Note: So last chapter was quite filler-y except for two points, and Willow has been getting less coverage on the Claire front. I plead guilty. So I tried to fix that this chapter, but I need to establish some (filler-y) tension before we delve into climax goodness, and I was in the strangest mood while typing. It might be weird, then.

PS: The poem is mine. I literally looked for one in my documents, and voila. It lives.

PSS: Rose that Blooms in Secret asked me to put something in this months ago, and I'm doing it now. So now she knows I'm not ignoring her!

Chapter Sixteen: Grapevine

She wouldn't admit it, not even to Gina, but Claire dreamed about Willow every night.

Sometimes the girl was still swaddled in her cute pink jammies; other times, Willow smiled at her in black funeral garb, or a wedding gown, and what made things all the worse was that Willow changed ages every night. The blonde could recognize her even as a blossoming young woman, holding a child in her own arms and staring at Claire with empty, unseeing eyes. "Who are you?" she'd whisper. "Do I know you?"

When Nami Stone had joined the search, Claire had asked the detective what her chances were. Instead she got facts: "About four percent of typically kidnapped children are never found." Then, just before the relief could sink in, Nami had added, "Of course, forty percent are found dead."

What does that mean, then, for the other fifty-six percent?

You can't worry about things you can't control. And Claire had no control…at least, she didn't think so. Rarely would she mull that question over, because the harder she scraped the surface, the more painfully acute Willow's loss became. Blindly trusting other people required so much less energy, so much less hurt.

But with Trent's stroke of kindness, and the release that had followed, her trust had begun to wane.

Fifty-six percent. Are they all found alive, then? What does fifty-six percent even mean? And on the heels of those numbers always came the same, innocent voice: "Who are you? Do I know you?"

Claire tossed and turned in her bed, till the sheets became as tangled as the emotions she harbored. She choked, same as every night, and buried her face into her pillow; God-willing she'd sleep soundly tonight, because all she could do was wait, wait, wait…and pray. If, maybe, there was someone she could even pray to—someone who wasn't paid to listen to her sobs.

Someone who, by mercy alone, could forgive her for losing what mattered most. Because, no matter how she hid it, Claire knew she'd never forgive herself.

Nami couldn't sleep.

Part of her wanted to blame the ridiculously pungent incense scattered about, another part of her blamed the bizarre knowledge that this was—damn it all—Gustafa's bed she was lying in, but she knew the real issue at hand was something much simpler.

She threw the heavy covers from her body and stood, barefoot, on the cold floor. Her blue eyes squinted in the darkness, but even her attempts at sight couldn't stop her from stubbing her toe on random odds and ends in this messy place. Would it kill the man to clean up every once in a while? Nami felt her way through the place, tracing over old guitars and drums before finding the lamp. Her cold fingers turned it on, and she sighed in a contented breath.

"Don't think I don't see that light over there. Turn that fire hazard off this instant, ma'am."

Nami rolled her eyes and place it on the table, unapologetically leaving it just the way she'd put it. If she stared, long enough, into the flame she could see a kaleidoscope of colors: yellows, oranges, reds, golds, and blues. Fire was a funny thing, wasn't it? All sorts of entities at once. All-consuming.

"You're going to burn this Good Samaritan's house down. He implores that you don't."

"Oh, shut up, Gustafa. Stop being such a drama queen." Tearing her gaze away from the lamp, Nami soaked in the sight of the room around her—but what she was looking for, she didn't rightly know. She'd seen it before, but now she felt so foreign, so alien. This wasn't her home.

Then again, what was?

"Are you….snooping in my room?" his voice called in surprise.

"It's investigating. Very different," she retorted. Strangely enough, she didn't feel guilty at all—Gustafa felt like a case all on his own, and this was simply procuring evidence. Her fingers rifled through old records, letters she didn't feel like opening, and, finally, she saw them.

His lyrics. Hers.

Her eyes softened as she made out the thin prim scrawl of her hand: "Reword your opening, it's off." "The refrain is gold. Don't you dare touch it." "Corny. Cliché. Fake." His replies to hers were always so flippant, so free, and flexible. Not a single whit of criticism threw him off. They'd written some damn good songs together, hadn't they?

She'd…liked it…hadn't she?

"Nami? I promise, there are no dead bodies hidden in the closet. Not that I have a closet. But if I did, it'd be kosher."

She wiped a bit at her eyes and nodded, not that he could see, as she surveyed another set of songs. Emotions couldn't be set in words, but clearly this paper was proving her wrong—laying her feelings bare to the musician she wrote for.

Maybe that had scared her. Feelings.

Her fingers curled around the outline of the page, and she twisted the lamp's knob off in one fluid movement. Scared. Detective Nami Stone hadn't been allowed to be scared, or vulnerable, or free. But Detective Nami Stone didn't exist anymore. Not really.

"Uh, Nami? You okay?"

The sound of a door opening answered him, and a stoic figure dressed in a white gown stood before him in its shadow: a ghost holding songs in the night. "I figured you couldn't sleep either," she explained matter-of-factly. "I just wanted to know…" Here she paused, turning her head to evaluate him with cold calculating eyes. "These songs. Do you remember them?"

Gustafa smiled in puzzlement. "Oh, those? They're my favorite. Best lyrics I've ever had. And you want to know why?"

"Why?" she breathed desperately.

"They came straight from the writer's heart. Which is evidence enough," Gustafa continued, stretching, "to prove to me that she has one." At her ashen face, he pulled his guitar from his side and sleepily strummed a melody, a husky voice singing:

"Let's dream of sunlit skies, just forget the gray and white.

There's only clouds here, but we can glimpse

Beyond the withering oak's height

To sneak glances at windows

Shining in eyes of fire and ice.

Passion melts out Reason, and Reason buries Passion's embers

But of fire and ice, darling, either would suffice."

His eyes followed hers, but Nami said nothing, nodding slowly. "I was in a….peculiar mood when I wrote that," she defended herself. "It's not even that good. The rhythm is off."

"I like that about it." Gustafa picked at a few chords and sighed. "Stuff like…y'know, love…isn't supposed to be predictable. You can love someone, you can swear to the core of your soul that you do, but that doesn't mean you are. Sometimes you'd rather not love them. So you suppress it."

"Bury the embers," Nami agreed.

"But they can flare up again, can't they?" he mused. "That's the thing—anything can happen. That's why I love the song, because it realizes that there's no definite line. Fire and ice are equally likely to conquer. I'm sure you knew that when you wrote this, Nami. Hearts are complex things." A laugh. "And we've established you've got one."

For once, she didn't argue. Nami could feel her cheeks heating up in the winter chill—where the warmth came from, she couldn't rightly say—and she eased herself by this guitarist's side. "Play me another lullaby, would you?" the girl heard herself say. "Remind me what it was like back then, being in a mood that's…indefinite."

Gustafa's easy smile fell for just a moment of surprise, before he forced out, "Y-you're not going to get any sleep that way. Sunrise is coming on faster than you think, and the whole point of this was—"

"Please." Her arms wrapped about herself in the cold and she gave him a look reserved for hostile witnesses and perpetrators. "I don't care if we're doing this until dawn. I can't sleep, and neither can you. So why not, then?"

The musician gave her a passing glance before squeezing her hand and nodding. "Fine. On one condition." To her shock, a soft item was wrapped about her shoulders, and he demanded, "A lady shouldn't be in the cold without a jacket. Green isn't really your color, but it'll do."

Normally she'd roll her eyes. Yet for some reason, one Nami wasn't sure she herself knew, she laughed.

"Alright. It's a deal."

Back when she'd loved Bob, Gwen hadn't really wondered about marriage. Funny, wasn't it? It'd just been puppy love, which was nice and all, but he didn't have children. He wasn't lonely. He hadn't shared his deepest self with her.

Physically, Gwen wondered if he'd even read her at all.

When she crossed her legs, Steiner would immediately retreat in his criticisms or jokes, because that motion said "shut up, I'm ticked" louder than the actual words possibly could. When she played with her hair, he told her sweet things to alleviate her worry in order to bring a smile to her face. And, when she screamed, he knew she didn't mean a word of it.

Had Bob ever realized so much?

Steiner had left with her uncle for the day; showing him the lake was Doug's excuse, but Gwen figured he was giving her boyfriend a date talk, even at his age. Though Steiner wasn't so old, not really. Twenty-two wasn't terrible. Eve and Katie had come up with five as the magic number for dating eligibility in the years past; if he was more than five years older than you, he was unavailable and off-limits, regardless of the male's focused attentions.

So, basically, there'd been no catch.

"Agaba." Claire pointed enthusiastically to a spatula and squealed. "Daba!"

"What are you looking at?" Gwen cooed, tickling her. "Are you a silly little girl? Are you? Are you?" The girl's cheeks became redder and her mouth let loose peals of laughter. "Hey, your daddy's going to spoil you so bad, you know that, right? He's such a softy." Gwen's mouth twitched in a smile; Steiner would kill her if he heard her. A softy might as well be a thief or a criminal or…some other derogatory word that Gwen couldn't think of. Whatever.

Ring! Ring!

The phone shook and trembled on its stand and Gwen pulled herself from the floor to answer it. "Hello, Doug's Inn; Gwen speaking," she parroted. "Mhm. Yeah, we've got some rooms open. Uh-huh. Actually, we're practically free, so—oh, you're calling about the Sanatorium opening! I heard about that." She watched Claire slap the spatula against the floor and giggled. "Oh, sorry, I didn't hear you. Ah, well, I think the building will be finished by then. No, really. You won't need a room if it's done, right? No worries, it's fine. Hope you enjoy your stay, even if it's not here, Miss Aires."

The phone clicked off, and Gwen knelt down beside Steiner's little girl, smiling. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Agaba daba."

"I want to see you."

"I know."

"Can I come tomorrow?"

Claire sighed and shook her head. "Tomorrow is bad. No. My…confidant…is leaving, and I'm not sure if I can face you yet. I thought I'd tell her before I told you, and now I'm not getting that luxury. That's all."

"I'm listening right now, Claire," Trent persuaded. "You might as well do it now."

That made sense, Claire supposed. The other day, she'd been fairly bursting with joy over their strides towards reunion, but suddenly…well, it wouldn't be easy, would it? Gina would be gone. No more crutch. Her mistakes would have consequences again. And Willow…

It was terrible, but Claire hadn't even wanted Willow in the first place.

Babies required compassion, maturity, a steady head. In regards to all three, Claire didn't fool herself; she had none of the above. There'd been a time where when she'd turn to gaze at Trent's loving eyes, she'd wonder if, tomorrow, he'd suspect something. Did she still have time to undo her mistake? Could she run off to another village under false pretenses, remove the child, and then return?

Trent would never forgive her if she had.

Claire had grown up told to do the right thing, even though all she saw she knew to be wrong. Slapping was wrong. Screaming was wrong. Gross expectations were wrong.

There was a statistic somewhere, too, about the children of abusive families, wasn't there? That it was an unbreakable cycle.

But blaming this baby for her own insecurities was worse, she knew, than doing what her parents had. How she knew this she couldn't say, but it only made the idea of doing such a thing slightly less appealing. Just enough, however, to doubt. She'd tossed and turned nights by Trent's side, and finally she'd just put it off tomorrow. Then tomorrow would come, and she'd put off the operation again. And again. And again.

Then the tomorrows ran out. And that beautiful, innocent, unknowing baby girl came into being.

"…What do you think Skye's done with her?"

A startled pause appeared on the other end. "I—I don't rightly know. He's not a murderer, though…I can't see him doing anything above stealing."

"Yeah, I don't imagine he'd—" A shudder. "—I don't think he'd do anything cruel to a baby girl, either. She's only months old, isn't she?"

"Almost a year." A sigh. "We could miss her first birthday, Claire."

"No," she mumbled into the receiver, tears springing, "we didn't miss that. We—we were there, that day she first saw the world. Skye can't steal that. Only the two of us remember." She sniffed; her nose was running. "He might be raising her, have you ever thought of that? Raising her to call him daddy and forget all about us." The fears broke from Pandora's box, and Claire continued, "It's not as terrible as death, and it's not leaving her broken, but…but she's my baby, Trent…mine, and that's written in blood!"

Forgetting suppressed these words all too well. Blind faith kept her head blissfully ignorant. But talking to the one person in the world who knew how she felt—who knew what a joke it was to have the one most important thing in the world stolen from under you—stopped you from forgetting.

It made you remember what a sin forgetting was.

"Claire…"

"What if they find her, and it's been years? What if she hates me? If she'd rather die than leave that thief's side? What if she's married, with kids of her own, and only just learning to call me mother?"

"Then we'll be damn lucky. Because there are parents who don't even get that, Claire."

"…I'm sorry."

"Me, too. Just because I know it's wrong to think it, that doesn't mean I don't, either."

She rubbed her temples, circular motions going round and round to hypnotize her into being calm once more. Guilt nagged at the corners of her heart, and her defenses started to fold in favor of reason; he deserved to know the truth. He needed to know, and he would know, eventually. "Trent, what if—" Then her lips froze in mid-sentence, a beep sounding on her phone. Another call. "Um, I have to take a call. Sorry, I'll get right back to you."

Another click, and the question dropped, never to be answered.

"I think the worst pain anyone could experience is the loss of a child." Gwen said the phrase simply, tucking little Claire inside her crib. The baby mobile spun in subdued blue and pink over her snoring head, and Gwen continued, "I can't imagine leaving this baby girl. Her mother is…I don't know what to call her."

"Nor do I." Skye fixed a smile on his face, but inside something had arrested him, making breathing just that much harder to achieve. "What happened between us is something I don't understand even now." Especially now.

"I'll say. Claire is beautiful."

"Well, her mother was beautiful."

"So are you," she teased, but Skye didn't answer. Instead he joined her side, and stared at this angel of a child, snoring gently in the night. His hand brushed her brow, and a shudder of something coursed through him—something he couldn't name.

"We kinda look like a family, don't we?" Gwen grinned at him and placed her hand on his. "A mommy, a daddy, and a baby. Picture perfect."

Skye trembled once more, and his hand pulled back as if aflame. "I—I need to go."

"Why?"

"I have…some business to take care of."

"Bull."

"Then I need to be alone."

Once again, that hurt look crossed Gwen's young face, and the thief walked, shaking, out the door. Picture perfect. Perfection didn't exist. At least, this perfection didn't; it couldn't, and that dread was crashing down more and more on his shoulders.

He loved Gwen. He loved how she never took his crap; how she trusted him when no one else did; how she put on a brave show even when the world fought to turn her life upside-down. He loved her innocence toward the world, her lack of bitterness.

Love didn't mean anything.

What good was loving someone you'd only hurt, anyway? How incredibly selfish doing something like that could be—and damn it, but she'd let him do it. He was lying through his teeth, and she was just a silly bird, hopping to the hungry snake's whims.

I wish this had never happened.

What was 'this,' anyway? Being spurned by Claire? Falling in love with Gwen? Kidnapping this baby?

…This baby.

Someday, any day, they'd find her. He knew this, in his heart of hearts. Facades didn't last forever. They'd take her from him, just as he'd taken her from them. Except this time, his own life wasn't only on the line—but Gwen's fragile heart.

"Yes, operator. I need a number."

Picture perfect. He'd paint her a perfect picture if he could—but his canvas was murky, his paints all used. Something new was needed, something fresh and white. His fingers tapped against the phone impatiently, the dial tone buzzing in his ears.

What the hell. He had no choice if he wanted to win, did he?

"Hello?"

Her voice startled him; it'd been seasons, hadn't it, since he'd heard her? Skye closed his eyes and sighed, in and out, before the words began to form in his mind: "I want to give you the child back. I'll do it, just leave me alone; let me be free. Don't say anything to anyone."

"Is someone there? Hello?"

Skye's eyes darted towards the bedroom, and Gwen put her finger to her lips, pointing to the sleeping girl. His baby. His Claire. His reason for living.

His one true vice.

"Wrong number."

The phone hung up, and Claire stared, blankly, at the phone in her hands.