herself, hugging the Moon Stone closer. "That's just how we are."

"I don't believe that."

Her icy eyes narrowed, and without missing a beat, she smashed it against the floor into hundreds of jagged pieces. Outside, the music stopped, and she picked up another stone and hurled it to the ground once more.

It broke, yes, but fixed nothing.

"Nami?" A knock at the door. "Nami, there's someone here to see you."

The shards of glass twinkled in the sunlight, and the redhead shut her eyes, the sight blinding. "Tell Gustafa I'm busy. Tell him I can't talk now—that I have no intention of talking to him, period."

"Oh, but see, your visitor is here on business." Ruby's voice faded in favor of a quick knock and an impatient turn of the doorknob. Nami stared, dumbstruck, as a beaten creature entered the room, hair disheveled and eyes empty as the sky, all color gone from her cheeks.

"Detective Stone." Claire let out a wry smile, a forced laugh. "You win. All hell has been set loose, and you've won. Congratulations. I now give you your prize—all the damn answers you want. What the hell. It doesn't matter anymore, does it, now? You win."