Sonata in C MaJor

by:SheilaVR

Character(s): CJ
Category(s): General
Rating: MATURE
Disclaimer: Warmest thanks to Aaron Sorkin, Warner Bros., NBC, et al for graciously allowing us to expand upon their patented creation at no extra charge.
Summary: CJ disappears without a trace...
Spoiler: After "Galileo".

***

Interlude II

The front door swings open, a loud bang that echoes through the cabin. It penetrates the closed bedroom door easily. It's the sound she has been dreading for hours.

"Honey, I'm home!"

Great. The continuing saga of "The Devil and Donna Reed"...

She can hear him laughing. "I've wanted to say that to you for ages!" Pause. "Hey, sweetheart, come see what I got!"

Unless you've suddenly acquired some measure of sanity, I'm not interested.

She sighs, grits her teeth, and visibly braces herself. "Be right out." Slowly, trying to find a balance between her true feelings and the façade she has to play, she quietly unlocks her door and emerges.

He's standing there, dusted with snow, unloading several shopping bags. Obviously the supply run was a great success – from his point of view, if not hers.

His grin widens further at the sight of her. The bags are completely forgotten. "Oh, wow."

"What?" What is it with you? I'm hardly THAT attractive, and I'm sure not wearing anything special...

"It's just..." He actually gets misty-eyed. "All these months I've lived here alone, waiting for you... and now at last you're here – waiting for me!"

She suppresses a shiver. Like there was anywhere else for me to go.

He clomps over to her in his snowy winter boots – No, DON'T kiss me – wraps both arms around her, and kisses her on the lips, lightly enough. "I'm just so happy, I can hardly stand it!"

She smiles weakly.

"What do you think?" He shrugs off his coat and practically drags her over to the pile of purchases. "All the things you wanted... and a few extras." He resumes pulling out items and setting them down wherever there's space. She shakes her head when he can't see.

"You're going to love this. I'll whip you up such a feast that..." His jolly attitude fades. "Hey, wait... where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Just a sec. I know I've got it. It's here someplace." He starts rummaging furiously through each bag in sequence. "It's gotta be here. Where is it?"

His face is getting redder every moment; she draws back a bit.

"Damn!" The outburst is explosive. He straightens and slams his fist down on the counter. "They didn't give it to me!"

What could possibly be so important that it merits this fury? "What's missing?" she asks cautiously, praying that her gentle tone will calm him down.

"The paprika! I can't make your Chicken Parisienne without it! They left it out!" He's really bellowing now.

THEY left it out? Isn't it the shoppers' responsibility to find everything they want? How can anyone blame the store personnel?

"Damn them!" He reaches out for the closest thing at hand – a large ceramic jar on the counter – and hurls it with all his strength and rage at the opposite wall. The thick crockery shatters with a crash that shakes the whole cabin, and the flour it contained blooms out in a huge white dust cloud from the sheer force.

She jumps back in fright.

Dear God, if he gets this mad over a spice, how would he react if I tell him I don't love him?

She tries not to shake in the terror of that thought.

Nervously, she swallows. "Well, let's just have the chicken another time. I'm sure you can cook other dishes just as well."

"Sure, but that was supposed to be your dinner! I wanted to make it for you! I should go back there right now and wring their necks for doing this to me! To you!" He snatches up his coat again, patently determined to do just that.

She raises both hands, a pacifying gesture that also might provide some small measure of defense should he turn his fury upon her. "It's okay. I don't mind waiting until you can make it right. Really I don't."

Very slowly, the pressure begins to fall. He's still breathing hard, fists clenched. If I make one wrong move now, he'll really blow up – and then what'll he DO to me?

I need a diversion, now!

Somehow, she manages to keep her terror hidden. She picks up the bottle of champagne, her hands trembling. "This looks lovely. But it must have been expensive."

He stares at her... and at the bottle. His face clears a bit. "Oh, nothing but the very best for you, my dear. I think you'll like it."

"I don't believe I've ever had this kind before."

He brushes a wisp of hair behind her ear.

"It's to die for."

*****

"So, what do you think of my cooking?"

All of the ambience one could possibly imagine is present: drippy candles backed by the roaring fireplace, champagne in fluted glasses, an elaborate pasta dish that perfumes the air with spices and steam. The diners are well-dressed indeed for such a rustic setting – him in a decent button-down shirt and dress slacks, her in a stunning full-length black silk gown that highlights her auburn hair and bares a lot of her back.

She struggles to hide her discomfort behind well-chosen words. "It's lovely... it's a lovely meal. Thank you for making it."

"Oh, my pleasure." He beams at being able to please her. "It may not be the Chicken Parisienne, but I was planning to make this soon anyway. I'm so glad you like it. I've been practicing a lot of things for awhile now. I sure didn't want you to think that you'd be taking care of me."

You're staring at me again... you've been doing this all night... how am I supposed to react to that?

"I just can't get over how beautiful you are, Claudia. The way the light glints in your hair, and dazzles your eyes... it's breathtaking."

She has no intention of thanking him for that compliment. Her uneasiness, steadily growing throughout the evening, begins to peak.

"I've been waiting for so long to share these things with you... Sometimes it's hard to decide what I want to do with you next."

Although his facial expression seems innocuous enough, the blood drains from her face at the possible implications.

Or will you read even more into my silence?

"In fact," he says, laying aside his glass and standing, "I have an idea right now..." And he extends his hand to her.

I can only guess what you have in mind... She quails at complying, but the shock of his temper earlier makes any thought of resistance even more frightening. Very slowly, she rises, her face carefully neutral.

He leads her to the center of the room and leaves her there for a moment. She wonders what is going on; her heart rate accelerates. When he goes over to the stereo, she breathes a quiet, shaky sigh of relief. He picks a soft, romantic instrumental, then heads back over to her, smiling warmly.

All right, go along. Stay alive. It's just a dance, after all...

He takes her gently in his arms, their hands clasped almost formally at the outset, not too close together just yet, and they start to sway. It's not real dancing, but a kinetic union with the rhythm of the music. He stares at her face, moving his gaze from her eyes to her lips and back.

Do I look as distressed as I feel? I've never been more terrified of a dance in my life!

"You're so beautiful... And I've loved you for so long... I can scarcely believe we're finally together, at last..."

Her body stiffens uncontrollably at this.

Then she tries desperately to relax so he won't detect it. "Well, I can scarcely believe it either."

Their bodies are gradually moving closer together as his arms slip around her waist. Her left arm remains on his shoulder, but of its own volition her right moves to brace against his chest, trying to keep them at least a bit apart, to prevent total contact with him.

He chuckles softly and leans forward to lightly kiss her forehead. He doesn't have to stretch much; they're about the same height. "Oh, Claudia..." His voice is husky as he turns to the side and gently presses her head to rest on his shoulder. "I've never been so happy."

This time she can't bring herself to answer – which he naturally takes for whole-hearted agreement. "We are just meant to be together. Our life here will be so wonderful. What a glorious future..."

Then he turns his face into her hair and takes a deep breath of her. "I've needed this for so long."

Needed?

She can smell his cologne – a very masculine scent she knows he applied just for her.

He's leaning even closer, starting to feather kisses along her neck. She groans softly in fear, and then is horrified that she couldn't control it. He, of course, interprets it as a moan of pleasure or anticipation, and steps up his attention. His rugged five o'clock shadow scrapes gently against her skin.

No, the trembling in my body is NOT desire. Please stop this... What are you going to do to me? Are you just going to make love to me? Oh, God, the thought of you touching me like that... What if I resist? Your temper is atomic – would you become violent with ME? Please, no. I'd do anything to avoid that. Wouldn't I? What would that mean – would I have to pretend to participate? I have to live through this. I MUST. If I have any hope of returning to my normal life, I have to do whatever I can to keep you from turning your anger on me. Whatever it takes.

The thick white porcelain jar shatters again and again in her memory, the shards spinning in place from the sheer force of the impact. Would he break her bones as easily? This is the question at the root of her consuming fear.

God, please help me...

He nibbles at her earlobe, flicking his tongue inside her ear. She gasps involuntarily.

He hears that gasp; his own breathing quickens as he reaches irresistibly for her mouth.

So that's what I have to do. Please let this be over with quickly. I should have had more champagne. Just do whatever you are going to do and then let me go back into the bedroom, curl up and die.

By now both of them have abandoned any pretense at dancing. They're almost motionless, aligned pretty much from the chest down.

How are you going to do this? Go slow, and really savor our first time? No, probably not – most men wouldn't have that much self-control by this point... certainly not a rough, uncouth backwoodsman, and a bona fide nutcase. Are you going to take me right here on the floor?

He tastes of pasta sauce and champagne – and lust.

What do I DO? I don't want to touch YOU.

He's deepening the kiss steadily, and his hands are starting to roam... She's fighting the impulse to cry as the kiss goes on. She still has one hand braced firmly against his chest; he's pulling her closer with every minute despite this. His arms feel like bands of steel; she knows she can't break free.

By now she's completely pressed up against him; her level of discomfort skyrockets.

Don't you even notice how I'm not caressing you back, I'm not even kissing you back, I'm still trying to push you away? Do you even care?

The nature of his kiss is changing... becoming much less gentle. He pushes his tongue into her mouth, and brings one hand up behind her head, increasing the pressure to the point of invasion. She struggles not to tremble; she feels as though she's being devoured...

Then he moves from her lips, around her jaw, to her neck, nudging her head back a bit, his breath hot and moist. Intent upon the tender skin of her throat, he doesn't see the fear and revulsion on her face.

How can I make you STOP? And if I say no now, will you hurt me? I have no reason to believe you'll stop just because I ask you to!

She can feel the warmth of his hands through her gown – a touch that seems even warmer when he brushes across the bare skin of her open back. His grasp... even his caresses... are becoming more possessive.

As are his kisses. No longer the quiet, seductive teases at the start, they've become positively ravenous, stinging her skin. The genuinely hungry sound makes her think of animals feeding. Appropriate, since she's being fed upon right now.

Have you forgotten about me entirely, except as your possession? Can you see beyond your own needs AT ALL?

One of his hands drifts up her back to her neck. The clasp of her dress is a single button just below her hair.

When he gets it open, the whole gown will slip down her narrow frame.

Oh, God, no...

Now she knows precisely why he asked her to wear this dress tonight.

He can't possibly see what he's doing, but there is some fun for him in feeling his way – and added terror for her...

NO. I can't take this any longer. I will NOT just tamely submit!

Pushing against him even harder is not likely to get his attention now if it hasn't so far –

"Wait... please..."

For the first time in what feels like centuries, he looks her in the eye. She sees his dilated pupils, his lips red and swollen from assaulting her flesh. "What is it, baby?"

She swallows, praying fiercely that this won't upset him. But she has to run that risk. "I'm... sorry. This is all so... new... for me. I need... a little more time... to get used to it..."

His smouldering gaze is somewhat tempered by surprise. "Why? I told you: this is destined. It couldn't be more right."

"I know – I know. But... I know you've known me for a long time now... but I've only met you for the first time less than a day ago."

He frowns. In confusion – or in anger? "Don't be ridiculous. We're together; we're here. At long last, we're home."

When in doubt, tell the truth. "I'm... just a bit scared."

"Of what?" He stares at her uncomprehendingly. "Of me?"

"Well..." At his new expression she hastily regroups. "I know I don't need to be – I know you'd never hurt me."

"Of course I wouldn't!" He leans in to kiss her again, this time in an effort to be reassuring... but the flames are still burning too high.

Cautiously, she turns her head aside. "Yes, I know that. And I know you'll always want what's best for us."

There are a few seconds of agonizing hesitation as he balances her wishes against his needs. She has to play this very carefully.

"Look, I want it to be right, for both of us. I just need a little more time to acclimate to our new home before I can really... give myself to you. Okay? Please?"

What am I getting myself into? I've virtually promised him my body the next time he asks, and the time after that...

But at least it's not now. She needs to buy time. Time for rescue, time for escape. Any time at all.

He looks at her, his breath ragged. She heads off his next protest by gently touching his face. "Thanks for the evening. And for understanding."

He pauses for another endless heartbeat...

... and his arms relax.

"Uh, sure. I understand."

Huge breath.

"Listen, I'm still feeling rather tired. I'd better go to sleep. Good night." She steps back from him, turns and walks toward the bedroom as fast as she can without appearing to hurry.

But at least that's all...

She closes the door, snaps the lock... and collapses against the wood, shaking.

Damn it, I'm going to HAVE to give in to him. There's just no other alternative. I've seen a graphic example of his temper. I won't be able to fight him off. If I submit, I'll spare myself at least physical pain and damage. And I've got a plan now – a way to signal for help. I have to stay alive long enough for it to reach the White House. I HAVE to survive!

She has to get her signal planted as soon as possible. Just knowing that it could be spotted at any moment will help her endure her own purgatory the next day...

Still trembling, she heads for the bathroom. I have GOT to take a shower. Wash off the memory of his touch... and his smell, and his lust...

She turns on the water as hot as she can stand it, trying to re-purify herself. It doesn't work, but she can't stop herself...

Ages later, she emerges, changes into her nightgown, switches off the lights and burrows down into the soft bed, knowing full well that this night will bring no sleep.

Besides, I have to get up VERY early, if my plan has any chance of success.

She hugs the pillow close as her tears finally start to fall.

Is this how Death Row feels, facing immediate execution?

And in some ways, certainly for a woman, this future is even worse.

You really can wonder if survival is worth this...

She curls up into herself, trembling, sobbing, waiting for the dawn.

*****

The sun is nowhere near the horizon, but the thick clouds pressing down overhead and the white snow underneath seem to trap whatever light does exist between them. It is too early to really be considered morning, when the sliding door that leads from cabin to garden eases silently open.

Not a sound. No way could I hope to explain this.

She's dressed as warmly as possible, considering that she dared not go for her coat in the vestibule outside her room, mere feet from where he's snoring. The best she could do was layer every sweater until she bulges out like a quarterback.

I'd really rather not catch a cold – but then again, that misery might distract both of us...

She closes the door just as carefully. In the garden, she selects one of the happy pink flamingos and tucks it under an arm, then lets herself out into the snow.

This has got to be one of the craziest ideas on record.

But she has to do something, if only for her own peace of mind. Certainly she can outthink just about anyone, and with her intimate knowledge of paths of communications she hopes that she's come up with something that wouldn't occur to most people. After all, her life would be forfeit if he figured it out.

And the craziest part of all is that I'm going to have to come back voluntarily. These mountains are too isolated to hike through in winter with no supplies and no idea of the best direction to take. I don't intend to charge blindly into the forest until I collapse and freeze. I just can't get that far. I've got no choice but to make it look like I'm NOT escaping, or signaling. I'm coming back to the cabin one way or another.

Prisoners of war have recounted how just having a concrete plan of escape, no matter how unlikely, was a huge source of hope.

My friends are looking for me; I know they are. Maybe – just maybe – I can help them find me!

She gets her bearings in the strange, deceptive light, and starts trudging uphill as fast as she can go.

Any signal has to be high and in the open, far enough away from the cabin that HE won't stumble across it, yet near enough that it'll lead my rescuers right to me. Such a small order...

The snow is deep and unbroken, the hill steep. Every step is a three-fold effort. Soon she's panting. But she doesn't dare slow down.

This is harder than I expected. Damn it, I'm from California! Sure, I've skied; I know enough about snow and exposure. But I'm hardly trained in mountaineering. And if I don't get back to the cabin before he awakens...

There is no real path – only breaks between the bare deciduous trees and thick conifers. The snow is less deep in the open, but at least the forest blocks the bitter wind.

That hill had better be where it seemed to be when I checked yesterday morning... If it's not, I won't have the time OR the strength to pull this off.

The meadow crowning this hill rises against the clouds like a bald spot, glaringly empty and fringed with hair on all sides. And here the wind-groomed snow lies quite a bit shallower.

Not bad at all. Anyone flying overhead HAS to see it.

There is no opportunity even to catch her breath. Taking the measure of the meadow, she begins to stamp out a huge SOS, as wide and deep as she can make it in the short time she knows she has, kicking away the snow to reveal green-brown grass that has never been mowed. The contrast in color should attract an aerial eye.

Hurry! If he catches me here...

At last, in the center of the "O," like the bull's-eye of a target, she drives the steel legs of the plastic flamingo into a thin crack bisecting a stretch of lichen-covered bedrock. This way the bright pink object rises well above the snowdrifts, and stands out in sharp relief against both the dark letters and the pale background.

There. My calling card.

She pauses, breathing hard, damp with perspiration under all those layers of clothing. The two full hours of strenuous effort have depleted what little energy the sleepless night left her. But her signal is in place.

Now, if only the snow and the wind and the wildlife hold off messing it up until someone spots it! Maybe I should come back tomorrow morning and lay down some evergreen branches for insurance...

She takes one blissful moment to drink in the view of the brightening sky over the lake below and the snow-covered hills beyond. Beautiful. Almost as if I'm really free.

The moment passes. She is not free, but hemmed in by decidedly inhospitable terrain – and she has to leave before this one shot at freedom is discovered by the wrong person.

He may be up by now. What'll he do when I don't answer him? How long before he thinks to check outside? My tracks will lead him right to me!

At once she turns and makes her way back downhill, following the path she broke on the way up. The walk is easier, but she is very tired now. Her clothes no longer trap her body heat as effectively; instead, the wet fibers let the wind through to chill her.

I've got to survive! Someone will see that signal and come for me – it's only a matter of time. But they have to have something to find!

In a way, walking downhill through deep snow is harder than walking uphill; momentum can work against you rather than for you. Stumbling along her poorly-cleared path, scattering snow in her haste, she strikes a patch of ice that she missed before and skids out of control. She rolls several feet down the slope before she can wrestle herself to a stop.

For several seconds she just lies there in a tangled heap, half-stunned by the sudden upset and the disorienting tumble. The snow and the wind are penetrating together, making her colder with each passing moment.

Get up! Get UP!

Wearily, she pushes against the soft, yielding snow and slowly gains her knees, then her feet. Then, a moment later, she cries out in pain.

My ankle...

It doesn't feel broken, but it hurts for all that.

Just great. Perfect.

Balancing precariously with as little pressure on that foot as possible, she brushes the worst of the snow off before any more can soak through. Then she gazes down the hill at the distance she still has to go. By now she's really cold, exhausted, and hurting.

I can make it. I CAN.

With an air of fatalism, she resumes her trek down the slope.

It's a lot harder now; she can't trust her left ankle at all. Her strength and endurance are fading fast. A roaring builds in her ears.

Keep going...

"Claudia!"

She brakes, seized by a strange mixture of dread and – relief –

"Claudia, where are you?" He sounds a bit closer. Perhaps he's following her tracks? If so, he'll reach her in minutes.

She's too tired to even call. She shuffles sideways, on the verge of losing her balance again, and leans against a hard tree trunk, shivering uncontrollably.

I don't care anymore...

"Claudia?" He's very near now, and he sounds concerned.

She makes one more effort to walk, to get that much further from the crest of the hill and the signal that he must not see.

He almost bursts through the undergrowth. "There you are! I've been looking all over! Then I saw your tracks. What are you doing out... Oh my gosh, are you okay?"

The cold is bothering her less by this point; in fact, even her pain does not register as much. She peers at him in the early morning light and murmurs, "Yeah, I think I hurt my..."

Her eyes turn completely glassy... and she crumples. He springs forward and manages to catch her before she can hit the snow again.

Her next sensation is being carried. He's struggling along as fast as he can without jostling her too much. To her incoherent mind this travel resembles drifting rather than bouncing, as though she lay on a toboggan rather than in his arms. Then – mere seconds later, it seems – he shoulders open the cabin door and brings her in out of the merciless elements.

Ignoring the snow his boots leave behind, he goes straight to the bedroom and gently places her upon the bed. She's too cold and wet for the warmth to penetrate at once, but she can feel it on her face and knows that it's just a matter of time before it sinks all the way through. That knowledge alone helps her mind to clear.

Definitely better than dying out there...

She can see again. He's looming right over her, looking more than a little worried.

"Claudia, dear, can you hear me? Are you all right? Please tell me you're okay!"

Go away... let me rest...

But then she remembers that she dares not anger him.

"Just cold. And tired."

"Oh, good. We can take care of that in a hurry! Wait right here." He leaves her, and a few moments later she hears water pouring into the tub. Then he returns, trailing the scent of fragrant bath salts. "Come on; you need to warm up at once. Which means you have to get out of these wet things." He starts to peel off the layers of wool for her.

That jolts her to full awareness. Wait –

She raises her hands to take his and stop him, gently. "No, I can manage. Thanks."

He looks uncertain. Not angry, thank God. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Why don't you go start a fire? That would feel great."

He hesitates. "Oh... okay. But you call me if you need any help."

"I will. My ankle's not that bad. I just need to warm up."

"Okay." Slowly, he draws back, and leaves.

Okay. Got to get up one more time. I need that bath – badly!

With great effort, she pushes herself up, staggers to her feet, and limps into the bathroom, leaving a trail of sodden sweaters behind. It is pure heaven to sink into that steaming hot water, to let the heat soak into her very core until she tingles all over.

Or... maybe not. But I've made my signal. Someone HAS to spot it.

That knowledge, coupled with the thick scent of lilacs and the blissful warm bath, are enough to ease her mind. For now.

*****

He's laid out the nightgown for her on the bed, and a rich satin robe. She doesn't want anything confining, and she's still too worn out to think, so she slips into both.

By the time she comes out of the bedroom, walking slowly and carefully, yet feeling much more herself, he has the fire roaring.

"Careful!" He rushes to her aid, as though she can't take a step without his assistance, and guides her delicately to the couch. "You just rest that foot and warm up. Here." He shakes open a comforter and tucks it around her.

"There we go. Are you comfortable, Claudia?"

"Much better, thanks." And it is.

"Can I get you anything? I know – hot coffee! Maybe with something stronger in it...?"

"Uh – coffee will be fine."

"Coming right up." He fetches a steaming mug. "And I'll start breakfast in just a few minutes. But first, let me have a look at that ankle. Living on your own, you learn to look after yourself pretty good." He fetches a small but efficient first-aid kit.

The memory of last night is still fresh; she does not want him touching her at all. Still, it's just a bandage. So she extends her foot out of the comforter's folds and submits to his ministrations.

"What were you doing outside, anyway?"

"Well... I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, so I thought I'd go for a brief stroll. It was so early that I didn't want to wake you. Then I started getting tired and turned back."

"Next time, wait for me. You could have gotten lost! I never would've found you!"

That idea is unpleasant for both of them, if for different reasons.

Gently, he wraps a tensor bandage around the swollen joint. He seems pretty expert at it, too. "Yep, just a mild sprain. Nothing serious. How does that feel?"

"Fine. You're good at that."

"I know." There's just a hint of smugness in his tone – and a new gleam in his eye. The hand supporting her heel lowers it to the floor... and his fingers start sliding up her calf. The comforter is in his way, so he calmly pulls it aside.

Oh, Lord, no... not yet... not NOW...

Her natural instinct is to cover herself, even though he steadily persists in pushing up her gown to finger her knee.

"Uh – you know, breakfast sounds really good..."

"Yeah, I'm hungry, too..." Kneeling at her feet, he gazes raptly at the skin he is uncovering. "Perhaps I should check you for other injuries first."

But is this the ONLY way to buy that time? My God –

She can't completely control her revulsion as he leans over to sprinkle kisses along her leg, inhaling the fresh, sweet fragrance of her clean skin.

Get it together, girl. If you're really going through with it, then do it!

She can't bring herself to participate willingly; every single nerve is in rebellion. All she can do is be still, and endure. The clinical part of her brain, however, is shouting that she'd be much better off if she could find any way at all to enjoy this...

Joining her on the couch, he reaches for her head and draws her into another kiss, growing deeper by the moment...

She forces herself to kiss him back at least a little. Let's just get this over with as soon as possible. Anything to end it.

Firmly grasping her slight shoulders, he starts pressing her back into a semi-reclining position on the couch. Now he's hovering directly over her, with one leg inserted between hers; it traps her in place. He props up his weight with the outside hand braced against the couch arm, his other holding her head still. By this stage the comforter is fully shoved aside, and only her bathrobe and nightdress remain...

He keeps kissing her, moving around the jaw and down the throat, progressing inexorably towards her cleavage, while his inside hand unties the belt of her robe. He's being reasonably gentle – for the moment – but they both know there's no turning back now.

"I was going to wait until tonight..." His voice is low and hoarse, and hideously menacing to her. "But I can't... you're so beautiful..."

I don't want to be beautiful right now. I don't even want to be female!

He tugs the robe open and lifts her shoulders a bit, allowing the soft material to glide down her arms. She does not resist, fighting to keep her absolute horror from showing on her face. The satin and the down comforter together make a soft nest on the couch. The nightgown has only two thin shoulder straps; once they slip off, the whole thing will fall away without any effort at all.

She closes her eyes. I can't watch... just let it end...

The heat from the fire is being matched by the heat emanating from him as he reaches for those straps with both hands. The first one glides down her upper arm –

Oh, God, here it comes!

She can't stop herself: no matter how hard she tries to fight it, her emotions surge forward. Tears squeeze past her best control and silent sobs rack her body.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that they are sobs, not quivers of delight. He pauses, then pulls back. "What?"

Oh, no – he noticed.

"What's wrong?"

She can't speak; she doesn't trust herself to make a sound. All she can do is lie there and stare at him, blinking rapidly, struggling with herself.

At last, at long last, he reaches the obvious conclusion. "You don't want me."

You finally noticed?

His expression is changing – moving away from passion. Through several stages, towards something else.

"After all I've done for you, you don't love me!"

Anger – the one emotion that terrifies her more than his lust.

"I... I'm trying..."

"And all that talk last night? Making sure it was right? That was just talk, wasn't it?"

"No – I wouldn't do anything to upset you – "

"You lied to me!"

The real terror kicks in. But before she can even attempt a defense –

"There's another man. That's the problem. Someone else stands in the way of your heart belonging to me. I should've known."

Even if there was, I doubt very much if that would stop you –

"And I just betcha I know who. I watch the news, you know. I saw the pictures. It's that reporter fellow. You had dinner together. He's the one!"

No – Danny –

She struggles to sit up. "No! That was a business – "

He leans back, glaring at her. "Don't lie to me, ever again. You prefer him, do you? Well, I don't intend to give you up. You're mine now! He's nothing – except a threat."

My God, what do you intend to DO?

She wants to scream at him. To hit him. She has to distract him from taking any steps against Danny at all.

Danny, forgive me...

She keeps her voice low, earnest, and provocative. "I don't love him." Do I? Is that true for a fact? I'm not absolutely sure myself – but it doesn't matter either way. I can't bear the thought of him suffering for me. "We just had dinner. It was business." She forces herself to settle back, to position herself seductively. "I'd rather be here with you."

A bald-faced lie if ever I told one! But if it'll stop him from doing anything sudden and violent –

He hesitates at the sight of her. She seizes her opportunity and reaches for his face, pulling him down for a kiss that could not feel less than passionate.

He can tell the difference now between apathy and willingness. She can see it in his eyes as he draws back for another look, and she deliberately lets the second strap ease off her other shoulder. Nothing matters at all except diverting his rage. Nothing.

His fiery gaze sweeps over her body, returns to her face... and his own features begin to change again.

God, NOW what?

Then she knows the horrific truth: he's seen through her act. He's read determination in her, not passion.

"This isn't real. You're doing this for him."

"Wait – "

He stands, fists clenched, glowering down at her. "You're doing this just so you can get back to them. Especially him! Well, Claudia, it won't work. He's an unhealthy influence on you – you just don't realize it yet. He's the strongest link to your past. Well, I'm going to set you free. Permanently."

"NO!" She scrambles up, pulling her nightgown back into place through sheer instinct rather than conscious thought, her mind flattened by what she's just unleashed. What she tried to do for Danny's sake has in fact only made matters worse.

This is MY FAULT –

He's already moved away from her. In swift seconds he steps into his boots, shrugs on his coat and snatches up his laptop. "Don't worry, Claudia. I really do understand. As long as he's still around, you can't stop thinking about him. But he's not good enough for you. So you just let me handle it. I'll take care of the whole thing. This guy will never trouble you again."

You're planning to KILL him –

"And when I'm done, you'll love me freely. Not because you have to, not thinking of that guy or anyone else. Trust me; you'll see."

"Don't! PLEASE!" Limping, she physically interposes herself between him and the door.

He keeps moving forward, as though intending to run her over. His free hand reaches into his coat pocket... and produces a revolver.

The memory of Rosslyn's terror is still brutally fresh; in the most basic instinct of self-preservation she recoils violently away. Away from him... away from the door.

Before she can recover, before she can remind herself that he has always insisted he'd never harm her, before she can regain her balance and oppose him, he flings open the door and strides outside.

She rushes to the threshold in his wake – Got to STOP HIM – and is hit in the face with a blast of flying snow and arctic chill. She is standing barefoot and in her nightdress, while he heads for his car to drive off and murder her friend.

DANNY –

*****

I am trapped here alone. No way to leave. No way to warn Danny or anyone else.

My God, Danny is about to be killed by this madman, and I CAN'T PREVENT IT!

There's absolutely no reason to think he won't succeed... Danny has no reason to expect anyone would attack him, and he has no semblance of protection...

Nooooooo...

How the hell does Paul think this is going to help? He's going to come back with Danny's blood on his hands and he expects me to throw myself into his arms?

What will he decide to do next? Kill off my entire family, so that I'll have no ties to my past at all, and no one else in the world to turn to except him?

Will he go after all my other friends as well? I've seen his skewed logic and his temper; he's capable of just that kind of reasoning and that level of violence.

Josh... Toby –

My God, the President?

He's got the clout to keep a search for me going indefinitely. Paul must realize that.

And it only takes one gun in the crowd... We've all seen how easily that can happen...

My friends' terrible concern for me has only made matters worse for all of us!

Survival is not worth this. Not while my loved ones are being systematically slaughtered. Because of me.

And if I am rescued someday, how could I face my surviving friends with the death of others on my conscience? Danny...

When Paul does come back, there's no way I'll be able to fake affection now. No way I can play along, even if I still wanted to for my own welfare. No way I can hide my horror, and my grief.

And I don't want to hide any of it. Not for anything.

Which doesn't leave me many options. When he comes back, he'll see that I won't give in to him now, so he might as well kill me at once and be done with it. That would be infinitely preferable to being locked up as his sex toy. I have no further doubt there.

When he comes back...

...Could I kill him himself?

Could I force myself to kill him? Even in self-defense?

It would avenge Danny, at least, and it would also make sure Paul couldn't do this to anyone else, ever again.

I don't want to avenge Danny! I want to SAVE him!

And I can't...

Oh, yes... right now I honestly believe I could kill.

Oh, come on, CJ – what are the odds of you pulling THAT off successfully?

Well, either way, I'll certainly fight. He's not going to abuse me anymore. He'll have to kill me first.

And if I do fight him, he'll try. If I don't incapacitate him fast...

Perhaps I could face my death more easily if I did manage to kill him first. Can't say I want the blood of even a psychopath on my soul, but at least it would eliminate his threat to this world forever...

In fact, it doesn't matter to me any longer which one of us dies... so long as one of us does.

Then again...

... Why does it have to be that difficult?

I have some control, still. There are ways to reduce the pain, the panic, the fear.

I might as well deprive him of the one thing he really wants.

Myself.

~*~*~*~*~

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

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