Devane Manor, Port Charles, 2022

Nothing would ever be the same.

Heartbreak. Misery. Anger, confusion, loss…it was a roiling in her mind. She didn't often feel this fragile at the end of a mission, but sometimes, once the adrenaline withdrew and she had time to catch up with herself, it would hit her hard. She made a point of not letting anyone see if she could help it. And so she went straight home as soon as the plane landed. She wasn't ready to face anyone yet.

She wasn't even ready to face herself yet.

The weather had been teasing Port Charles with a warm flush when she had left, which had prompted the trees to slowly start to bud, only to evaporate back into the wintry chill, they'd grown so accustomed to in the winter. She was glad for it. Somehow there was a small comfort in the weather mirroring the cold she felt in her soul. She walked slowly towards the door of her house; her weariness made her feel like she was wading through molasses. As she reached the door, her ears pricked at sounds coming from what should be an empty house. There was a thud of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and the door suddenly swung open, making her start as she instinctively reached back for her gun but stopped when she saw who was in front of her.

"Welcome home, darling," said Valentin Cassadine, with a glass of wine in hand and extended towards her. The timbre of his voice greeting her flowed like warm honey, soothing and warming over her, but she felt like she was looking at him from outside herself. He looked smart as usual, clad in a navy suit with a bright blue tie and pocket square today. Anna looked as the fading light of the winter day illuminated his face, making the lines of his cheekbones ever more prominent, light and shadow sculpting his welcoming face. The aroma of wine permeated the air, mixing with the bouquet of Bordeaux characterized by a smell of violets, blackcurrant, and cedar, mixed in with the faint scent she now knows well to be his, clean yet earthy.

She had just entered, hadn't even shed her coat. Emotional exhaustion read on every feature and limb and made her movements sluggish. He glanced at her and felt a slight surprise that she wasn't chastising him for his impropriety, but her red eyes were tired and inexpressive as she loosely flung her right arm as if she was giving up. She slipped off her coat, and she closed the door.

"You broke into my house," she observed.

"Only for old times sake." he smiled at her, but only blank, tired eyes stared back at him. She chewed on the side of her lip, a rare but obvious tell that she was in distress.

"I should just give you a key," she said absently. She moved towards her couch, trying to shake the daze off. She hoped he did not notice her moment of frailty.

"Where is the fun in that?" he countered with a gentle teasing, but his eyes watched her like a hawk, taking in every clue he could as to her mental and emotional state. He knew he should tread lightly. There was a flatness to her voice that worried him.

Anna only shrugged in reply and set her keys down on her desk. The emptiness in her eyes and the despondency in her manner were unnerving. This was not 'keeping up a professional demeanor.' This was something deeper and felt more sinister. He felt like she was somewhere else and not standing in the room with him. Suddenly it dawned on him what so realized, what it was: that shakily measured exhale, her posture, the way she'd gone so very still. This was emotional detachment.

The signs were all there: a lack of attention reduced ability to express emotion, unable to share feelings. In WSB training, they called it "numbing" it was a skill that was taught so that agents could go out into the field and complete missions without being phased by the trauma they endured…or inflicted. It was a vital coping skill for agents but not one that should be engaged in long-term. Stay too long, and one could start to see no future or that there is no hope for the numbness ever to fade. He would have let it go in any other scenario and trusted her to manage on her own, but not now. Not this trauma.

"You look like you could use this," He said softly as he held out a glass of wine to her. She took it in her hand and then set it down on her desk, untouched.

"Anna?" his voice grew softer, suspecting he already knew the answer, "Are you… alright?"

All he got was silence.

She didn't respond, couldn't. She was so very far from being alright.

"I should have gone with you-" The tone of his voice made her look at him. That cocksure smile he had greeted her with had slipped slightly, letting something more… serious peek out, an expression she couldn't quite define. It was apologetic and even a little nostalgic – envious, almost, though that wasn't quite it.

"Don't," she held up her hand to stop him. "We made the right choice."

She said we when she should have said I. His protestations and arguments had fallen on deaf ears- or perhaps the word obstinate was more accurate.

"You were in the hospital, and Charlotte needed you after her ordeal, and I needed you here in case he evaded me and circled back to Port Charles for Bailey…I mean Louise."

"You were brief on the phone," His voice went soft. "Tell me what happened, Anna."

"Peter's dead. There's nothing more to tell."

"There must be more." he prodded.

She steadied herself and opened her mouth, even taking an abrupt inhale to speak. Instead, her eyes moistened, and she gestured in confused circles. Her arms fell in an open, vulnerable position, heart and mind exposed, palms out. She came here with no plan or specific hope, only a vague feeling that connection was better than its opposite. This, however, she was at a loss to express. The sensation of fainting gripped her, a soft fuzzy sensation slinking up her chest, neck, and head. The refrain in her mind, the thing she wished she'd said earlier, the only thing she thought she might say to him that Peter was dead because they had failed to stop him. It was an angry thought, and she meant to hurl it at him, but no words came.

Valentin felt his heart spasm at the statement, and he physically clenched his fists at the emotional betrayal of the muscle. He took a step forward, taking a chance and closing some of the physical distance between them. She was looked like her strength was failing her the more talked. No authority on God's earth could stop her from doing whatever she felt she needed to do, and he briefly wondered what it was like to live that deliberately; if she realized how many consequences rippled out of her wake. She was fully aware of her faults, and she wasn't afraid to name them and shame the devil. It was something that he admired most about her. But too often, she held herself accountable for things that were not her burdens to bear. She blamed herself. Of course, she did. That's why there was a storm sitting on her brow, and her soul was weeping blood. Valentin knew precisely what she couldn't say – and it wasn't just the mission she'd come back from. It was everything. Everything they – she – had lived through and endured. He stood looking into those open eyes, the sharp pain in them that made his chest ache. Her hurt expression was killing him. He wanted to put his glass down beside his own and hold her, let her have some physical consoling – however insufficient and platonic it might be.

"Do you trust me?" He asked her.

"With my life." She stated without a second thought. Valentin felt his stomach flip at her choice of words, and he gave them both a moment to process it.

"But do you trust me with your feelings?"

He lay a hand on her shoulder. Without speaking, without looking up, her hand reached up to cover his. He was touched; she didn't always respond so quickly to his overtures. He recognized the gesture for what it was: She did trust him.

"You did what you were trained to do in the WSB Academy. You calculated the ethical risks of the operation in relation to the harm that the operation is intended to prevent. This was a mission, and you completed it."

"This was different, and you know it," She maintained. But his hands were holding hers now, and the electricity flowing through them was the only thing keeping her from collapsing under the weight of her self-recrimination. For some inexplicable reason now, Valentin felt very nervous about how she was processing the events.

"How is this situation different?" he asked gently

"I just let him die," She whispered, and she looked broken. The toll of her actions on her spirit was confirmed through her falling tears. Valentin swallowed the lump in his own throat as her voice cracked again. That sound was going to be the death of him.

"You will always have guilt. You are not going to get rid of it. It is a survival reaction. A way you cope with living in an unjust world."

"Justice? Justice would have been trying him for his crimes and life behind bars. Is there justice in withholding care from a wounded and unarmed person? Because that's what happened, Valentin. I made sure he was dead. I waited to make certain. That isn't justice; it's vengeance, its retribution, it's playing God. It's everything I have spent a lifetime trying not to be."

"You have a right to be angry."

"I'm not angry!" She turned away, her lips twisting against each other as if he'd hit a nerve. Good, he thought. She needed to let it out. Like a volcano, she needed to release the pressure that had been building for years. She needed to confront it. To name it. She had to let those feeling out. She had to stop being strong and instead, even if for a brief moment fall to pieces, show she could gather them back up and carry on.

"You are angry. And it's ok to be. Who are you angry at, Anna?"

"I'm angry at me," she said with a mirthless sneer, a heavy sound, even as she became more animated, her expression almost waking up, "I'm angry at Alex! I'm angry at you."

"You have a right to be," he said simply and nothing more. He left such a pause that she looked at him, eventually. There was a conflict within her eyes, disrupting the certainty that usually lay there – the control.

Her brow furrowed, trying to make sense of something and failing, her lips half-parted, unable to form the words. Until she shook her head again, in resignation, "It's just…" she took a deep breath and let it out, "Yesterday was a day… I would really rather forget. But I'll never be able to," Her features crumpled a little further at the truth of what she was thinking, but she held it all together, just like she always did.

"I shouldn't have let you shoulder this burden alone, Anna. Especially when I'm the one that set it in motion."

"There are a lot of things I wish I could do over…make different choices," she said with frustration. "But what makes me the angriest are all the choices that were taken from me. The choices you took from me! That led to me watching Peter die in the snow, all alone, sparing Maxie and Felicia from having to see it. He had to die, Valentin, he had too. But I'm not proud of myself. I held his hand. He was scared. He knew the end was near. His last word was my name. The last face he saw as he took his final breath was my face." Anna pinned him with her eyes. It was a fierce expression, one which said everything she had felt in that moment better than words could until she broke their gaze.

"I couldn't save him," she confessed, suddenly unable to even look at him as she said the words.

"I know. Nobody could save him."

"BUT I'M NOT NOBODY!" She shouted and stamped her foot as her rage flared, then she turned her face away and took a deep breath, trying to collect what was left of her frazzled nerves. But it was no use her face crumpled as the tears finally began to flow in earnest. Valentin winced at her pain but was grateful that she was finally showing a spark rather than staying passionless and cold. He reached for her and held her close, letting her tears fall and holding her tightly as all the emotion poured from her.

"There, there. That's good…that's good…shhhhhh…Let it out, darling," he said soothingly into the crown of her head.

"I'm Anna Devane. I should have done more," she said defeatedly.

Valentin held her close, marveling at how compassionate she was. How tender she could be to people that don't deserve it. People like himself.

"Your nature is so different than mine, Anna. My instinct is to extract the pound of flesh from those who have wronged me and mine; if they beg for mercy, even much better. But you? Your instinct is to help them become a better version of themselves, to own up to their crimes and face whatever punishment lays before them with resolve. It's what you wanted for me when you delivered me to The Hague. You wanted me to face my crimes so that I could be a better person for Charlotte."

"I just wanted you to be the man I know you are."

"I wish I was able to see the world through your eyes. To see nothing but potential in people, no matter what their circumstances."

She looked at him and now as if she was seeing him for the first time all evening. And she was alarmed for a moment. He was pale; he looked hollowed-out to her like he'd used up every reserve of thought and feeling with the intention to give his strength to her. A ragged breath escaped her lips as her tears gathered again. She felt she was causing him pain, and her presence in his life would only cause more. She pulled back from his embrace. Trying to put distance between them before it was too late for him, and he was another casualty.

He saw her expression change and felt something break. He walked toward her, attempting to reach his hand to hers again. She looked down and resisted slightly, beginning a turn in the other direction to attempt an exit, but felt her frustration and fear melt to gentler emotions at his nearness. This switching back and forth between intentions and hopes was exhausting her. Slowly, they leaned forward, an automatic response. They each seemed pitifully bereft to the other. Each felt the other's cheeks and noses gently explore their own, unsure if the wetness was from his or her own eyes. Hesitantly, their lips touched, not a soft brush, like a traditional kiss; it was more of a hard press like their mouths were as numb as their souls. But they felt the warmth, and then their lips were comforting each other. She curved against him, letting his hands push through her hair and smooth down her side – his touch bringing her body to a temperature that prickled against her skin – every nerve alight. Her lips tingled, moving hungrily for more. She had been aching since the night at the Savoy for a kiss like this. Passionate and insistent, a fierce, slow burn, without the scorching agony of knowing it would have to end fifteen past the stroke of midnight. His lips were more than warm; they were an inferno.

"Valentin," she sighed. He thought her voice sounded fainter somehow. And he felt disembodied – adrift. Slowly he raised his hand to her face as though to make sure he still had limbs. He wavered on his legs for a moment, and Anna drew back.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm always alright when you are close to me." He moved in to kiss her again but stopped when the room began to spin.

"That's not what I mean," she studied him with concern. She put a hand to his forehead. He leaned into the touch. She could feel an intense heat radiating from his body before she made contact with his skin. He jumped when her hand moved across his forehead, down the line of his jaw, and settled on the exposed skin at the nape of his neck, her soft fingertips lightly grazing the short hair there.

"Your hands are freezing," he exclaimed just as full-body shiver wracked his lean frame...and not the sensual kind.

"No, my hands aren't freezing; you are burning up," she responded in alarm.

She stared at Valentin appraisingly, his beautiful hazel eyes were suddenly unfocused, glassy, and there were dark circles under them; they stood out in stark relief against the pallor of his skin. She found herself wondering absently when he'd last gotten at least four consecutive hours of sleep. His cheeks were flushed pink, and his face was shining with a thick sheen of sweat, all sure signs of a fever. An idea occurred to her. She pushed his jacket from his shoulders and quickly flicked open each dress shirt button. Valentin inhaled sharply in surprise.

"Anna-" he gasped as she pulled his shirt from his waistband.

"Hold still," she commanded and ran her hand down his torso to the scar of his bullet wound. The area was bright red, and a painful-looking raised rash wreathed the area. She pressed gently around it, and Valentin winced.

"Valentin, I think you have an infection. Did the hospital release you in this condition?"

He avoided looking at her, and Anna's eyes narrowed in response.

"Let me try that again. Did the hospital even release you?"

"I didn't need to be in a hospital bed. You needed me. I couldn't let you shoulder this alone. Especially when I'm the one that set it in motion."

"We need to get you to the hospital," she said decidedly, holding his gaze, refusing to let him glance away and dismiss her.

"No!" Valentin moaned in frustration. "Tonight, I'm supposed to be caring for you. I want to be here for you!"

She felt her heart swell at how insistent he was. That he wanted to focus on her was so endearing.

"That means the world to me," she said with deep sincerity, "it really does, but I need you alive and above ground, yeah? You have had two invasive surgeries, threw a stitch, and were drugged and left near a dumpster. If this is a staph infection and enters your bloodstream, it can lead to a blood infection if this evolves into sepsis and can be serious. Even life-threatening!

"I'm fine…I'll be fine," he said weakly. He felt strangely off-kilter, and his stomach churned relentlessly. "Anna, I think I'm going to be sick." He whimpered suddenly. He then bolted to the small bathroom off the foyer.

She followed him, watching as he stumbled through the door, fell to his knees, and began retching into the toilet bowl violently. As she came nearer, he waved her off, not wanting her to see him like this, but she ignored him. She hunkered down behind him and began rubbing his back in a soothing, circular motion. He leaned back into the touch ever so slightly as his body convulsed through the dry heaves. She leaned closer, still rubbing his back, and began whispering words of comfort in his ear.

When he finally finished heaving, he slumped against the toilet seat in exhaustion, breathing with some difficulty. She got up and grabbed a few washcloths, wet them in the sink, and headed back over. Anna kneeled again, gently placing one cloth on the back of Valentin's neck, to which he sighed gratefully. She then pulled him back to lean against her and began tenderly washing away the perspiration that coated his deathly pale face. He leaned into the coolness, shivering again, eyes closed. She stroked the damp hair away from his forehead and then pressed her lips to his temple. His eyes shot wide open at that. He stared up at her with a look of such awe, such wonder that it nearly took her breath away. When was the last time he was shown how much he was cared for? Cherished even? she thought to herself with a pang.

"Alright, let's get you up off the floor and into the car," She spoke kindly before helping him up.

He stood on shaky legs, swaying just slightly. Anna reached out, wrapping her right arm around his slender waist in order to lend him some support. He'd lost some weight over the week, she noted, which worried her because Valentin was thin, to begin with. You see, he was an active man and had a fast metabolism, so when he stopped eating, he became too thin very quickly. Here he was worried about her when he was neglecting himself.

"I don't want to be in a hospital bed again; I've had enough hospital food to last me a lifetime."

She didn't want to fight him. So she decided to hit below the belt, so to speak, to get his cooperation.

"Hey, listen to me. We still need to revisit New Year's Eve, don't we? We can't do that until you are completely well."

She turned to look at him. She smiled a charming half-smile with a wink and suggestive raise of her eyebrow.

"Take me to the hospital," he relented immediately.

Anna smiled back as he swung his left arm casually over her shoulder, doing his best not to lean on her too heavily. They steadily made their way out of the house and headed in the direction of the driveway. She managed to get his long body folded into the front seat of her car, situated herself, and turned the key in the ignition.

"Why don't you try to get some sleep," Anna suggested, eyeing him peripherally.

He shot her an appreciative but wan smile. He nodded, acquiescing, and closing weary eyes with a deep sigh.

"Anna?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. I promise I will make it up to you-" He was asleep as soon as he finished his sentence.

She shook her head wryly to herself. Somehow this man had become a balm for every pain, every scar that she bore, every visceral memory of the man she'd witnessed broken and bleeding in the snow.

"You already have, Valentin. More than you can know."