A/N: This one's bit shorter, but it was either break it off at a good spot, or let it go on so epically long that it would stop making any kind of sense. Hopefully, the next chapter won't be quite so long in coming.
He sits heavily on the sofa, pouring himself a healthy dose of mystery moonshine to brood over. Yet somehow, the view out the window has lost its charm. He rubs his hands roughly over his face and head, shame, disappointment, and regret battling it out at the forefront of his mind. (The back of his mind is still occupied with Lizzie; the wonder of her; her sweet, hot taste.)
To have lost control of his ability like that, as if he were no more than a stripling, is bad enough. But to have his carefully hidden away desires reveal themselves in a blast of lust… And then he acted on it. He thinks he might not be able to bear it. If he has driven her away, his long-nurtured Lizzie — who is, among the many other things she represents, a troubled young woman who needs his help — he will not be able to forgive himself.
When she comes downstairs, he'll apologize, he'll make it right. If he is truly going to help her, he has to find a way to repair the tenuous trust they'd built between them.
And so he sits, leaning back, drinking steadily, watching the light fade away to an inky darkness that matches his mood. He is so lost in the bleak cycle of his thoughts that doesn't hear her soft footsteps approaching, or the creaks of the aged floorboards. He becomes aware of her only when she's standing by his knee, softly calling to him.
"Red?" Soft and hesitant; she's not certain of her reception after the way she acted. "Are you… Can… Can we talk?"
He looks slowly up at her face — she's flushed again, or still, and is carefully avoiding making eye contact with him. It's worse than he thought.
"Of course, Lizzie," he says evenly, keeping a tight rein on himself. "Sit down and have a drink." He pours her a generous belt of hooch and shifts himself into an angle in the corner of the sofa so they can face each other; waits until she curls up beside him to hand her the glass jar.
She takes a gulp straightaway, for courage; she never imagined she would have to tell this story to anyone, let alone to him. He smiles ruefully at the sight, and steels himself to shut down the corner of his psyche that longs to reach out and touch her.
"I'm so very sorry," he starts, pouring his sincerity into his words, into the air between them. "To have lost control like that, I can't even begin to…"
He trails off as she grasps his arm, sputtering a little over her hastily swallowed mouthful.
"Red, no," she says urgently. "It's me that needs to apologize, running off like that, it was inexcusable."
"I was out of line," he answers, staring down into his cloudy jar as if the right, graceful words could be found there. "I should never have touched you that way, broken your trust, I…"
"No," she interrupts again, her voice heavy with regret and her eyes glistening. "Please don't think that way. I didn't mean for you to think… it wasn't that I don't… it… it was like magic or music, kissing you."
She stops before she makes an idiot out of herself, shy now and trying to find a balance between keeping the necessary distance and reassuring him.
He looks at her again, at the top of her dark head as she takes her turn staring into her drink, at the lovely curve of her neck and back, and feels a small tendril of hope sprout deep within.
"Have I not ruined things, then?" he asks softly, seeking surety.
She does meet his eyes then, needing to show him her sincerity and relief.
"If you'll agree that I haven't either," she offers, with the bare beginning of a small smile.
"Never," he avows firmly, warmth and affection back in his face and voice. "But if it wasn't… I mean…" He's not sure what to say; he doesn't want to put words in her mouth, wants to know what she is really thinking about.
"It's just…" she gives a huge, shuddering sigh, looking abjectly miserable again, and his heart aches.
He reaches out to her, wanting — no, needing to offer comfort, but she shies away, wincing as she does so. Her eyes plead for understanding and he lets his arms drop, gripping his hurt inside so it won't touch her. She takes a deep breath and meets his again, ready — as ready as she can be.
"I don't know how much you know about my… ability," she says, her voice somehow soft and bitter at the same time. "But it's triggered by strong emotion — anger, fear, pain. As a child, it was always negative emotions that caused the fire to lash out — it's why Sam focused so heavily on meditation, staying calm and channeling anger and frustration into more positive things.
"It never occurred to me — to either of us — that some positive emotions might be strong enough, vital enough to trigger it as well. Puberty was… a difficult time."
He moves a little, opening his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head at him, her eyes pleading for patience.
"Please," she says quietly, "I just need to get it out."
He nods; he understands how words and memories can burn inside, can tangle and hurt. He wants to take her hand; he doesn't.
"It took three years to get to a safe place again," she continues, picking absently at a loose thread in her flannel pajama pants. "But by junior year, I was actually doing really well. I even had some friends. And then… well. There was a boy."
He smiles at her; he can't help it. There was a boy, he thinks, amused. Ridiculous girl. He's sure for the single male she'd noticed, at least ten others had been dying for even a look from her.
"He was… persistent, Frank," she continues. "He was cute and smart, even though he didn't care about school. It never occurred to me that I shouldn't… well. We dated for a while, and we had a lot of fun. We got close, inseparable really, but then… I mean. That first kiss," she rubs her fingertips over her lips absently, lost in memory. "It was so lovely. He was so lovely. It was the kind of thing teenaged girls dream about. I just adored him."
She looks straight into his eyes, now, needing to be sure he understands. Tears are already flowing, but she takes no notice.
"It couldn't last, of course, because I'm not normal, am I? One day, we were… well, I'm sure you can imagine. Things started to get… and it happened."
"Lizzie," he starts, thinking she can't possibly mean what he thinks she might.
"Oh yes," she answers, bitter anger darkening her face. "I'm the monster here, Red. I loved him, with all my foolish young heart, I loved him, and I nearly killed him. Sam, he tried to help me, but I knew he was mostly relieved that I was safe, that Frank couldn't remember what had happened. The burns on his face, on his back…"
She can't go on, she's sobbing now, lost in herself, and he can't stand it.
"Oh, sweetheart." He draws her into his arms; she folds into him, to unhappy to protest.
He rubs soothing circles on her back, wrapping her in his own calm acceptance and affection, resting his cheek against her head. For just a few brief moments, she lets herself curl into him, lets herself rub her hot, damp face into his neck and feel the soothing warmth of him seep into her.
And then she steels herself and pushes away, shrugging out of his arms and letting the cold take hold of her. She wipes her face on her sleeve and shrugs at him; her sadness and despair knife right through him.
"Anger, fear, pain… d-desire, arousal," she says, looking away. "All the strongest emotions, negative or positive. It happened half my lifetime ago, but apparently that wasn't long enough. I'm sorry, Red. I shouldn't have let myself forget, even for an instant, that there are some things that I can never have."
And she turns away; she can't bear the sympathy in his eyes, the shared sorrow heavy in the lines of his face, the droop of his shoulders.
"It must have been absolutely terrible for you," he says, wishing he could take the memory from her, wishing he could erase the look on her face. "But now… I…" He isn't sure how to say what he means without being terrifically intrusive. "Surely your adult relationships…"
"Were you not listening?" she cries, angry, embarrassed, ashamed. "I haven't had any 'adult relationships'! How could I possibly ever risk…"
She stops, remembering that this entire conversation is happening because she had forgotten, had taken the chance.
"I'm so sorry," she says again. "I should never have… it just felt…" She looks up at him woefully, forcing herself to be absolutely honest. "I only… Oh, Red, I just wanted you so."
He'd thought he was a hardened cynic, that he was too old and embittered for heartbreak. He had never been so wrong.
They sit, drinking quietly, silence heavy and strained between them. He can't quite decide what to say to her, with her sorrowful liquid eyes pulling at him even as her words and her closed off body language push him away. Before he can make up his mind, she takes a deep breath and speaks first.
"Will you… working with you today, it made me stronger, better. The fire, it… I've never had that kind of control. I think… I mean, can we…" she gives up, embarrassed and miserable, twisting her fingers together nervously.
A pang runs through him at her words, her hesitance; obviously he has yet to truly win her trust. He puts his drink down and turns to her, taking her firmly by the shoulder with one hand. He runs his other hand soothingly over her hair and wraps it gently around her neck, forcing her to look at him. He floods her with the care he feels for her, and can see her nervy tension start to ease even before he begins to speak.
"I came here for you, Lizzie, to help you and to be here for you. That won't change, won't ever change, no matter what. We're in this together, now, okay?"
Her face breaks; she burrows into him, clinging to his vest. She's overwhelmed by emotion, her own and his. His sorrow and sympathy; her bleak happiness and relief. A rushing of affection that seems to belong to them both.
He breathes deeply, wrapping his arms around her tightly, absorbing her scents and textures. He briefly debates with himself; but has to speak. He can't stop himself, really.
"We will continue to work together, I promise. You are capable of so much, and I am going to help you find your way. But there's so much more, sweetheart."
She shakes her head mutely against his chest; he can feel the emotions pouring out of her — relief, confusion, sadness, denial, and then his own happiness, all blurring together.
"You're a mess of emotion right now," he points out gently, loosening his grip and easing back so he can see her face. "But you aren't in any danger of losing control, are you? Your temperature hasn't changed; I'd have noticed. I can't feel it, can you?"
"I…" she pauses, waiting for it, the rush, the sparks, the heat. But, "No," she says, surprised. "There's nothing."
"I'm helping you," he says. "I can manipulate mood, remember? You're feeling both of our emotions, and I'm using my own abilities to temper them enough so you can tolerate them. Do you understand? Do you see what it means? I can help you actively control the flame. And I think, I really do, that I can help you with your other… problem, too."
She blinks, her mind stopped completely, caught in a moment, in a breath of time.
"I… I don't think I know what you mean," she says faintly, not wanting to accept what he's saying.
He laughs a little, warmly, because he can feel her tentative curiosity.
"Oh, I think you do," he says, cradling her face in warm hands. "But only if you want it, Lizzie. It's up to you."
He kisses her forehead gently, then leans back, dropping his hands and smiling at her. He tilts his head, just so, waiting for her to decide.