Aurora wasn't taking a hint – it would piss Suzaku off if he could find some way not to admire it. She was determined to maintain the friendship she felt had been established the other night, and no casual brush-offs or surly warnings could get her to back away. It was uncomfortable, but oddly exhilarating.

Except that with her blossoming confidence in their closeness came a probing into his past that made Suzaku want to vomit, or weep. Or punch the wall. Initially, it had been subtle, round-about questions that could lead in any number of directions. But as he determinedly steered away from one area of his past, Aurora kept honing in on that target with increasing obviousness.

She wanted to know about the heroin.

She didn't ask him outright, which was his only excuse for continuing to dodge the subject. When deflecting her with information didn't work, he started using questions. He was interested, of course, but Suzaku was desperate to keep her away from an aspect of himself that he hated more thoroughly than his darkest days during the Rebellion.

"You said your cover name with the bratva was based on your real name, Aurora Sterling. Does the same go for your middle name? Elena?" he asked after lunch. She was trimming the stalks of some flowers she'd picked from the garden in the sink. Suzaku sketched her, but was extremely unsatisfied with the results. However, he determinedly clung to the pencil – even if the work itself was mediocre, the sketch book was a shield that Aurora respected without fail.

"It is," Aurora answered without turning around. "My middle name is Evaine."

Suzaku wasn't the least surprised – she may have been illegitimate, but Aurora was without a doubt a member of the Britannian royal family.

"What about your name as a fixer? You said it was Rory Seven. Where did that come from?"

Aurora glanced over her shoulder, a knowledgeable glint in the smile that curled across her lips. Oh, she knew exactly what he was doing. But she let it slide, and answered his question.

"George called me Rory from the moment he met me. He said that 'Aurora' was too much of a mouthful. Besides, the grubby little beast he found looked more like a scrappy "Rory" than an elegant 'Aurora.' Once I became his apprentice, he informed me that I needed to pick a new name, as my old one wasn't safe. I could keep Rory, but I had to come up with a new last name." She sighed fondly, pausing in her snipping as she braced her hands on the edge of the sink and tipped her face to the light coming through the windows. Suzaku quickly got down the basics of that stance, those rough lines the first good ones he'd produced all day.

"We were playing poker at the time. George killed me every game, but this time I had a hell of a hand. Four sevens. So I told him that would be my name. Seven. I had a horrible poker face then," she added over her shoulder with a laugh. "Instead of telling eight-year-old me that was stupid, George just shrugged and told me that Seven was as good a name as any. Stayed with me the rest of my career."

Suzaku waited a beat before speaking.

"Did you win?"

Aurora arranged the blooms, red and purple and white, in a copper vase, snorting as she plucked and nudged the flowers.

"Nope. Bastard had a straight flush, club queen to eight. Took me for my last pretzel."

As she laughed, Suzaku knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he couldn't let this woman realize the extent of his weakness and shame. Not her. He couldn't lose her too.

That conviction carried him the rest of the day of gentle, vague questions and patient, benign answers. After dinner, he helped her with the dishes, a chore he was only too eager to undertake once Aurora had reluctantly suggested it. She still worried about his arm, but it was a relief to finally carry at least a fraction of his weight around the house. Eventually, everything was dried and sorted, Ban watching them from his bed with a tilted head and eyes that bounced between the two of them like tennis balls. As Suzaku dusted his hand off against his jeans and reached for his cane, which he really only needed for the stairs at this point, Aurora's voice stopped him before he took the first step.

"Suzaku? I was wondering if you would sit down for a minute."

He stiffened at the brisk tone in her voice, the one that brooked no argument and withered denial in its tracks. Since Aurora really had yet to break any of the trust she'd carefully cultivated with him, Suzaku turned back, a considering expression on his face before nodding and moving to his usual seat. Maybe she wanted to talk about something else – even with the fear hissing through him, he had to give her that chance, give her the benefit of the doubt that he allowed for so few. Tugging the towel through the handle of the oven, Aurora sat as well, without her usual accompaniment of tea or water.

Glancing over her shoulder, she murmured, "Ban, bed," and the dog reluctantly strolled out of the kitchen. Satisfied that he had left, she finally looked back at Suzaku. Her fingers nervously clenched and unclenched, and Suzaku felt a familiar terror he'd been struggling with for days unfurling in his chest.

"I've been holding off on asking this directly again, and I wanted to give you time, but it's been a month now, and I… well… I think it's time you told me about the drug use."

Suzaku felt himself turn to stone, felt every blood vessel and muscle fiber lock into place. He couldn't tell her. He couldn't face it.

"No," he said, the single syllable as hard as his heart. Aurora frowned a little, but smoothed her expression before continuing.

"I understand your reluctance, but-"

"I said no," Suzaku croaked, interrupting her with a voice that bordered on robotic. He could see her struggling to be fair, struggling to keep her voice gentle. And suddenly, ice surged through his blood, along his skin. It was time. He'd been deluding himself, enjoying this sanctuary with someone he believed, someone he believed in. But this had to stop. Aurora had no idea who he was, not really. It was time he relieved her of the ridiculous notions she had assigned to him, get away before she drew him in too close to allow either of them to survive. Because God forbid she ever found out what he really was. Better to release her with a lie, than be released by the truth.

"Suzaku, please, I know it's hard, but-"

"Just shut up, will you?" Suzaku hadn't spoken like that in a long time. The cruelty felt unfamiliar on his tongue, the burn of his self-hatred scorching down to the roots of his teeth. He was genuinely angry at her, angry that she couldn't leave well enough alone, angry that she forced him to face what he so desperately wanted to hide. The way she reared her head back, the way her eyes flashed, he could tell that Aurora was struggling with the hurt, the insult. But she disciplined her features as she cleared her throat. God, she was working so hard not to hurt him. But the only way to save her, and himself, was to wound her beyond repair. She opened her mouth to speak, but Suzaku barreled on.

"I'm sick of your sanctimonious lectures. You think you know me, what I've done, what I've seen, but you have no fucking idea. So why don't you crawl back to your little hole, and leave me the hell alone." He'd done it. He could see it on her face. The snarl that crept along the edges of her pretty, agile mouth, the way her expressive brows ducked down over those mercurial eyes in an expression that would have made any man not driven by self-destruction quiver in his boots.

"Not going to happen, asshat. So why don't you pull your head out of your butt, calm the hell down, and talk to me?" Aurora was mad, but he could tell that she still had the tone of someone dealing with a snotty child, that edge of patience designed to smooth raised hackles. Instead, it just locked his into place, but there was something worse. The realization that Suzaku was going to have to go even farther, be even crueler, to tear down all Aurora had built between them. It had to rubble at their feet before she was going to walk away.

"Talk to you? What makes you think I want to talk to you?" Sensing that it wasn't enough, he said two more words, words that made his stomach twist and his lungs burn. "Half-breed."

Somehow, the mask that slid into place over Aurora's expression was exponentially worse than any manifestation of hurt, even her bursting into tears. Because he knew, even respected, that at her core, Aurora was a warrior. And she would show no weakness when under attack. And he was the bastard attacking her.

She settled back, her arms crossing across her chest, a single brow lifting as she tilted her head, almost as if she was actually seeing him for the first time. Suzaku detested himself, knowing that now she finally saw him for the monster he was.

"Wow. I have to say, you surprise me, Suzaku. I didn't know you were such a hateful bigot."

His mouth went dry, and Suzaku could feel panic fizzing in his bones. Dammit, if he could just see this through, Aurora would be safe. And he would never again have to admit his sickeningly shameful weakness. None of his thoughts showed on his face – instead, he just shrugged, his eyes hard as granite.

"How was I supposed to know you were such a bad luck charm? You poison everything around you, don't you? Your family, George, your job. Even Kendra and Chandler are at risk by their association with you. I'm just trying to cut my losses before I get caught in the tide." His breathing was rolling in and out harder as the volume of his voice escalated, his heart squeezing at the way Aurora's eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched. Oh God, he was using her nightmare, a confession that had stripped her down to the bone, against her. If he didn't already loathe himself with a scorching depth, this would have sent him over the edge. As it was, he mentally begged her to step away, to back off before he had to say anything truly unforgivable.

"You've got to be fucking joking. Me, the bad luck charm? Don't make me laugh, Suzaku. We both know the blood you have on your hands." She was raising her voice to match his, lightning sizzling through her eyes that cut him down to the bone. Feeling like he was cornered, terrified that any second, the truth of his pathetic fear would tumble from his lips, outracing any lies he had left, Suzaku straightened, and pinned his eyes on her, swallowing honesty in favor of a poisonous deceit.

"How many people have you killed with your lies, Aurora?"

In the wake of his loud, frantic accusation, she stood with such force, her chair tumbled to the floor. Slapping her palms down against the table, Aurora leaned forward, her face lined with fury and her eyes damp with tears.

"Not as many as you killed with a single push of a goddamn button, Suzaku!"

As her words echoed away, the familiar feeling of turning to stone crept along Suzaku's skin. He wanted to get up, to run away from the truth his cruelty had dragged out of Aurora. But his legs were numb, the joints of his hand tingling from being clenched so tight. Having delivered her crushing final blow, Aurora straightened and turned, striding from the room like it was on fire and it was best if she exited in an orderly fashion.

But Suzaku managed to see out of the corner of his eye as he sightlessly stared out the window that she stopped before stepping out into the hallway, bracing a hand on the jamb and leaning against it. He could see a fraction of Aurora's profile, the way her eyes were squeezed shut, the way her long fingers were pressed to her mouth.

He was safe. She was never going to push him for his ugliest secret again. So why did Suzaku feel like he was rotting inside?

She slowly turned around, one hand still against the wall, as if she needed the support, while the other lay over her mouth, as if she didn't trust herself to talk. He met her eyes with the hollowness of a ghost. Because it had taken him breaking everything to realize that Aurora's opinion of him mattered more than he could have ever admitted, especially to himself. That perhaps the Suzaku she saw was a Suzaku worth being. He tried to tell himself this was for the best, but he was busy drowning in how much he despised his own skin, bones, mind.

"Suzaku, I…" Now her voice trembled with tears, and he was inches from screaming, crying, jumping off a fucking cliff. Anything to relieve the burden of guilt at what he'd done to her for his own selfish gain. She lowered her hand and straightened, and Suzaku noticed that Aurora's hands were shaking. She drew a deep breath that sounded painful, rattling against the pressure in her chest. He personally felt like a building made of cement and lies had collapsed on him.

"I didn't mean that," she finally said. Suzaku wasn't sure why he'd assumed her voice would be weak. It was quiet, but clear. He met her eyes, and slowly shook his head.

"Yes, you did." He didn't even recognize the voice coming out of his mouth. He'd heard the hysterical tone to his accusations and insults from earlier before, but this? This was the tenor of a corpse.

"No, I didn't," Aurora argued, her voice gaining strength. She stepped closer, but only one step. There was too much distance between them now to breach so easily. Thanks to him. "That was acting out. Remember? That wasn't venting. I was just… hurt."

Suzaku closed his eyes against her tone. He didn't want to hear this, but how could he deny her now?

"I… I can live with myself if that's what you think of me. But…" Her voice trembled, then firmed. Aurora rolled her lips between her teeth as she struggled to recover the strength in her voice. "But I can't live with letting you think that's my opinion of you. It's not. It never has been, and it never will be."

Suzaku nodded. He didn't know what else to do. He didn't know if he really believed her – how could Aurora be so forgiving? – but he couldn't let such heartfelt words go unacknowledged. Then, without warning, his lips opened, and he found himself speaking in a wooden tone.

"I don't think that of you, I just… I just can't tell you. I'm sorry, Aurora," apologizing for both his inability to tell her the truth and for what he'd said. He didn't know why he was retracting the statements earlier that had cost him so much, undoing all that was done to protect himself. Suzaku just couldn't stand the look on her face. She held her hand up to stop him before he continued.

"I'm sorry, too. What I said was beyond out of line. OK," she murmured with a deep, shuddering breath, the tears still thick in her lungs. "Why don't we give it some time? I think we need to think about some things, make some decisions before this goes any further."

Before he said anything else, she turned and walked away into the darkness of the hallway. The glow of the stair light spilled down into the hall when Aurora clicked it on, and Suzaku could hear her making her way upstairs. Her quiet command for Ban drew him out from where he'd pushed himself into the shadows by the stairs, slinking past the kitchen like he'd been beaten with a bat, attaching himself to his mistress's side with a pathetic series of whines and chatters.

After tonight's little episode, Suzaku wouldn't be surprised if Ban, or Aurora, for that matter, never looked at him, spoke to him, or even dealt with him ever again. It shocked Suzaku that the prospect hurt so badly. He had been certain that he'd made the right decision, the best for both of them. But now? Now Suzaku just felt nauseous, exhausted, and painfully stupid. Lashing out at Aurora because he'd felt backed into a corner like an animal. Ridiculous.

What had she called him? An asshat? That was pretty appropriate.

Sleep usually came on command – the hazard of being raised in an underground war zone. But that night, Aurora didn't sleep worth a damn. She caught a few hours here and there, but spent most of her time staring out the window, watching the moon move across the sky. She'd hoped that an indulgent half hour spent sobbing silently into her pillow would wear her out, but it just left her with a headache and itchy eyes. She finished two books that she hardly remembered, and set aside to reread again because no book deserved to be treated like that, dammit.

Finally giving up, she rose just after four am, getting ready in the pre-dawn silence. She'd heard Suzaku make his ponderous, three-legged way to his room sometime around one last night, but that was the last she'd heard of him, the door to his room still snuggly closed. After a long, hot shower and getting dressed in the most comfortable clothes she had that weren't pajamas, she stood for at least five minutes in the hallway between their doors, racked with indecision and bone-deep guilt. After a while, she shook her head and made her way downstairs. She had told him last night that they had a lot to think about, and that they needed to make some decisions before they talked again.

After fixing a light breakfast – her stomach still felt like it was laced with lead – Aurora grabbed her jacket and jogged out of the kitchen door and down the steps, wincing when the screen door closed with a bang. Ban enjoyed a chance to stretch his legs and thoroughly mark his new territory, again, and quickly arrowed away, leaping over the wall with perfect form.

He seemed to have recovered from last night, at least. He'd whined off and on for about an hour after they'd gone to bed, but had mercifully dropped off to sleep eventually. Ban had always been fairly sensitive to tension, but when it was between Aurora and Suzaku, he seemed to take it especially personally. Damn crazy dog. She vaulted the wall with a braced hand and a smooth leap, eager to cool any hot, sore spots left in the soft chill of dawn.

Shaking her head, briefly marking the weight and movement of hair that she'd been growing out for about a year, Aurora hiked to the top of a hill, the hem of her jeans thoroughly soaked from dew and her sturdy leather boots beaded with it. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she cocked her hips, and allowed herself a moment to admire the birthing sun.

Navy faded to cerulean. The sky blushed, the soft underbelly of the clouds rose-pink, their backs a dark, silvery lavender. As her eyes edged closer to the horizon, the pink burned, turning umber at the sky line. The sky seemed to wait for the sun to crest, warming its colors in preparation as the air remained chilly. To the west, purple and midnight held sway, a soft haze all that was left of a thick night. Clouds covered what stars have yet to fade except for the irrepressible evening star, the last of her brethren to shine as the sun begins to echo.

The mountains far from dawn's touch hummed a velvety black lilac. Aurora shivered, the breeze, which would normally be playful, biting with kitten teeth, needles almost small enough to numb. She traced her fingers along the seams in her jacket pockets as the sun painted the sky a sort of peach. There's even the fruit's fuzz, plump clouds sailing across the splash of color. To the south, the sky is shell blue, hinted green by the land at the horizon. The clouds started to bleed, and Aurora could see the sleek slip of dark that was her hound weaving through the grass below. Gold bleached to yellow like the yolk of an egg, her muscles twitching slightly against the cold and sudden stillness after exertion. The northern skies gave no quarter, still dark like a mourner's flowers as the clouds hovered like a bruise. She was waiting for that first moment of light, still pure and cold, as the breeze moves the trees and grass, the hint of salt carried farther than the sound of crashing waves. Light bled from cloud to cloud as the sun broke. Diamonds glittered on the black strand of land, and so began a day.

Ban trotted up next to her, his ears pricked as he gazed past her to some hapless rabbit, no doubt. She stroked a hand over his head, his ears flattening under the touch before popping up again. Chuckling as she looked up at the horizon, her hand still resting on the dog's soft, bony head, Aurora felt the last sharp, barbed edges of hurt slide away. Apologies still needed to be made, but, through the remorse, Aurora assured herself that, if Suzaku needed her, then she'd be there for him, no matter how badly they slapped at each other out of fear and pride. Because that was what had happened last night – an ugly clash of their fears and prides.

She didn't have the answers for what had gone wrong, and was beyond ashamed of her revolting reaction. But what was said was said, and both parties had recanted. So next was to find out if they could live with each other following the aftermath, and hopefully decide if the catalyst for last night – Suzaku's heroin addiction, obviously – should be forgotten or explored. Aurora prayed for the latter, but last night had been a solid warning to watch more closely where she stepped. She and Suzaku were obviously not as close as she'd lulled herself into thinking.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, she tossed her hair back over her shoulder, scrubbing Ban's withers before traipsing down the hill. Back at the kitchen, she dried off Ban's paws before releasing the hound, pulling off her boots and rolling up her jeans to her ankles once she'd replaced her jacket. Glancing around with her hands on her hips, Aurora frowned. Nothing really needed a cleaning, and she wasn't sure if she was in the mood for a work-out.

As her eyes landed on a plate of covered scones, she smiled. Brianna O'Toole had come by a few days ago while Suzaku had been napping, bearing the gifts of a delicious casserole and enough scones to feed an army. A smile lighting up her eyes, Aurora quickly started braiding her hair back as she prepared for a cooking marathon. Her music set low and ready, most of her tools on the counters, and her hair snug away from her face, Aurora rolled up her sleeves, and dived in.

Some people cooked with something approaching a battle plan. Others played a game of hit-or-miss, often with extreme results. Aurora sat somewhere in the middle. She knew enough of the basics not to make anything too catastrophic, but loved to improvise and guess about the finer things that made the whole process fun. It had only taken a few disasters to learn the limits of the game, and, as per her usual, she thrived with a bit of chaos.

Hours passed. Ban snoozed on his bed by the laundry room, still worn out from his poor sleep the night before, watching Aurora closely for a break in her rhythm that would present an opportune time to head back outside. That backfired when she let him out, but was too immersed in flour and butter and music to see him patiently waiting to be let back in. In retaliation, Ban slept in her flower beds until two, when a buzzer sounded to signal a completed batch of snickerdoodles and Aurora realized that her dog was no longer in the house, let alone the kitchen. They had a grumbling conversation when Aurora let him back in, and agreed to disagree about how to deal with future situations of that nature. A light spanky was delivered, which was eventually nullified by Aurora giving Ban a malformed gingersnap.

By the time dinner rolled around, the acres of counter space were strewn with baked confections. Cookies of many different flavors and varieties, scones that ran the gamut of accompaniments, even a few cakes that smelled fairly scrumptious. The scents competed with a beef stew that had been sizzling all day, the meat local and most of the vegetables from the garden.

The sink was a graveyard of dishes, and Aurora, flushed from heat and contentment, sighed as she looked at it, forced to wash her hands in the laundry room, since there was no room around the bowls and measuring cups and utensils. When she came back out, she was startled to a stop to see Suzaku sitting silently at the table.

She hadn't seen him all day – he'd stayed well away from the kitchen even when she'd stepped out for a few minutes. He looked pale and exhausted, his broad, strong shoulders almost bowed around himself, as if he was hunching down over a wound. His right hand rested on the table, clenched into a fist. Suzaku gazed at it as if when he opened his hand, the answers would spring from his palm.

Clearing her throat, Aurora finished drying her hands – she'd forgotten when she'd caught sight of Suzaku – and shut off the music. In the silence that seemed to vibrate in its wake, she poured a mug of tea from the kettle she'd been nursing all day, the drink strong and bitter. She took a sip as she sized up his expression, and decided that he looked unhappy, but resigned.

"Can I get you anything to eat?"

He finally looked up at her, and the regret swimming in his eyes made Aurora's stomach lurch.

"No," he managed to say, his voice rusty as if he hadn't used it all day. She nodded slowly, feeling awkward when he didn't say anything else. Sipping her tea again, she clicked the crock pot to low and laid a sheet of saran wrap over her most recent batch of cookies. Chocolate chip, the way Aurora imagined most grandmothers made them. She was about to say something – she didn't know what – when Suzaku beat her to it.

"I was wondering if you would sit down for a minute."

Raising her brow slightly at the repeat of her opening line last night, which had marked an auspiciously awful occasion, she sat down slowly. Aurora couldn't be sure if she was reluctant, or if she was afraid of spooking him. He did have the fear of a wild animal in his eyes, but also the haggard edges of a wounded one.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment, rushing on before she could say anything in return. "I know it doesn't mean much, but I have to say it. What I said last night was completely uncalled for. I said it because… because I was afraid. Of what you'll think. Of what I have to say." When he didn't continue, apparently lost wrestling with his own head, Aurora dared speak.

"Say what?" she said, very quietly. When he caught her gaze again, Suzkau's eyes were anguished.

"Why. How. I'm an addict, Aurora. And I hate myself for it, more than I can possibly express."

Feeling the tears welling in her chest, Aurora willed them down, certain that such a display was the last thing Suzaku needed to see. She quickly realized what he was doing. This was another apology, but it was also Suzaku reaching out. He was splaying his darkest parts before her in return for the hurt he'd caused. But he was also hoping that she wouldn't judge him, reject him, for a truth he'd pushed her away to hide. Feeling a part of her shivering with fear, warming with trust, Aurora extended her hand, her muscles even and sure. She carefully smoothed out his clenched fist, wrapping her fingers gently around his as she stroked her thumb over the hard, strong ridges of his knuckles. Looking into his eyes, she squeezed very gently, hoping that her support, unwavering and fair, would suffice for her apology, one he desperately needed, no matter what he said.

"Tell me," she said. His eyes still on hers, he did.

Following Nunnally's coronation, Suzaku eventually achieved a sort of grudging contentment. He was far from happy, but he was functioning, and fulfilling his duty relieved some of the guilt that still clung to him like cobwebs. He was still disheartened, but going through the motions didn't feel like such a terrible lie.

And then, about a year ago, the nightmares started. At first, he'd just wake up miserable and out of breath – that was almost usual for him, something he'd already been struggling with for years. But as the dreams became more vivid, more destructive, he'd been forced to start engaging the security lock around his wing at night – guards had run to his suite, banging on the locked, reinforced door, demanding to know if Lord Zero was alright, when he woke up screaming and writhing like he'd been stabbed at three in the morning. Almost a week of this urged him to adjust the sound-proofing system that made his wing impossible to tap to also block out sound during the night. That way, no one else was disturbed by the echoes of his insanity.

On their own, he could have handled the nightmares – he'd been enduring them practically all his life. But around the same time, Suzaku had experienced a growth spurt that had nearly crippled him. Four inches gained in a year was no mean feat, and he was constantly tormented. Not only was it becoming impossible for him to sleep, but the physical agony was overwhelming.

Suzaku tolerated it for six months. An average, healthy man perhaps could have held out longer. But when combined with a grief he refused to acknowledge and a lingering death wish that resurfaced with a vengeance, Suzaku was floundering.

So he gave up. Pressing his eyes closed, like he was admitting to the worst of crimes, he told Aurora of how he'd stopped fighting, giving in to the demand for relief. He didn't want Refrain – the past was a hellhole for him, the last place he wanted to go. It was surprisingly easy to get access to heroin. The first time he injected himself, he almost passed out from the sheer fear at his stupidity. But he'd been without sleep for three days, and had hallucinated Euphemia in the courts earlier that afternoon. He couldn't survive another day like that.

In a disturbingly short amount of time, it became his crutch. He couldn't function without it; for a while, he believed that he was even better with it. He could sleep again, if only with the introduction of the heroin into his bloodstream. His nightmares were drugged into silence, and the pain was alleviated more and more every day. Even as he'd known it was weak and wrong, he'd been powerless to survive without it.

Aurora stood at this point, and Suzaku's shoulders went hard as steel, looking up at her with heart wrenching eyes that clearly said he expected her to leave, to have had enough of him. Instead, she walked over next to her chair, and crouched down. Gently cupping the back of his neck, she drew him down until his forehead rested against hers. With a shudder, he gasped, then went limp, their eyes closing while he gripped her hand as the shaking tore through his body like a hurricane.

Aurora realized that she'd been wrong that morning. It wasn't that she and Suzaku weren't close; they were too close. How many times had he lost those allowed into his inner circle, had seen his confidences betrayed and hopes detonated? Of course he'd push her away – she'd been stupid to think otherwise, to assume she could barge her way into his most fragile secrets. He was a soldier; it went without saying that he'd put up a fight. It was apparently their day for stupidity. Maybe neither of them were as clever as they thought, not if they allowed something like this to erupt and wound them both.

Finally, the shaking faded, leaving only the occasional tremor to skip across Suzaku's muscles. Aurora allowed him to draw back, but didn't release his hand nor move from where she was. He had to hear this – if she had to pound it into his thick head, he had to believe this.

"You're allowed to be weak, Suzaku. Being weak is the most consistent thing we humans can depend on. But that's not what matters. What matters is moving beyond that weakness, and never allowing this particular one to consume you again."

"But what if I can't?" He sounded so desperate. Not even in the midst of combat had his voice ever been that afraid.

"I know you can," she answered simply.

"How?"

Carefully, cognizant of all the ground between them that had been razed and healed in such a short time, Aurora laid her palm on his cheek.

"Because I know that while you're fragile, damaged, incredibly angry, and immensely hurt, you are also strong. Stronger than anyone I know or will ever know. And I know with that strength, you'll move beyond this. You're not an automaton, Suzaku. You can doubt yourself, fear your failures. But I believe a boy that brought the world to its knees while still in his teens can face his demons and emerge triumphant. So, in my opinion, you have nothing to doubt, nothing to fear."

He gazed at her silently, his eyes huge and wounded and bright.

"I'm so much less than what you see. Why can't you admit that?"

Aurora could sense that Suzaku was pushing for an answer he kept on expecting; she'd just have to keep proving him wrong until he figured out it was never coming.

"How can I possibly condemn you for confiding in me your darkest moments when you've never done the same when I divulged mine?"

He shook his head, but not hard enough to dislodge her hand.

"I don't deserve that kind of fairness."

She hated the way he spoke – the hollow, mechanical words of a man too beaten to know better.

"You more than most, my friend. Honestly, it's pretty much impossible to blame you for turning to that kind of comfort. I know it's hard to bear, but it's your greatest attribute. Not your strength or speed or skill. Your humanity. That well of empathy and compassion and kindness that cost you so much. It drives me crazy that someone so essentially good was so completely screwed over. And I will do everything in my power to right that imbalance, any way I can."

His eyes widened at her words, at the promise she'd been holding inside until she thought he was ready. She didn't know if Suzaku could hear it, but it was damn well time he should.

"I don't know about any of that, Aurora, but thank you for listening. I… I was so afraid of what you would say. I couldn't stand it, or myself." His words went quiet with confession, and she couldn't help her wry smile.

"I'm not a saint, Suzaku. You should know by now that I have my own reams of mistakes. I have no right to judge. I just want to help. You've been too long without the simplest aid. A little because you push help away like it's poison, but mostly because the world has forgotten to extend a hand. I don't want to make a promise that will be broken despite my best intentions, but I will promise you this. If you ever come to me for help, I swear to do everything in my power to be what you need. I'll never abandon you, Suzaku. As long as you leave me with that choice, I will always try to be what you need."

His hand tightened on hers, and it was an action more worthy of triumph than any eager agreements.

"There's nothing to change. You've given me more than anyone – I'd be an idiot to ask you to be anyone other than who you are. And I've been enough of an idiot today."

It was the first smile she'd seen from him since this whole ordeal started, and that, more than his apologies and revelations, told her that they were back on even ground.

"Well, I haven't been exactly stellar, either. But the promise stands."

"I can't say if I'll ever take you up on it, but I'm very grateful that you thought to make it. It means more than you probably know."

Aurora was shocked speechless when, hesitantly and a little awkwardly, Suzaku drew her into a hug. She was motionless for a moment, until the weight of his action got through the haze astonishment had thrown over her brain, and she wrapped her arms around him. Aurora could feel the beat of his heart, and knew, with a crushing sort of finality, that she was now tied to it. And that he'd break her heart before this was done.

I'm standing in a forest, and it's raining sap. Sue me; sometimes sappiness is good for the soul. This chapter was written months ago, mostly when a bunch of you lovely little goons were dying for a screaming match. Didn't quite go the way you wanted it to, huh? In a fight this bad, sexy time is not the end result. This was also a learning experience for these two morons – you do not bring up past stuff in a current fight. That's fighting dirty, and no one ever wins.

Now that the cloud of his past that's sort of been hanging over Suzaku has dissipated, we're going to start changing gears in the next little while. I had to get their secrets out of the way and into the open before I could start bringing up some of the less set-in-stone topics. Both of their philosophies have been pretty set in stone thus far. Get ready for some shakin' and bakin'. There will also be some lighter topics for a while – in the aftermath of this particular bomb, I have to soften the mood. Both for you beautiful readers and myself.

Reviews are ever and always and forever appreciated.

Hope you like it!

Love, Tango