A/N - Sorry to be redundant, but if you haven't checked the tags over on AO3 and could be trigged, please do – I've added some new ones. Also, the rating is officially M now, but won't go higher than that.

The Beast woke with a gasp, sitting straight up and sucking in several long, labored breaths. He looked around. A forest of beautiful silver firs surrounded him, though he'd chosen a lonely, half-dead black pine for the task. It had seemed appropriate at the time, and was sturdy enough. But it hadn't been, had it? For here he was, lying on the ground, still very much alive. Frowning deeply, the Beast closed his eyes and reached for his throat.

And there it was, a rope as thick as his wrist, wound in a noose.

He looked up to where he'd secured it, a heavy branch some thirty feet up. But the rope was here now, still tight around his neck while the rest lie in a heap beside him. So it hadn't held. Perhaps the knots weren't tight enough; he probably did them wrong. He did everything wrong.

He reached for the noose again, yanking it hard to pull it loose. Then he lifted it over his head and held it in his enormous palm. No, he thought slowly, staring at the thick twine. It didn't fail. He had heard his neck crack; he had felt it.

He had died.

He gripped the rope hard, then with a terrible roar threw it into the brush. It caught on a thin branch and hung in the air, mocking him. He roared again, and all went numb.

By the time he came to himself again, he had uprooted every young tree in the vicinity and scarred the rest. He stood in the middle of it all, panting, splinters sticking out from beneath his claws and leaving trails of blood in their wake. His strength was gone now, and so he knelt slowly, knees hitting the soft earth and head falling to his chest. And then, with nothing left, he started to cry.

Good god, the prince inside groaned.

The Beast sniffed, wiping his eyes on his arm in shame. Then he pulled back, staring at his damaged paws, at the blood that was already slowing… and blinked. He reached out, tugged the wooden fragments out from under his nails, and stared at his claws again. The blood had stopped now, and new skin was already filling in the wounds. His eyes grew wide. "No," he gasped. He watched in horror as his broken claws grew back next, slowly, almost imperceptibly—but grow back they did.

"No," he cried again, hands quaking, a new dread filling him head to toe. He stood, staring at his fingers and willing it all to stop. "No, no, NO!"

But it wouldn't stop, and now small specks of fur were starting to grow in as well. And then, in that single moment, he recalled all the times he'd tried to leave this world, and finally… finally understood why he'd always woken up.

The Beast roared again, though his voice was so hoarse only a faint groan came out. There was nothing left to destroy around him, and so he let his new claws tear though the flesh of his own arms, his chest… his face.

The pain didn't matter. It would all be good as new soon enough, and that was the worst punishment of all.

The Beast was crying again, but even the prince had left him alone now. He raised one set of bloodied fingers, letting their razor-sharp ends rest in the hollow beneath his jaw. He could feel the heavy pulse there, his life pumping beneath his fingertips. For while he could no longer hope for death, he could at least leave this world for a minute. For a moment.

And so the Beast snarled, closed his eyes, and sliced open his own throat.

Adam stood in a bank of snow, a shallow hole dug into the earth beneath the ice. In his hand was a large burlap sack, filled with a dozen sundry objects from his home and barn. A hunting knife, a shotgun, a hammer and ax. A tattered length of rope.

He knew them all well.

Belle had been here nearly a week now, and Adam wasn't sure how much longer it would be before she could move about on her own again. He had few worries where her rotten husband was concerned—that would be easy enough to handle, if it came to it. It was protecting Belle from herself that had him really worried.

Except this was harder than he'd expected. Memories of his own attempts came flooding back to him as he quietly gathered up every potentially fatal tool he could find throughout the house and cellar. Memories of waking up from death to healing bones and bloodied hands and the sickness of a body that had repaired itself dozens of times. He'd given up any hope of death after some months of trying, though it had taken years after that to give up the attempts entirely.

Adam brought a hand to his head, and took a steadying breath. You're doing this for her, he told himself. You're doing this for Belle.

Why? asked the prince. He'd been watching silently from the back of Adam's mind, but now he rushed forward, snarling and angry. She's one of them! Sick, filthy peasants. Her kind took them from you!

Adam ignored him. The prince was young, hurt, and anxious for someone to blame. Someone to punish. And he never listened to reason.

And so Adam tossed the bag into the pit, and reached for the shovel to cover them up. But then he paused, stared at it for a moment, and threw it in with the rest. Looking around, he spotted a fallen tree, which he dragged over and set carefully over the hole instead.

When he returned to the house, Belle was still sleeping. He'd counted on that, waking early in the morning to complete the unpleasant task. Certainly knowing about it would only make her feel worse. It would have made him feel so, anyway. In fact, he was still feeling oddly raw, and so set a kettle on the stove with the intent of relaxing with a warm drink in his old chair. Down in the cellar he found some old tea leaves, grabbed a cup and—remembering Belle—another, and headed back up the short ladder.

He set the mismatching cups on the table: one a well-used wooden goblet, the other a porcelain mug painted a pale-ish blue. Both stolen, admittedly, but he doubted anyone had really missed them. In fact, he thieved in such a way that he hoped no one did notice what was missing. As much as he liked to think he did so with noble intentions, the truth was it was simply a lot easier to keep stealing from a house when no one knew you had been there.

Adam sprinkled the tea leaves over the two cups, thinking—not for the first time—how peculiar his situation had become. And while he did so, the prince returned.

A spot of tea! he mocked. Mrs. Potts would be so proud.

Adam's grip tightened, cracking the handle off the mug. Don't you dare, he thought. Don't you fucking dare—

I don't see why you're so upset, the prince shrugged. You let them die, after all.

Adam stared at the broken cup, feeling sick all over again at such a physical reminder. He'd only been a child, he thought, the old sorrow filling his chest. A child who died because of me—

"Good morning."

Adam started, turning to see his guest rising from her slumber. Belle stretched where she sat, slowly and with care due to her injury. A pleasant little hum escaped her as she interlaced her fingers above her head, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire beside her. Not until she returned her hands to her lap and looked up at him did Adam realize he hadn't answered her. "Mm, morning," he said dumbly.

Belle was raking her fingers through her hair now, pulling out the braid she'd slept in and letting the long waves rest over her shoulder. As she worked, a single thin streak of grey near her left temple fell loose from the sea of warm brown, curling in a way that seemed to defy the rest. When Belle spotted it, she frowned, twirling it tightly between one finger before tucking it back behind her ear. It fell loose again a moment later.

The hiss of the kettle made Adam start, and he realized to his mild horror that he'd been staring. He turned quickly and set the broken cup aside, the painful thoughts it had brought banished for the moment. "You slept well?" he asked, focusing intently on the movement of his own paws.

"Oh, yes. So very well," Belle said. "It's been so long since I've woken without…"

When she didn't finish her thought, Adam looked back. Belle had a hand resting on the back of her neck, staring away from him and into the flames. Her hair and eyes glowed gold in the light of the fire, and a pretty swath of freckles covered her nose and cheeks. In all truth, it was becoming harder for him to ignore how very beautiful she was now that the bruises around her eye were healing. Even before, beneath spots of purple and blue, it was obvious. He wished it was just as obvious how married she was.

Adam frowned, and looked back towards her hand. Then he blinked hard, and looked again, for the ring that had been there before was gone. When had she taken it off?

He sucked in a sharp breath. That's none of your business, he told himself. He looked away, though only a moment passed and he was wondering again. No doubt she must have hated the reminder of that violent man, he decided quietly; the pain in her side was probably enough.

Soon he helped Belle to the privy, as he'd been doing each morning and night—though she insisted she could walk today. She traipsed bravely through the snow as he followed close behind to steady her, and Adam was grateful he'd had enough foresight to shovel out the path before hiding the tool away with the rest this morning.

The journey took its toll on Belle, and so after another breakfast of strips of venison and Bonne's milk she opted to return to the bed for a nap. The idea of tea had lost its appeal to Adam, but he brought some over to her as she settled down. "You're certain had enough to eat?" he asked.

"Mm," she hummed softly, blowing on the tea and wrapping her fingers around the warm cup.

He nodded, but made a mental note to go out for supplies soon. He couldn't feed her milk and meat forever; humans needed more than that. But when to do it? Was she well enough to leave alone?

The thought tired him again, and so he set it aside for now, poured himself a large serving of milk in a glass he hadn't yet managed to break, and settled in his large, old armchair. He'd moved it to the window so Belle could sleep with the warmth of the fire, and so stared out at the snowy landscape he'd seen a dozen times while trying not to think about the very lovely person sitting in his bed.

This was no small task, apparently, and in a desperate attempt to distract himself he reached between the arm and the seat cushion of the chair and found an alternate activity—Guinevere and Lancelot, the last book he'd been reading in this spot. He pulled out the old novel, flipping through the yellowing pages until he found the approximate place he'd last left it.

He was not two words in, however, when he caught a small gasp from across the room. He looked up, but Belle glanced away as soon as he did.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded several times in rapid succession, staring pointedly into her cup. "Yes, thank you."

He frowned, but returned to his book. Yet he could sense a slight shift from across the room, certain her eyes were on him once again. When he looked up again, she started, eyes darting to the side. "You're sure I can't get you anything?" he tried.

"No! I-I mean, yes. Yes, I'm sure," she insisted, waving away the offer while still refusing to meet his eyes.

Adam hummed deeply, looking back at the page but not truly seeing it. He waited only a minute, then looked up without warning. Finally he caught Belle staring at him, and, unable to pretend otherwise, she flushed.

Slowly, he closed the cover. "You're very curious about me, aren't you?"

Belle kept her eyes on the book, but bit her lip. Then she sighed, and finally looked back at him. "I am, I must admit."

He wasn't offended. In fact, he was amused more than anything. "And what is your guess?" he asked, tucking the novel back into the cushion and lifting his glass to his lips.

"That's the thing," she said, seeming to come to herself as she set her drink aside and sat tall. "I've heard of no mythical being quite like you, and it's obvious you are well-raised. Which leaves me with either a highly inbred aristocrat, or some kind of undiscovered forest god."

She'd caught him off guard. So much so, in fact, that he'd laughed without meaning too and inhaled a rather large mouthful of his drink.

"Not even close?" Belle asked, with far too much innocence.

Adam coughed roughly, and wiped his face with the fur of his arm while hoping she hadn't noticed milk draining from his nose. "Actually, um…" he managed. He coughed again, and cleared his throat, taking a moment in his decision. "It's true that I was a… noble. Of sorts," he finally conceded. No need to go into specifics there. "Long ago. But what made you say it?"

She raised a brow at him, followed by a hand as she began to count off. "You place a napkin in your lap to eat," she began, raising a finger. "You always hold my door, you knock and greet me each time you enter the house, you put a high priority on smelling nice—"

"I smell nice?"

"—and to top it all off, you have better posture than all the schoolteachers in France," she finished, all five fingers waggling at him in the air.

He quickly hunched his shoulders forward. "Okay, but I… I have cobwebs," he stammered, waving towards the ceiling.

Don't point those out! cried the prince.

Belle grinned, and raised a sixth finger on her other hand. "And you don't have a clue how to clean. Definitely high born." She returned her hands to her lap, shrugging. "Besides, you told me so yourself: 'I'm no Monsieur,'" She eyed him with a look so full of certainty he wondered if she were truly the same woman she'd been five minutes ago. "Isn't that right, my lord?"

"D-don't—" he stammered, before raising a stern finger. "Don't call me that."

Belle only smirked.

Damn, Adam thought. She was good… or maybe he was just more obvious that he thought. She thinks I smell nice?

"Which only leaves me more curious," Belle continued. "For I have a very hard time believing you've always lived like this."

She watched him carefully again, but his throat had suddenly gone dry. But why? What did it matter now, if she knew the tale? The spell had ended, finalized forever in broken stone and death. Except… he would have to admit what he once was. That he'd been even more of a monster than he was now. Yes, he'd implied as much, but to actually admit he'd been so bad as to earn this curse... but on the other hand, perhaps if he shared his past, he would learn more of hers. He was wildly curious, after all.

"I'm sorry," Belle said suddenly, looking into her lap. "I'm prying again. You needn't—"

But she fell quiet when he stood, watching as he moved to sit on the floor beside her. Belle smiled, anticipation in her eyes as she moved over and patted the space beside her. Adam hesitated, a knee already resting on the hard floor, but accepted the offer and settled on one side the blankets.

"I was born into a very wealthy home," he began. His heart was pounding like mad, but he sucked in a breath and went on. "Naturally, I was spoiled beyond repair, and by the time I'd grown… I had learned to neglect and torment everyone beneath me."

It was almost the truth. Yes, he had been spoiled, but that isn't what drove him to hate those beneath him, to hate the kind of people he'd been crowned to protect. The kind of people like Belle. No, he couldn't share that piece of it, not with her.

He glanced up then, wondering if he'd still shared too much. But Belle only watched him, eyes alight with interest as she rested her chin atop her knees. And so he went on, explaining that night, the terrible lesson he'd been forced to learn.

"Wait—how old were you?" she asked suddenly.

"Seventeen."

Her eyes went wide. "But that's so young!"

Adam waved off her concern. "I was old enough to know better," he said. "And old enough that my actions had serious consequences for others. Trust me, there is no need for pity there."

Belle hummed. She didn't seem convinced. "But… what about your parents?" she tried. "Surely you alone were not wholly responsible."

"They were long gone by then." All of them were. That was a dangerous topic, and so he shook his head and left it alone. "Everyone suffers. It's not an excuse to make others suffer too."

Belle stared at him for a moment, the hearth illuminating her side in an orange glow. And then, all at once, her expression softened. Adam wasn't sure what he'd said to make it do so, but the way she was looking at him sent a warmth straight into his toes that was definitely not from the fire. Having no idea what to think of that, he looked back at his paws, clawing absently at the fur where he sat, and went on.

It wasn't much further into the story when Belle chimed in again. "A dancing candlestick?" she asked, raising a brow. "You're pulling my leg."

"Belle," he said flatly. "I'm a giant talking chimera."

She blushed a little. "Touché. Go on."

He did, and found himself telling her all about them, about their awful attempts to cheer him up, about the lonely nights that he'd done to himself and the hopelessness that fell over them all as the years wore on and on. He'd expected it would be difficult to voice his history aloud, yet once he'd started it was hard to stop, as though his mind had been aching for years to lay it all forth to the first person who came along and was willing to hear him.

"No one ever came?" Belle asked, visibly concerned as the story neared its close. "But that's not fair…"

"I could have searched for her," Adam shrugged. "Tried, actually, but every time I came close to a town I changed my mind. Truth be told…" He sighed, and looked away. "I was nothing but a great coward."

Belle frowned. "I don't see what you could have done in that situation anyway. Except…" She paused. "You could have stolen a maiden, I suppose."

Adam's brows shot up, and he looked back at her with wide eyes.

She laughed at his expression, though something lay beneath it, tainting her amusement. "I'm only kidding," she said, then quickly changed the subject. "And what of your household?"

He'd forgotten this part was coming. The old guilt, that terrible sorrow—it gripped him all at once, and he could only shake his head. God, I should never have shared the tale at all, he realized, ducking his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

"I'm so sorry," he heard Belle whisper. And then he felt something—a hand, warm and soft, resting on his forearm and squeezing ever so gently.

Adam looked up in shock. If he thought the look she'd given him earlier had done something to him, it was nothing compared to what she was doing to him now. His skin seemed to melt beneath the fur where she touched him, and at once a hundred memories from a lifetime ago came flooding over him—every touch he'd ever received compounded into that single moment, as though it hadn't been twenty years since he'd felt them.

Belle's thumb brushed over his fur once, then twice. It was so tender, and so gentle, that Adam felt the sudden urge to cry. "You have had so much time to think on this," she said softly. "Too much, I think. I am sorry you've had no one to share in your pain."

That only made it harder to hold back his foolish tears. With great effort he managed, however, and recovered enough to reply. "I admit, I feel somewhat lighter having spoken it aloud." He grimaced then, a surge of vulnerability overwhelming him. "And thoroughly embarrassed."

Belle smiled, and shook her head. "Don't be. I've always loved a story."

Adam watched her, and wondered to himself for one long, silent moment. "And you?" he finally asked. "Could… could such help you?"

He regretted the question immediately, for she pulled her hand back and wrapped her arms around her knees. "Mine isn't a good story," she said. She looked back at the fire, sucked in a breath, and managed a pained smile. "There isn't any magic."

"There is now," he said, and she looked back at him with a puzzled expression. He smiled a little, and went on. "You're housed up with a great and powerful forest god."

Belle laughed, though Adam could tell she was retreating into herself once again. "I've kept you long enough," he said, pushing himself to one knee and rising from the floor. "Rest. I won't be far."

Belle nodded, sinking back into the furs and closing her eyes. And so Adam left her, crossing the room and stepping out into the cold morning air before shutting the door quietly behind him. Then he reached for the side of the house, turned to lean against it, and tried desperately to breathe.

Adam had been so prepared to help Belle recover that he hadn't once considered she might be the one to help him. He thought on that, reaching for the arm she'd touched. Belle's hand was no longer there, yet the warmth of her fingers still remained, working its way into his hands and his feet and the dark, empty hole in his chest. Adam pulled his arm close and held it to his beating heart. It was too much—too warm and good a feeling for someone who was used to nothing but the bitter cold of his loneliness. And frankly, he had no idea how to handle it.

And so it was several long minutes before he came to himself again, blinking away the tears that had finally forced their way to the surface and feeling more than a little foolish. This wouldn't do; he needed a task. He thought quickly, then pushed himself upright and headed around the mountainside.

A small structure appeared after the bend, which functioned as a sort of barn for Bonne and storage shed for when he needed it. Adam had come with the intention of refilling her hay and water, but frowned at the sight that greeted him. The snow, piled high on the roof, had caused it to collapse on one side, burying its contents in splintered wood and ice.

A low snort reached his ears, and the ring of a deep-toned bell. Bonne had emerged from behind the shed, looking him dead in the eyes before staring pointedly at the collapsed side of her home. Adam sighed. "I know," he said. "I'll get on it."

He returned to the pit he'd dug earlier, retrieved the tools he'd need, and set about fixing the roof. Adam still dreaded such tasks, for in all truth he really didn't know what he was doing. His home had already been there when he settled this place—an old, rundown shack at the time, half rotted away. He'd fixed it up himself, studying the old construction that was left and mimicking it the best he could. But every year something went wrong, which he never doubted was a result of his own ineptitude. Princes, of course, were taught nothing of building or woodworking. He now thought this was quite a shame.

Still, the old cabin had been an ideal place to settle. It must have once been accessible to humans, but was now surrounded on all sides by a sharp drop off that seemed to be the work of a landslide. Adam, with his cursed form, could scale the steep cliff side with little trouble, and so had found a perfectly remote location no one but himself could access. He just tried not to think too hard about what had happened to those who'd been living here when the land had—

"Ouch!" he shouted, his thumb flaring in pain. In his distraction he'd landed the hammer right on it. He grimaced, watching as the blood swelled and pooled near his nail. It would heal in moments, but it still hurt.

But then, all at once, the blood he saw wasn't his own. It was Belle's, dripping from her lip in a forest clearing surrounded by dead wolves.

Adam's pain was gone then, replaced by his own imaginings. He saw Belle again, wrapped in darkness while a shadowed, faceless man loomed over her. And then, suddenly, that man was grabbing Belle, shaking her, fingers digging into her arms so roughly that she cried. Adam saw him throw her to the floor, heard her scream, watched him grab her by the throat and pull back his fist—

Snap!

Adam gasped, blinking and coming back to where he was. He looked down, realizing he'd broken the hammer's wooden handle into two splintered ends. His paw was shaking.

When Adam first saw the bruises covering Belle's body, he'd been upset. Of course he had. It was a terrible thing that had been done to her, a terrible thing to happen to anyone. But now he knew her, at least a little; she'd listened to him, comforted him, and in so doing worked her way into a part of his broken heart. Which meant that imagining what had been done to her did far more than upset him now—it made him want to tear apart the man responsible.

He looked back at the broken tool, mulling that thought over in his mind. He could tear him apart, if it came down to it. Quite easily.

Adam liked to think he'd overcome his temper some years ago. But now, as he found himself storming away from the shed, Bonne bellowing behind him, he wondered if he'd only been avoiding the things that set him off. How dare he?! he thought, trembling head to toe as he walked. He stopped, throwing his fist against the nearest rocky outcropping and sending a dozen bits of stone into the snow before continuing down the path. Fucking bastard! He'll suffer everything he did to her and worse. He snarled, stopping again and narrowing his eyes. He'll be wishing for hell by the time I'm finished with him.

He knew these thoughts were off-color, but for the moment he really didn't care. He was furious, for the first time in a long time, and for the first time at someone besides himself. Perhaps he couldn't force himself out of this terrible world, but he could certainly rid it of that monster.

The path he'd chosen soon ended, a steep face of the mountain now looming before him. Adam sucked in a breath, let it out, and began to climb. It was a short journey, at least for him, and it wasn't long before he pulled himself over the ledge above. Now knee deep in snow, he stood slowly and looked up.

Before him was an ancient, blackened oak: the only tree remaining this high up, tucked at an angle into the rocking outcroppings of the mountain. Adam stared at it for a long moment, and scowled. Then, with a huff of resignation, he stepped forward, buried his paw into its gaping chest, and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in an old, worn shirt. Placing it in one palm, he pulled back the fabric with care to reveal a tiny shard of glass.

He hummed deeply, watching the blue sky above shift in a reflection no larger than his thumbnail. A dark curiosity had welled up in Adam's heart, sending him to seek the one fragment of that magic he still had in his possession. He didn't like to keep the mirror close—it was too mystical, too strong a reminder of all that he'd lost—yet he couldn't find the strength to throw it away. And so, picking up the broken glass with two tips of his claws, he held it before his eyes.

"Show me who hurt Belle," he commanded.

I thought that was none of your business, the prince muttered, moping about somewhere in the back of his mind.

Adam only focused on the glass, which did nothing for several seconds. But then that terrible green glow appeared, far too bright for such a tiny object, and faded to a dark, shifting grey that covered its surface completely.

Adam squinted at it, trying to make out the vision. For with only a piece of the mirror, he only ever had a portion of what he wished to see. He'd tried getting around this by asking for different perspectives, though he usually just wound up shaking the damn thing in irritation. None of that worked, however; it was as if that little shard of glass knew it was part of a greater whole, and refused to function as a full window on its own.

And so Adam studied what it gave him. It looked like... fur. Long, ragged fur, moving with the wind. He sighed. "No," he told the glass, feeling like he was explaining this to a very small child. "Not the wolves. A man. Show me the man who hurt Belle."

The vision grew fuzzy, then sharp again, then eventually faded completely. Adam stared at it for a long moment, watching as his own reflection returned. "God damn it," he grumbled. Stupid thing was getting worse every time. I should just throw you in the river, he thought, all while wrapping the mirror's shard carefully between the folds of the shirt and tucking it back inside the tree's cavity.

Deciding he better get back to the barn before Bonne tried to find him herself, Adam climbed back down the icy rocks and back the way he'd come. He worked for another hour or two, then headed back towards the trees for more lumber. He moved quietly past the house, glancing through the window and towards the fireplace to check on Belle.

But no one was there.

He sucked in a sharp breath, heart in his throat as he sprinted to the door. "Belle?" he called out, pulling it open and traipsing snow into the house as he scoured the room. He stopped in an instant, for she had only moved to his chair, so small in the massive seat that he'd entirely missed her through the window.

She didn't even acknowledge his presence, staring at the pages of Guinevere and Lancelot now spread across her lap. Tears were falling down her cheeks.

Adam blinked, and moved slowly across the room as his heart returned to its normal pace. "Belle?" he said again, softer this time. "What is it?"

She pulled the book to her chest, pages pressed to her heart and arms crossed over the cover. "I haven't forgotten," she said, voice swollen and damp. Closing her eyes, she spoke in such a way that he wondered if she'd even seen him there. "I wondered, worried… but I remember how."

Adam crouched beside the chair, and laid a paw on the armrest. "How?"

"To read," she said, opening her eyes again and lowering the book back into her lap. She stared down at the old pages in her hands, fingers brushing over the words as though they were something very sacred. "He never let me… it's been years…" She shook her head, closing the book slowly and handing it back to him.

Adam reached for the novel, but only to stop her. "I would be a beast indeed if I took that from you now."

She bit her lip, but nodded, pulling the book back and holding it to her chest once again. Adam's own chest burned with fury, trying to understand—on top of everything—what would possess that wretched man to deny his wife the simple pleasures of a book.

But as he stood and watched Belle open the novel once more, he felt something different. Her eyes, they danced across that page, and she looked so incredibly... alive. And so he let his temper wane at the sight and a fierce determination take its place.

If anyone tries to hurt you again, well... He turned towards the door, standing tall and crossing his arms over his chest. They'll have to find a way to kill me first.

A/N - Yes, Adam is a little out of the loop lol. We'll get that big overprotective teddy bear up to speed soon.

Next time: A reminder that healing is anything but linear…