He excelled at many, many things; it was common knowledge, so there was no point in false modesty when it was obviously true—why feign it? If you wanted a fun time, he was the life of the party. Need a little political schmoozing? He could bullshit with the best of them. He could even make the best dirty martini you'd ever tasted—one that would leave you craving ten more.

But waiting? That was a completely different story.

Sure, he'd spent months waiting for the she demon to see the light—but there'd been a steady supply of whiskey to see him through it; there was also the whole exciting aspect of the chase. Waiting like that, where there's a constant anticipation of reward at the end of it—that's a completely different game entirely.

But this kind of waiting? It was pure hell on earth.

He knew he probably should have listened to what she'd said; she'd flat out stated that she didn't want to hear about it—but he had to get it out. The memory of her grandmother's flashing dark eyes as she'd spouted prediction like the voice of doom made it impossible to do anything less than disclose the full, ugly truth; for a moment, when the old woman was staring into his eyes… it had felt like she was actually inside his head. He could practically feel her thoughts speaking directly to him—warning him about a loss that would be so crippling it would make what he went through with Rose seem like a walk in the park.

Or maybe his special brand of cuckoo was working overtime.

Viktoria hadn't been gone twenty minutes, but already… he was missing her. Truth be told, it started the minute she walked out the door. As soon as it shut behind her, he'd felt an ache in the center of his body; it was a dull throbbing in his chest, like a heartbeat, that refused to go away.

And it completely terrified him.

He shouldn't feel so attached to the dhampir—after all… he still loved Rose. So why in the hell did Viktoria's absence eat at him like acid? He felt like he'd lost a limb—like some enormously important part of him was missing.

Lighting another clove—his third since she'd left—he propped himself in the windowsill, ignoring the way the dim, early morning sunlight made his pale skin prickle rather painfully; his eyes swept around the grounds—longing for the sight of her tall, graceful form headed in his direction. His thoughts were troubled, muddled and confused—but it wasn't because of Spirit. No… this time it was due to feelings he couldn't explain or understand—ones that left him adrift and hopeless, now that he was alone. If he was smart, he'd walk away—he'd return to his suite and avoid Belikov's little sister like the plague, sparing them both the inevitable heartache that was bound to rear its head.

But he wasn't smart—not when it came to romance. That… was the entire problem.

The silence was suddenly broken by someone pounding on the door; it startled him—so much that he lost his balance and almost tumbled out the window. Muttering a hushed curse, he flicked his half smoked cigarette out, watching it's sparks scatter as it spiraled down to the ground. He was stalling—he knew it; there was only one person that could be banging on Viktoria's door—and to put it bluntly, he didn't relish the thought of his perfectly straight nose being smashed to a pulp by her meathead brother's fist.

The knocking didn't ease up.

Shit.

He crept into the living room, glaring at the door— mentally cursing Olena Belikov for ratting out their ruse. All she had to do was keep her mouth shut—

"I can hear you breathing. Open the door, kotik… unless, perhaps, you are scared of a helpless old woman?"

"Helpless my ass," he muttered, ashamed at the rush of relief he felt—the giant was still in the dark and hadn't come to dismember him. Jerking open the door, he flashed the old woman his treademark hundred watt smile. "You're granddaughter—"

"Isn't here," she cut him off, pushing past him. "I know this—I came to see you. Can you play canasta?"

He shot her a confused look. "Uh… no—sorry, I'm not a musician."

"Not castanets, kotik—canasta. The card game." She rooted around in her oversized purse, producing a worn looking deck of cards; moving over to the table, she sat down, uninvited—giving him a pointed look. "Fine then—poker? Gin rummy?"

"Poker I can do—though I better warn you, I'm hard to beat."

She scoffed as she shuffled the cards. "We shall see. Now… what shall we play for?"

He frowned, walking back into the bedroom to grab the small bowl he'd been using as an ashtray, calling back to her over his shoulder, "What did you have in mind?"

She shrugged as he reappeared, her dark eyes locking with his. "Since my sources tell me you are a bit short on cash… pennies will do just fine. I would hate to think I left my granddaughter's kotik without a pot to piss in."

He choked on a puff of smoke at the blunt statement, coughing so much his eyes watered. "Thanks… I guess. What does that mean, anyway?"

"You are a smart man—figure it out."

"Or you could just tell me—faster that way."

"Things that are easily obtained are not worth having. If you want to know what it means, learn Russian," she retorted dryly, dealing out the cards. "If you want to fit in with the family… to convince my Dimitri that your intentions are serious… it is something you need to do."

He didn't respond, though her words affected him deeply; he contemplated the idea, thinking about what he'd seen of the Belikovs in the short time he'd known them. They were overly affectionate, even with him—and he was practically a stranger; amongst themselves, the deep love they felt for each other was obvious, no matter how fiery the arguments might be—a big change from the deep freeze his parents summoned whenever they were displeased with his actions. His mother's embraces were cold and distant—nothing like the warm, nurturing hug Olena Belikov had engulfed him in before he'd left her room. He'd given the woman every reason to distrust him—lying about who he was and sneaking around with her daughter—but instead of writing him off the way so many people had done in the past… she'd whispered how proud she was that he'd been brave enough to come clean.

Did he want to fit in with the Belikov family?

The answer was an unequivocal hell yes.

"Concentrate on the game, kotik—if I wanted to play cards by myself, I would have stayed in my room." The old woman's voice was filled with amusement, as if she could sense what was playing out in his head.

Hell… maybe she could—he wouldn't put it past her. She might act like a frail old woman, but underneath the façade the old broad was made of solid steel.

"I am—don't rush me." He frowned, studying the cards, trying to remember what had been played—not an easy task when he hadn't been paying attention since he'd taken the cards in hand. She made a 'tsking' sound, reaching over and grabbing the cards out of his hand. "Hey!"

"We will do something that requires less concentration, yes? Either that or you can help me with my knitting."

His brow wrinkled with suspicion. "I do not knit."

"I did not ask that, did I? You have two good hands that do not suffer from arthritis, and youthful eyes that still see clearly—so you can untangle my yarn." She produced a wad of yarn from her purse—hell it was more like a damned carpet bag—plopping it down in front of him with a gap toothed smile.

He eyed the messy bundle, grimacing. "Isn't it supposed to be in a ball?" He had a momentary flashback—his aunt, sitting in her favorite chair, with him curled up at her feet. She'd always been knitting something, though he never quite figured out what became of all the hats and scarves she made.

"It is."

He glanced up, waiting for her to continue; when she didn't, he sighed. "Well… why isn't it?"

"My great granddaughter got in my bag. She can be very destructive for such a small thing."

"Great granddaughter? Exactly how old are you , Ms. Belikova?"

"Older than the North Sea, child—now get to work. That yarn is not going to unsnarl itself." She scooped up the cards, shuffling them again, then laying them out in front of her—apparently satisfied with playing solitaire while he worked.

He studied the mess in front of him, hunting for a loose end—slowly beginning the Herculean task of unfurling all the knots. Oddly enough, the longer he worked at it, the more focused and clear headed he became—it was almost… soothing… being able to lose himself in the job she'd given him.

Glancing over at her, there was the barest hint of a smile on his face. "This is a lesson or something, right?"

"Maybe… maybe not." She did not look up from her card game. "Perhaps I am simply too lazy to do it myself—" she glanced up, her brown eyes so deep and bottomless he thought he might drown in them, "or maybe I wanted to see if you could find peace within the puzzle of the knots offered your mind. You ask me if it is a lesson.. I say that you should answer that for yourself. A lesson is supposed to impart knowledge, boy. Have you had a sudden revelation about the activity I've given you? Has untangling the yarn helped you untangle what it is that is bothering you?"

" She's mad at me," he mumbled, staring down at the yarn. "About things I can't change. I… I'm afraid she might end up hating me over it."

"This is what troubles you? I thought perhaps it was something far more serious than my Vika's mercurial moods. Tell me… why do you say this… that she is mad at you? Did she scream at you? Strike you? Demand you go away never to return?" Her voice was soft, the heavy lull of her accent sounding almost musical in the hushed stillness of the room.

"She left—she couldn't even stand to be around me."

"That has nothing to do with you, child—she inherits it from me. When my granddaughter gets upset… she feels the need to wander. To be outside… moving around… it helps her think. It is in our blood, you see—the need to be at one with nature—though she does not realize it." She made a face at the cards she held, returning them to the pile. "When I was a little girl, my family was nomadic. We moved from place to place wherever the wind moved us. I still feel it calling me at times… inviting me to explore—but I am old now. My Vika… she is young."

His brow wrinkled; it was slowly becoming obvious that Viktoria's grandmother was often as vague and hard to decipher as a fortune cookie. "So… she's not mad?"

"At the situation perhaps—not at you. You cannot help the things that happened in the past—what matters are the choices you make now, kotik. You will not lose my granddaughter over what happened with Roza… but if you do not change your attitude towards her brother…." Her voice trailed off, her eyebrows raising, "it is a very real possibility. She holds him up on a pedestal—in her eyes, in many ways he is the perfect man. He is her savior… he is the one who stopped their father from beating her to death. Knowing that you dislike him… it must weigh heavily on her soul."

He frowned, grabbing another cigarette; she watched him for a moment, then reached over, snagging his makeshift ashtray—plucking out the butts and setting them to the side. "What are you—"

"Wait and see." Shifting the ashes in the bowl, then upended it, spilling the contents out over the polished wood; her face scrunched up as she studied them intently. "The sight has many facets… the visions are only one aspect of my gift. Divination is another. There is more than one reason the people in my village consider me a charodeyk."

"What's a… that thing you said?" He grimaced, bracing himself for another quip about learning Russian. "You know, if you spoke Romanian I wouldn't have to ask all the time."

The corner of her mouth twisted up in a sly grin. "I do speak Romanian—does that surprise you, Lord Ivashkov? In the language of your ancestors… the word is vrăjitoare."

His eyes widened. She certainly looked the part of a sorceress, if one believed in such things. "So you're saying you're a witch?"

She shrugged, still studying the ashes she'd decorated the table with. "It is a label, nothing more... nothing less. I have visions... I tell the future. From time to time I make a concoction to heal a sickness or help a woman conceive. All different faces of the gift, in one form or another, boy, passed down to me from my ancestors."

His fang slid over his lip, rubbing against the tender flesh. "Could you make something to help someone… let go of the past?"

"I could… but I will not. That is something you must do on your own, kotik." She glanced up at him, frowning. "You will stray from the path you are on in the future—it will cost you a great deal of happiness along the way, but if you find your way back to your path… the one you are meant for, you will be repaid threefold in the end."

He stared at her, having an extremely hard time keeping a straight face. "You're telling my future… by reading cigarette ashes?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You would prefer I read tea leaves? By all means, go brew a cup for me. I will wait. If not, then do not question me when I work with what I have. It is not the material that matters, it is what the angels chose for me to see in them that counts."

"Sorry… I didn't mean—"

She winced, her eyes slightly glazing as she stared at the space around him; an expression of pain flicked across her face—her hand moved up, pressing against her temple. "So much heartache… neither of you deserve it… you are good, caring children."

"What do you see?" Despite his instant reaction to her using the ashes, he couldn't help but feel a prickle of unease.

"Hush—let me concentrate." Her hand shot out, clasping tightly around his as she closed her eyes, grimacing.

He watched her eyes flicker from side to side behind the lids as she hissed, muttering something in Russian under her breath; he couldn't translate, but it sounded ominous enough to make chills dance along his spine. Finally, after what seemed like forever, she released him and sat back., pressing the heels of her palms against her forehead—her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. He reached out, prepared to heal her, but she opened her eyes, shaking her head.

"Do not touch me—not yet. I am still not myself, kotik. Part of me is still there… in the land of vision."

"The land of… vision?"

"The place where the images play out—I am still seeing things. Different things… flickering through my mind. The path I see… it keeps shifting. Different outcomes battle for dominance. That is not always the case—usually there is only one, firmly fixed in place. Those are the ones that cannot be avoided—to attempt and change them is to challenge destiny."

"Is mine… changeable?" He asked, his voice thick with worry.

"I do not know, son—experience tells me I should hold my tongue and let things play out as they must… but my heart… my heart tells me something else entirely. I see all these paths… and I see their outcomes. Do I attempt to steer you down a shorter path to the goal you are meant to achieve—which could risk you losing it altogether... or do I allow you to take the longer route and learn important, painful lessons along the way? If I do either thing… I sense that it might cost us both something irreplaceable." Her gaze locked with his—in that moment, she looked haggard, as if the weight of the world rested on her thin, frail shoulders.

"I—"

"Vasilisa Dragomir has already begun to lose herself, boy. The darkness had planted its seed in her mind and it has taken root. Do not let her into your head—you must always avoid her gaze. If you don't… you will lose everything you have gained…. everything you value—and you might not ever reclaim it." She stood abruptly, reaching over and grabbing the yarn he'd so carefully unfurled, shoving it back into her purse. "That is all I can say, and even that sparse bit is to much. I must go now, and pray. I must ask my guide to forgive me for giving you this warning."

"But… what does it even mean? Lissa would never—"

"Without meaning to, she will ensnare you—and when she does… she will not be able to control what havoc she wreaks. You will lose something more precious than all the gold in the Royal Moroi vaults..." She paused, an expression of agony flittering across her face. Slowly, almost as if she was fighting against the movement, her hand stretched out, hovering next to his cheek. "You will forgive me… they say I must show you, kotik… I must show you what the risk will be if we lose you even for a moment. If we do… something terrible will happen, no matter which path you chose."

Her hand closed the distance, gently caressing his cheek; the moment her skin touched his, a faint pop of static electricity shivered against his skin. "When I am gone… they will show you, child—and I fear they will seek to undo the warning I have shared. Whatever you do, try to hang on to it—when the vision fades from existence in your mind, do not let it steal away my words of caution."

He stared at her in shock; never before had someone spoken so plainly about the images he often saw—half remembered things that plagued his dreams. "You… know about that?"

"I do… the same thing happened to my Anton and to me as well—I used to forget the things I saw when I was young, only to have them torment me in my sleep. As you grow older… they cannot be erased, no matter how hard you try to forget them. I sometimes do not know which is worse, remembering or forgetting." She removed her hand, dark eyes full of sorrow as she leaned forward to brush her lips against his cheek. "You are a good, brave boy, Adrian Ivashkov. I will most heartily welcome you to my family when you are ready to join us."

He sat in stunned silence, green eyes wide as he watched her move to the door without stopping to look back. Long after she'd disappeared, he remained frozen, playing over everything she'd said in his mind. Only his hand moved, restlessly twitching on the table—had he been paying attention, he might have noticed the warning sign and immediately braced himself for what was coming. Unexpectedly, his head jerked to the side—a slight, barely discernible movement, almost like a tremor. It happened again a moment later—and then again, but this time, his head stayed tilted to the side. Without warning, Spirit roared through him, sweeping him up and carrying him away, ensnaring him in vision and showing him things that made it hard to breathe.

The gleam of a streetlight on a wickedly curved blade as it stabbed into tender flesh, yanking sideways violently before being withdrawn. Blood… so much blood… and ocean of it, gushing out like a geyser—painting everything around him claret. The body was practically disemboweled, bleeding out on the dark, dirty street as a familiar male voice shouted out a name—the only name in the world than mattered. He gazed down at the body in horror. It was her name… her body.

Viktoria… his angel.

He gasped, jerking out of the vision, his hands white knuckled as he grasped the edge of the table in an attempt to stay upright.

Was that what the old lady had seen? Viktoria's death?

A sound escaped him—one unlike any he'd ever made. A primal cry of rage at what he had seen. He stood—too fast—his body wasn't ready; knees buckled, toppling him to the floor. He lay there his entire body trembling violently at the horrific image of her eyes glazing over as she stared up at the sky. It couldn't happen—he wouldn't let it. Fate be damned.

He would save her.

Unbidden tears leaked out of his eyes as the images shifted, dimming in his mind. Slowly, they ebbed away, fading back—receding to merge with the countless other glimpses of things that his element often pulled into his head. Ten heartbeats later, he was struggling to remember what the old woman had seen in his cigarette ashes; Thirty more passed and he was looking around, wondering what in the hell he was doing sprawled out on the floor. He chalked the episode up to the dark side of his element, slowly getting to his feet on legs that were still shaking.

Lissa's not the only one losing her fucking mind.

He froze, wondering where the idea had come from. Lissa was fine—she had everything under control. He was the one who was screwed six ways to Sunday, plagued by episodes that were getting stronger with every day that passed.

Moving to the kitchen, he frantically searched the cabinets, finally finding a bottle of wine at the very back of the top shelf. His hand shook as he opened it—miniscule pieces of cork breaking off and crumbling down into the liquid inside. He didn't care—upending the bottle, he drank almost half of it down before he slowed to take a breath.

Wine connoisseurs are full of crap—no matter the vintage or exorbitant price tag, it all tasted pretty much the same. Like shit.

He eyed the bottle, making a face as he smacked his lips—disgusted by the bitter aftertaste that coated his tongue. It wasn't enough to stop him from polishing off the bottle—but as soon as he was finished he made a beeline to the bathroom to borrow Viktoria's toothbrush, erasing the acidic aftertaste as best he could.

He paced the apartment, from one room to the next—wishing the old woman had left the cards or even the tangled ball of yarn to occupy him. His nerves were drawn as taut as bowstrings, his mind racing from subject to subject. He was supposed to remember something… to do something… but what? It was right there… at the edge of his consciousness, dancing just out of reach—bothering him like a fly buzzing about his head. Vika… should he go look for her? No… just she'd get pissed.

Abe. I'll call Abe. He can find her.

He did, then returned to pacing, fretting over whatever it was he'd lost inside his head. It had been a puzzle of some sort, or maybe a riddle. Something cryptic Yeva Belikova had said when she grabbed up the yarn—

If she'd left the yarn I could be unraveling it right now… lost in the knots—

That was it… he needed something to focus on, to escape the troubling thoughts bouncing around in his head.

He retreated to his bag, pulling out a sketch pad and a monogramed wooden pencil case—collapsing on the couch to unwind in the only way he knew that didn't require alcohol or more illicit substances. Selecting a graphite pencil, he began lightly scratching the stick across the page at random, letting his mind wander as his creativity took the reins. Slowly, the lines took shape—the circles and squiggles became a back drop of flowers, the rectangles a bench. The oval became a face—the pencil moved faster; he bit his lip—something wasn't quite right. His kneaded eraser rubbed against the page—sixteen strokes later, her feet were tucked away beneath the bench, hidden from his view and another shape had slowly begun to form beside her.

The sound of the pencil scratching across the page soothed him the way the yarn had; it helped him make order out of the chaos in his mind. He didn't find the answer he was seeking, but his heart had stopped racing as he lost himself in the images he created, drawing out a scene that he wished he could see played out in real life. It wasn't the mindless rush of inspired creation often brought about by Spirit—rather, it was him slowly unwinding and relaxing from the sway his element had exerted against his will by drawing what he felt inside his heart.

In a manner of speaking.

Thirty minutes later, it was almost finished—Viktoria was sitting in the garden, but it wasn't him at her side; the pencil strokes he'd made were light and ethereal, giving the illusion of transparency to his aunt's ghostly form as she smiled at the dhampir girl fondly—far more tolerant in death than she'd ever been in life. It was the smile he'd longed for her to favor Rose with back when they were an item; Tatiana had never softened towards his little dhampir—despite her attempts at civility, her dislike was plain to see—but somehow, he just knew that wouldn't have been the case with his angel. She was everything Rose was not—sweet and kind, an old fashioned girl… the kind who would never stray.

You would have liked her Aunt Tati…I know it. I wish you could have met her.

Another knock startled him, making his pencil jerk across the page; he froze for a moment, then smiled at the sound of a loud female voice proclaiming she didn't know what she'd done with her key. He dropped the sketchpad, hurrying over to the door as an overwhelming sense of relief flowed through him. She was back—Abe had brought his wandering angel home.

I can breathe again—she's safe.

Unfortunately, the happiness he felt faded far too quickly; his smile faded the moment he jerked open the door—twisting into an outright scowl at the sight that awaited him. His angel was cradled in the massive arms of Abe's goon of a bodyguard. "What the hell?"

"She's drunk—sweet little Vika can barely stand on her own two feet." Abe smirked, stepping aside with a flourish of his arm. "She's perfectly fine, though she'll probably have one hell of a hangover in the morning."

"Good thing I happen to be an expert in home remedies," he muttered, giving the male dhampir a less than friendly look. "Where was she?"

"Having a nice little chat with your Aunt's statue. I seem to recall hearing her say something about how she adored the birthmark on your neck—she was wondering if your aunt ever kissed you there when you were a little boy."

"Actually… she did. Tati always said it was the spot where the angels kissed me goodbye in the seconds before I was born." He reached out to take Viktoria, only the dhampir stepped back, out of reach.

"I can put her to bed."

The bodyguard's eyes were full of something he couldn't quite place—but whatever it was… he didn't like it one damn bit.. "Over my dead body—"

"Don't tempt me, kid," the man growled.

"Pavel. Enough—there's no need for a dominance display." The amusement in Abe's voice was barely contained.

The bodyguard's lip curved up in what could only be considered a snarl. "Ain't no display—she's a sweet girl. He hurts her… I'm gonna hurt him."

Vika giggled, poking Pavel's nose. "Sweet as candy—that's me!"

"Oh for Christ's sake—I'm not going to hurt her," he snapped, pulling her curvy body out of the man's arms and cradling her against his chest.

Long, toned arms slid around his neck, followed by her lips a moment later as they brushed against the mark on his skin. "Do I taste sweet, moy Dusha?"

A hot flush spread across his pale cheeks at Abe's snort of amusement. "I'm not answering that."

Her teeth grazed his skin. "Why not? You are always supposed to tell the truth—" The light, feathery kisses stopped—a second later, she sniffled.

"That's our cue to make a fast getaway—we've already dealt with the waterworks once tonight." The Moroi didn't stick around to explain the sarcastic comment; he turned abruptly, heading for the elevator—snapping his fingers at his employee when the man remained immobile. "Don't piss me off even more—I'm already at my limit, Pavel."

Shooting one final glowering look his way, the dhampir trailed after Abe like a well-trained dog—leaving him to handle Viktoria's mood swing all on his own. He kicked the door shut, glancing down at her—his gut clenching up at the sight of the silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Angel… what's wrong?"

She didn't answer; her face crumpled up as the tears sped up, filling her large brown eyes.

"Come on sweetheart," he crooned softly, carrying her towards the bedroom, "talk to me."

She closed her eyes, lower lip trembling.

He sighed, laying her down on the bed before scurrying to the bathroom to run a wash cloth under the tap—immediately returning to tenderly wipe her face.

"Stop it—just leave me alone." She scowled, pushing his hands away.

"I'm not leaving you like this," he said softly, trying to ignore the way his heart twisted in his chest. He'd been right—the old woman had been wrong. Telling his angel the truth had ruined everything—she hated him because of the fucked up situation with Rose.

"Do not pretend you care," she spat out, glaring up at him. "Why don't you go bother your precious fucking Roza—I know that is where you want to be right now."

"I want to be here… with you." He folded the rag, placing it across her forehead—it was one of the few caring gestures he remembered his mother doing whenever he'd felt ill as a child.

"I bet you would have told her that she tasted sweet if she asked," Viktoria muttered darkly, pushing his hands away again as he tried to cover her with the sheet.

Despite himself, his lips twitched up—her jealousy pleased him. He retreated from her angry glare to grab a glass of water to put within easy reach of the bed, then pressed a kiss against her forehead, closing his eyes as he whispered, "Go to sleep Angel—we'll talk about it in the morning, okay?"

He didn't stretch out beside her—though he wanted to; if her mood switched to a more… friendly… one, he knew that he would be unable to resist the temptation to give in to her kisses and caresses. He couldn't allow himself to do it—not when she was drunk. Grabbing a pillow, he plopped down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling—listening to her mutter angrily in Russian under her breath. Slowly, her words faded; her breathing evened out and slowed as sleep claiming her. Only then did he allow himself to reach up, threading his fingers through her limp ones—taking solace in the comforting press of her palm against his. Touching her grounded him—it was a balm for his weary soul.

They were both broken, albeit in completely different ways. His scars were all internal ones, deep furrows embedded in his heart and ribboning though his mind—while most of hers were displayed in the pale, faint ridges that decorated her skin. They'd both been mistreated by people who claimed to love them—the million dollar question was… together… could they finally begin to heal those wounds?

Only time would tell, but deep inside… he thought he knew what the answer would be—in fact… he was pretty sure the healing had already begun.

He just wished he could figure out what the fuck it was that kept buzzing around, lost in the misty insides of his mind.

A/N This one is for Phaedra who asked requested Chapter 62 of the VA drabbles collection in Adrian's POV. Sorry it's taken me so long to get it up—hope it was worth the wait!

If anyone ever reads a chapter for one of my fics or a drabble that they'd like to see in another pov, just leave the request in the reviews or shoot me a message—I actually love doing 'opposite' side of the story chapters. It takes me a while to get to them, but I promise I eventually do get every requested item posted! ;o)