Pauline simply shone with a perfect, unsullied happiness as she waved a quick farewell to Connor with the tablet in her hand. "Thank you," she said softly, feeling a little silly at the moment when she realized she was getting teary-eyed in her happiness. 'Hormonal, Pauline. Little Eva's just making you ridiculously hormonal... ' Nausea and the occasional mad dash for the nearest garbage can, emotional ups and downs to rival any Earth roller coaster: the indignities of pregnancy were only just beginning, and Pauline wasn't entirely convinced that far-fuller bust line and incrementally more lustrous hair were going to make up for what was yet come.
But she had a job now. An honest-to-God job for Third Shift that she had earned, truly earned with her own know-how, her own abilities and willingness to work. She had at least one co-worker and a new boss who had never met her father, couldn't have cared less who he was or knew or did. This had nothing to do with condescending pity for poor, sad Pauline the victim either.
That last thought lit her freckle-dusted face as if a tiny sun had sparked just beneath her ivory skin. Not even Handsome's gentle rejection could break her heart at this moment, the soft press of his paw telling her all she needed to know of the enormous, lovely cat's desire for company at the moment. Certainly not wishing to end up like poor Reece, Pauline oh-so-wisely lifted her hand away, instead rubbing at the corners of her pale blue eyes with her palm, making sure none of those overly-emotional but oh-so happy tears sprouted onto her cheeks.
Hormonal tears fully in check, she wrapped both hands easily about her tablet as she looked up to her new boss, grinning up into those stunning grey eyes. She decided then and there, it was truly no hardship to do so - she could likely get quite used to this view.
"So... Connor's blessing. This means I stay, yes Owen?" Pauline did not truly expect to hear the word 'no' from his lips, but some small, likely childish impulse in her still wanted to hear the confirmation all over again, in that low, warm voice that - strangely enough - put her in mind of singing Spring creeks.
"And please, don't mind the garbage - particularly if it smells of middle-aged depression," she quipped with a grin, "I'll take it by recycling when I le- "
Pauline's tablet buzzed in her hands, and her brow furrowed curiously as her eyes swept downward, taking in the whole of Pastor... Doctor?... Or just-plain-Park's message for her at a glance.. She bit her lower lip softly, worrying the tender pink flesh for a moment with her teeth. Pauline knew she would, of course, reply to this gentle invitation. She liked tea just fine of course, and she loved those gardens even more. Though how this gentleman would already know such a thing about her? She could not begin to guess. His offer seemed genuine enough, though she was nowhere near yet ready to let go of these last, sweet moments of anonymity quite yet -
"Oh! So sorry Owen!" Pauline's pale blue eyes went wide as she realized she'd been lost some long moments in her own woe-is-me thoughts, and probably making a heck of an impression on the mining ship pilot, the crew chief for Hangar Six who was likely even now, reconsidering the wisdom of hiring on such a flighty airhead.
She shook her head quickly as if to clear her thoughts, her tablet turned over once more in her hands. "I was just saying, I'll take the garbage bags with me when I leave. It's not a problem at all. And... Well thank you, for giving me this chance."
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Thomas waited in the hissing gale, his head bent away from the rain and wind. There was a strange quality to the storm’s fury. Something that Thomas could not immediately identify, though it was instantly perceived as he walked from the shelter of his cabin.
Even as he stood there, not wavering, his face contorted into an expression of discernment. The feeling the storm imparted bothered him, and he searched his own thoughts for an answer to its unspoken riddle. What was it he felt amongst the rain? The question gnawed and tugged gently upon his mind, and he scoffed as comprehension continued to elude him.
He could recognize enough of what he felt to know that it wasn’t a baleful sense he gathered. No malice or note of impending doom was born upon the droplets of driving rain. Yet, standing amidst the elements, Thomas had the uneasy feeling that there was a cost to be paid to this fortuitous and ethereal tempest.
His reverie broke with the sound of his cabin door opening, and the sounds of booted feet coming to meet him. Turning just slightly, Thomas looked to the soaked, while still exotically striking woman that had joined him.
Thomas gave Antonia a grim, but appreciative look. “Thank you for joining me for this.” His voice was full and loud. A requirement to be heard above the din of the storm. “It is never easy, especially alone. A terrible duty, but one that must be done.”
Antonia nodded, taking a deep breath as she looked up to the darkly shadowed planes of Thomas’ face, her grey eyes soft with understanding and an unswerving, unequivacol tenderness. This was no time for smiles, no time for gentle levity, and her gaze told him she knew as much. Captain Lightfoot loved his men fiercely. She knew well, he would batter the very gates of Hell for any one of them - and they for him in return, but for the mutinous bastards who never did last long, one way or another.
It was this love that drove him to his ‘terrible duty.’ And for her love, she would not leave him to this alone.
She said nothing over the roar of the storm, not trusting the volume of her voice over the laughter of the loa, or the winds and the torrential rain that buffeted them all, lifting the Dusk Skate and driving her like a child in his bath with a carven wooden ship. Antonia simply reached for Thomas’ hand, squeezing those fingers tightly to tell him she had heard, she had understood all he said - and all he left unsaid - before nodding toward the entry that would take them below deck and to the rest of the crew.
All they intended this night, the bloody work that must be done, should be completed quickly as well. The First Mate would rise, of course, to come doctor the crew as duty demanded of her. She would have her hands full enough, with those who had the least chance of survival. Nicolette should not have to rend her soul for those who simply did not.
The rogue released Thomas’ hand, turning swiftly to descend the narrow stairs.
With the comforting tingle afforded by Antonia’s hand still lingering upon his skin, Thomas followed. The darkness of the stormy night sky was made all the darker with each descending step into the gun deck, and he had to pause at the end of the short stairway to allow his vision to adjust.
As he waited, he could hear the moans and painful breathing of the crewmen huddled amongst the cannons. That he could make out these noises, even above the roar of the storm, was a terrible thing to comprehend, and Thomas felt his heart sink to his stomach. It was all too clear the damage that the Sirens had wrought upon the crew of the Dusk Skate. The wails of the crewmen spoke to as much. Thomas tightened his grip upon the dagger in his hand, and a sour, metallic taste filled his mouth. In short order, his vision adjusted to the darkness, and he could see well enough.
The sight that met him, even in the dim confines of the gun deck, married in terrible accent to the sounds that accosted his ears. Men were strewn about upon the floor, some huddled together, some alone. Many clutched at the figures of their comrades, offering promises of peace and paradise to their dying charge. The obsidian gleam of blood was everywhere, and the whole of the deck stunk of the sweet, iron tang of gore.
Without a word, Thomas began to move away from the stairs, and into the tangle of grievously wounded men. The first man he reached was but a mere foot or two from the last tread of the stairs, and it was with a hard mask of resolve that Thomas knelt beside him.
Marshall, Thomas thought in quiet dismay. He recognized the man before him almost instantly, seeing the silhouette of his face, and noticing the shark’s tooth earring that gleamed from his left ear. Reaching out, Thomas pressed a hand gently against Marshall’s abdomen. Against the spot where dull light shone in uneven and grotesque fashion over what had always been the flat stomach of a slight man.
Immediately as Thomas’ fingers met the smooth, wet surface of Marshall’s eviscerated bowels, the man winced and cried out. Thomas withdrew his hand, and his head hung low. Now stained with blood, Thomas reached forward with quaking fingers that shone black. Soundlessly, and with a reverence only hard circumstances could convey, Thomas relieved Marshall of his agony for all eternity.
Antonia watched Thomas kneel beside poor Marshall, her impassive face yet another mask belying a thousand emotions that would do not a single one of these men the least bit of good. And so she kept them well hidden, turning away before her love did what he must. The rogue knew very well there were others still in need of mercy this stormy night.
She had not gone more than five paces before she too took a knee, beside Adjoa. The ebony skin about his lips and cheeks had turned a sickly hue, a dire blue that promised he would not live out the hour though his face contorted in a rictus of pain as he gasped vainly for breath. The man’s enormous chest heaved uselessly, blood bubbling up through the makeshift bandages that were already soaked crimson, covering the mortal wound that opened one side of his chest entirely.
Adjoa’s dark eyes held Antonia’s gaze, one massive hand wrapping about hers. This wound was merciless, and though it was stealing his life it had cruelly left him all his wits though he could not speak a word. Something that tried to be words gurgled wetly in his throat, his hand reaching for the small silver cross that still, somehow, hung about his neck. The great man’s gaze told her he knew exactly why she had come for him - that he knew, and he welcomed her arrival. Yet he still had a thing to ask of his own merciful angel.
Antonia nodded once more, bending low to his ear as she held his hand, murmuring the words she knew he most needed to hear in his last moments.
Did he most heartily repent of his sins? A nod.
Had he truly forgiven all who may have sinned against him? Another nod.
Did he accept his Lord as his one true Savior? Yet another quick nod, followed swiftly on its heels with a heaving breath that gurgled blood turned a visceral black, shining like oil as it dribbled from his quivering lips.
The rogue bent her head, whispering a prayer she had learned as a little girl in her father’s plantation chapel. She lay a loving angel’s kiss to his forehead, and then set Adjoa free, liberating the great man to make his way to Heaven’s gates.
**********
The time spent on the gun deck passed with a sickening swiftness that made Thomas numb. Each new soul sent away seemed to pass swifter than its predecessor’s, until many of the bodies tucked amidst the gun-carriages set all too still. By the time Thomas had worked his way forward to the bow of the ship, he was covered in blood, sweat, filth, and the heavy weight of guilt.
Though his hands no longer shook, Captain Thomas Lightfoot felt no strength in his limbs. Leaning against a large bulkhead, his blood soaked hair pressing against the grain of the wood, Thomas perceived himself like a husk. A man held up by only the thin veneer of his station, and not by the will of his body. To their credit, those of the crew still alive and well enough to carry on had not protested the work of Thomas and Antonia. They knew well the value and mercy inherent in the terrible action. Yet, even with the unspoken blessing of the crew, Thomas had the poignant venom of disgrace and repulsion drifting slowly, mixing in the blood of his veins.
Looking back, he watched Antonia carry out her own terrible task. Like a true angel, a merciful creature of death, the rogue moved and dealt her final gifts. Thomas could only stare with half-lidded eyes, eyes that had lost their usual brilliant shine. In the back of his mind, Thomas knew that he was glad that Antonia loved him enough to share this burden. At the same instant, his face soured at the opposite side of the coin; if he loved Antonia as much as she did him, should he have asked her to help him in the first instance?
He let out a dismal, crestfallen sigh, willing the burden of his thoughts from his mind. There would be time enough for that, and he was too exhausted to fully unravel all that troubled him. For now, the comfort that he sought in Antonia’s company was all that he would allow himself to focus on.
As she neared him, her grim duty complete, Thomas reached out a hand caked with stained blood, and waited for his love to pull him away from the Hell around them.
And she did not hesitate, not even for a moment. Beneath the blood, beneath the gore, Antonia saw the guilt-laden agony with which her beloved flayed himself. She wrapped her strong, nimble fingers into his tightly, not forsaking his bloody touch as she pulled him into her own.
She was tired, so unspeakably exhausted and just beyond these too-thin planks she could still hear the voices of the loa laughing in the conjured storm. The rogue had paid a price tonight, a horrible price alongside Thomas as they moved among the crew, performing their most bloody, and yet horribly necessary duty. Faces of friends, some she had even considered as close as brothers, would haunt her darkest dreams with wordless recriminations, their dead eyes bearing accusations and blame for untold nights yet to come. Yet she was neither fool enough nor naive enough to believe - not even for a moment - that this soul-rending work could begin to pay the crushing debt she entered into this night.
But whatever price she must yet meet, Antonia did not believe her debt would be called quite yet. And her sweet lovely man, her magnificent Captain Silverfish, needed her strength in this moment, not her fears or misgivings. She pulled Thomas to her, wrapping one arm about his waist tenderly, but firmly, as she led him further into the bowels of the Skate, to the one place Thomas might find a measure of solitude and peace, however slight or ephemeral those blessings might truly be.
The galley was warm, but not uncomfortably so, particularly for those soaked straight to their miserable bones by rainwater and a deluge of blood. Carefully she let Thomas sit upon one of the stools, pulling their intertwined hands to her chest as she let her forehead rest tenderly against his, not a single care for the spatter or gore that caked them both.
“Take your rest for a moment, my lovely man,” she whispered, ”I will warm the water.”
Thomas waited in the hissing gale, his head bent away from the rain and wind. There was a strange quality to the storm’s fury. Something that Thomas could not immediately identify, though it was instantly perceived as he walked from the shelter of his cabin.
Even as he stood there, not wavering, his face contorted into an expression of discernment. The feeling the storm imparted bothered him, and he searched his own thoughts for an answer to its unspoken riddle. What was it he felt amongst the rain? The question gnawed and tugged gently upon his mind, and he scoffed as comprehension continued to elude him.
He could recognize enough of what he felt to know that it wasn’t a baleful sense he gathered. No malice or note of impending doom was born upon the droplets of driving rain. Yet, standing amidst the elements, Thomas had the uneasy feeling that there was a cost to be paid to this fortuitous and ethereal tempest.
His reverie broke with the sound of his cabin door opening, and the sounds of booted feet coming to meet him. Turning just slightly, Thomas looked to the soaked, while still exotically striking woman that had joined him.
Thomas gave Antonia a grim, but appreciative look. “Thank you for joining me for this.” His voice was full and loud. A requirement to be heard above the din of the storm. “It is never easy, especially alone. A terrible duty, but one that must be done.”
Antonia nodded, taking a deep breath as she looked up to the darkly shadowed planes of Thomas’ face, her grey eyes soft with understanding and an unswerving, unequivacol tenderness. This was no time for smiles, no time for gentle levity, and her gaze told him she knew as much. Captain Lightfoot loved his men fiercely. She knew well, he would batter the very gates of Hell for any one of them - and they for him in return, but for the mutinous bastards who never did last long, one way or another.
It was this love that drove him to his ‘terrible duty.’ And for her love, she would not leave him to this alone.
She said nothing over the roar of the storm, not trusting the volume of her voice over the laughter of the loa, or the winds and the torrential rain that buffeted them all, lifting the Dusk Skate and driving her like a child in his bath with a carven wooden ship. Antonia simply reached for Thomas’ hand, squeezing those fingers tightly to tell him she had heard, she had understood all he said - and all he left unsaid - before nodding toward the entry that would take them below deck and to the rest of the crew.
All they intended this night, the bloody work that must be done, should be completed quickly as well. The First Mate would rise, of course, to come doctor the crew as duty demanded of her. She would have her hands full enough, with those who had the least chance of survival. Nicolette should not have to rend her soul for those who simply did not.
The rogue released Thomas’ hand, turning swiftly to descend the narrow stairs.
With the comforting tingle afforded by Antonia’s hand still lingering upon his skin, Thomas followed. The darkness of the stormy night sky was made all the darker with each descending step into the gun deck, and he had to pause at the end of the short stairway to allow his vision to adjust.
As he waited, he could hear the moans and painful breathing of the crewmen huddled amongst the cannons. That he could make out these noises, even above the roar of the storm, was a terrible thing to comprehend, and Thomas felt his heart sink to his stomach. It was all too clear the damage that the Sirens had wrought upon the crew of the Dusk Skate. The wails of the crewmen spoke to as much. Thomas tightened his grip upon the dagger in his hand, and a sour, metallic taste filled his mouth. In short order, his vision adjusted to the darkness, and he could see well enough.
The sight that met him, even in the dim confines of the gun deck, married in terrible accent to the sounds that accosted his ears. Men were strewn about upon the floor, some huddled together, some alone. Many clutched at the figures of their comrades, offering promises of peace and paradise to their dying charge. The obsidian gleam of blood was everywhere, and the whole of the deck stunk of the sweet, iron tang of gore.
Without a word, Thomas began to move away from the stairs, and into the tangle of grievously wounded men. The first man he reached was but a mere foot or two from the last tread of the stairs, and it was with a hard mask of resolve that Thomas knelt beside him.
Marshall, Thomas thought in quiet dismay. He recognized the man before him almost instantly, seeing the silhouette of his face, and noticing the shark’s tooth earring that gleamed from his left ear. Reaching out, Thomas pressed a hand gently against Marshall’s abdomen. Against the spot where dull light shone in uneven and grotesque fashion over what had always been the flat stomach of a slight man.
Immediately as Thomas’ fingers met the smooth, wet surface of Marshall’s eviscerated bowels, the man winced and cried out. Thomas withdrew his hand, and his head hung low. Now stained with blood, Thomas reached forward with quaking fingers that shone black. Soundlessly, and with a reverence only hard circumstances could convey, Thomas relieved Marshall of his agony for all eternity.
Antonia watched Thomas kneel beside poor Marshall, her impassive face yet another mask belying a thousand emotions that would do not a single one of these men the least bit of good. And so she kept them well hidden, turning away before her love did what he must. The rogue knew very well there were others still in need of mercy this stormy night.
She had not gone more than five paces before she too took a knee, beside Adjoa. The ebony skin about his lips and cheeks had turned a sickly hue, a dire blue that promised he would not live out the hour though his face contorted in a rictus of pain as he gasped vainly for breath. The man’s enormous chest heaved uselessly, blood bubbling up through the makeshift bandages that were already soaked crimson, covering the mortal wound that opened one side of his chest entirely.
Adjoa’s dark eyes held Antonia’s gaze, one massive hand wrapping about hers. This wound was merciless, and though it was stealing his life it had cruelly left him all his wits though he could not speak a word. Something that tried to be words gurgled wetly in his throat, his hand reaching for the small silver cross that still, somehow, hung about his neck. The great man’s gaze told her he knew exactly why she had come for him - that he knew, and he welcomed her arrival. Yet he still had a thing to ask of his own merciful angel.
Antonia nodded once more, bending low to his ear as she held his hand, murmuring the words she knew he most needed to hear in his last moments.
Did he most heartily repent of his sins? A nod.
Had he truly forgiven all who may have sinned against him? Another nod.
Did he accept his Lord as his one true Savior? Yet another quick nod, followed swiftly on its heels with a heaving breath that gurgled blood turned a visceral black, shining like oil as it dribbled from his quivering lips.
The rogue bent her head, whispering a prayer she had learned as a little girl in her father’s plantation chapel. She lay a loving angel’s kiss to his forehead, and then set Adjoa free, liberating the great man to make his way to Heaven’s gates.
The time spent on the gun deck passed with a sickening swiftness that made Thomas numb. Each new soul sent away seemed to pass swifter than its predecessor’s, until many of the bodies tucked amidst the gun-carriages set all too still. By the time Thomas had worked his way forward to the bow of the ship, he was covered in blood, sweat, filth, and the heavy weight of guilt.
Though his hands no longer shook, Captain Thomas Lightfoot felt no strength in his limbs. Leaning against a large bulkhead, his blood soaked hair pressing against the grain of the wood, Thomas perceived himself like a husk. A man held up by only the thin veneer of his station, and not by the will of his body. To their credit, those of the crew still alive and well enough to carry on had not protested the work of Thomas and Antonia. They knew well the value and mercy inherent in the terrible action. Yet, even with the unspoken blessing of the crew, Thomas had the poignant venom of disgrace and repulsion drifting slowly, mixing in the blood of his veins.
Looking back, he watched Antonia carry out her own terrible task. Like a true angel, a merciful creature of death, the rogue moved and dealt her final gifts. Thomas could only stare with half-lidded eyes, eyes that had lost their usual brilliant shine. In the back of his mind, Thomas knew that he was glad that Antonia loved him enough to share this burden. At the same instant, his face soured at the opposite side of the coin; if he loved Antonia as much as she did him, should he have asked her to help him in the first instance?
He let out a dismal, crestfallen sigh, willing the burden of his thoughts from his mind. There would be time enough for that, and he was too exhausted to fully unravel all that troubled him. For now, the comfort that he sought in Antonia’s company was all that he would allow himself to focus on.
As she neared him, her grim duty complete, Thomas reached out a hand caked with stained blood, and waited for his love to pull him away from the Hell around them.
And she did not hesitate, not even for a moment. Beneath the blood, beneath the gore, Antonia saw the guilt-laden agony with which her beloved flayed himself. She wrapped her strong, nimble fingers into his tightly, not forsaking his bloody touch as she pulled him into her own.
She was tired, so unspeakably exhausted and just beyond these too-thin planks she could still hear the voices of the loa laughing in the conjured storm. The rogue had paid a price tonight, a horrible price alongside Thomas as they moved among the crew, performing their most bloody, and yet horribly necessary duty. Faces of friends, some she had even considered as close as brothers, would haunt her darkest dreams with wordless recriminations, their dead eyes bearing accusations and blame for untold nights yet to come. Yet she was neither fool enough nor naive enough to believe - not even for a moment - that this soul-rending work could begin to pay the crushing debt she entered into this night.
But whatever price she must yet meet, Antonia did not believe her debt would be called quite yet. And her sweet lovely man, her magnificent Captain Silverfish, needed her strength in this moment, not her fears or misgivings. She pulled Thomas to her, wrapping one arm about his waist tenderly, but firmly, as she led him further into the bowels of the Skate, to the one place Thomas might find a measure of solitude and peace, however slight or ephemeral those blessings might truly be.
The galley was warm, but not uncomfortably so, particularly for those soaked straight to their miserable bones by rainwater and a deluge of blood. Carefully she let Thomas sit upon one of the stools, pulling their intertwined hands to her chest as she let her forehead rest tenderly against his, not a single care for the spatter or gore that caked them both.
“Take your rest for a moment, my lovely man,” she whispered, ”I will warm the water.”
'As simple as that?'
No, Bree wasn't been broken. She had not melted into tears nor slipped into gibbering madness. She was simply... Listening. Absorbing Ethan's every last word, letting the soothing tenor of his voice run over her far gentler than the river that had nearly drowned them.
Her knees were still pulled up to her chest, almost protectively. Her fingers cradled her head, rubbing slowly against her scalp, eyes staring sightlessly at the ground and the tops of her bare feet. These were the words she had waited to hear, for so long. So why did it all still feel... Incomplete? As if she were finally putting the very last pieces of a puzzle together, the picture meant to be forming before her very eyes - and yet pieces, vital pieces were still missing that stole away understanding, that marred the whole picture. But Bree didn't even know where to look for the missing pieces, nor even what questions to ask that might lead her to them. She couldn't escape the surreal feel of this entire conversation, despite all she had seen, experienced for herself - however impossible these things might be in the world she had known not even an hour ago.
Bree reeled, but she was not broken.
"So you stepped aside, and Victor took a bullet to the head and... I suppose you got away." There was no question in her voice, only a statement.
"It all sounds... Simple enough. Well, after accepting the possibility - reality, sorry. The reality that someone can actually do the things you can do in your head, with numbers. If you walked out of that casino, you'd have been dead. So... Victor or you. I can... I can understand that. Almost. You didn't know him." Bree blinked, slowly raising her gaze from her feet to the green-eyed man sitting across from her.
"You said I wasn't supposed to notice you. But I did. Do you know why, Ethan? Why I noticed you?" Bree waited several long, thoughtful moments before she continued.
"I noticed you Ethan because of all the people there in that casino - the wait staff, the bouncers, the dealers, the clients? You alone were like the eye of a storm. Calm, collected - not at all anxious, nervous, crying or shaking like a little girl." Bree laughed mirthlessly at the memory, her brow furrowing in concentration as she followed a far darker thought raised its ugly, serpentine head.
"All these things you see, or know or... Or calculate. Did you try to kill me then, Ethan?" As if they had a mind of their own, Bree's fingertips found the thick pink rope of scar on her chest, peeking over her bathing suit nearly to her throat.
"You saved my life today - I know that. But did you see or... Or calculate your numbers, or... Or think through all the chances, all the probabilities, the possibilities. Did you want me dead too, right next to Victor?"
No, Bree wasn't been broken. She had not melted into tears nor slipped into gibbering madness. She was simply... Listening. Absorbing Ethan's every last word, letting the soothing tenor of his voice run over her far gentler than the river that had nearly drowned them.
Her knees were still pulled up to her chest, almost protectively. Her fingers cradled her head, rubbing slowly against her scalp, eyes staring sightlessly at the ground and the tops of her bare feet. These were the words she had waited to hear, for so long. So why did it all still feel... Incomplete? As if she were finally putting the very last pieces of a puzzle together, the picture meant to be forming before her very eyes - and yet pieces, vital pieces were still missing that stole away understanding, that marred the whole picture. But Bree didn't even know where to look for the missing pieces, nor even what questions to ask that might lead her to them. She couldn't escape the surreal feel of this entire conversation, despite all she had seen, experienced for herself - however impossible these things might be in the world she had known not even an hour ago.
Bree reeled, but she was not broken.
"So you stepped aside, and Victor took a bullet to the head and... I suppose you got away." There was no question in her voice, only a statement.
"It all sounds... Simple enough. Well, after accepting the possibility - reality, sorry. The reality that someone can actually do the things you can do in your head, with numbers. If you walked out of that casino, you'd have been dead. So... Victor or you. I can... I can understand that. Almost. You didn't know him." Bree blinked, slowly raising her gaze from her feet to the green-eyed man sitting across from her.
"You said I wasn't supposed to notice you. But I did. Do you know why, Ethan? Why I noticed you?" Bree waited several long, thoughtful moments before she continued.
"I noticed you Ethan because of all the people there in that casino - the wait staff, the bouncers, the dealers, the clients? You alone were like the eye of a storm. Calm, collected - not at all anxious, nervous, crying or shaking like a little girl." Bree laughed mirthlessly at the memory, her brow furrowing in concentration as she followed a far darker thought raised its ugly, serpentine head.
"All these things you see, or know or... Or calculate. Did you try to kill me then, Ethan?" As if they had a mind of their own, Bree's fingertips found the thick pink rope of scar on her chest, peeking over her bathing suit nearly to her throat.
"You saved my life today - I know that. But did you see or... Or calculate your numbers, or... Or think through all the chances, all the probabilities, the possibilities. Did you want me dead too, right next to Victor?"
Bree stared for a moment, mystified, at the pebble sitting so impossibly in the center of her palm again. It was the same pebble, she was sure. Of course it was. She had watched Ethan toss it away, and then it had simply... Come back. Ethan seemed to be saying he could somehow predict these... Probabilities? And she'd certainly gotten the proof, such as it was, in the palm of her hand.
She honestly could not believe she was willing to consider this possibility, that the man before her was somehow... Superhuman? Like a superhero from the comics, able to somehow see the probabilities of this world and use them to move through the world so easily.
She poked at the pebble for a moment with the fingertip of her hand, the pebble that had somehow or other found it's way back to her, however unlikely. And Bree was quiet for several long moments, letting the thoughts run through her head as they would. Yes, she could see now, attribute all the insanely improbable and impossible things she had seen him do with her own eyes. How Ethan could walk off a 15-story rooftop, and somehow glide all the way down to the ground; how he could make that impossible leap to the ferry, leaving her stunned at the dock. It might even make sense, how he could walk out of a jail, and then a police station - impossible probabilities.
Still, there were some questions that simply could not be explained away so easily, so pat as this seeming bit of magic Ethan had devised.
Her gaze turned up from the pebble in her palm to the man before her. Yes, there were still a couple vital questions left, answers she could not sleep again without hearing from the only man in the world who could provide them.
"Gravity works as it does, and wind as well. Water yes - apparently water is easy. Isn't that what you said?" Bree chewed the inside of her lip thoughtfully, trying to ignore the strange, phantom ache in her chest, over the scar that had actually stopped causing her the least trouble some months ago.
"What about bullets, Ethan? Do they work the same way?" She leaned forward just a little, hand closing into a loose fist over that pebble, something of a sudden, strange talisman to her now. "Why did you kill Victor? What had he ever done to you, that you would? I knew him, for some time. To the best of my knowledge Ethan, you weren't so much as an acquaintance of his. Not even his gardener or his manicurist or his pool boy. Nada."
"So why? How?" Bree stopped chewing the inside of her lip, letting out a long breath of air she didn't even know she'd held inside. "And did you mean to nearly kill me too, Ethan? I've chased you all over this country, East coast to West, just to know these things."
"I can barely sleep, Ethan. Not since that day," Bree admitted, helpless to stop the words once they had begun. "I close my eyes, and I see Victor's head explode, and then I'm falling. Just falling, until I hit the ground and wake up screaming, piss off my neighbors, scare the hell out of my cat. But even worse are the nights he talks to me, Victor does. A dead guy with half a gory head, asking me why I didn't keep him safe like I said I would, so much for witness protection and all that B.S... "
Her voice finally trailed off as she closed her eyes, wrapping her arms almost protectively around her knees, covering her belly, her vulnerable chest and her long scar, until she could finally meet Ethan's gaze once more.
She honestly could not believe she was willing to consider this possibility, that the man before her was somehow... Superhuman? Like a superhero from the comics, able to somehow see the probabilities of this world and use them to move through the world so easily.
She poked at the pebble for a moment with the fingertip of her hand, the pebble that had somehow or other found it's way back to her, however unlikely. And Bree was quiet for several long moments, letting the thoughts run through her head as they would. Yes, she could see now, attribute all the insanely improbable and impossible things she had seen him do with her own eyes. How Ethan could walk off a 15-story rooftop, and somehow glide all the way down to the ground; how he could make that impossible leap to the ferry, leaving her stunned at the dock. It might even make sense, how he could walk out of a jail, and then a police station - impossible probabilities.
Still, there were some questions that simply could not be explained away so easily, so pat as this seeming bit of magic Ethan had devised.
Her gaze turned up from the pebble in her palm to the man before her. Yes, there were still a couple vital questions left, answers she could not sleep again without hearing from the only man in the world who could provide them.
"Gravity works as it does, and wind as well. Water yes - apparently water is easy. Isn't that what you said?" Bree chewed the inside of her lip thoughtfully, trying to ignore the strange, phantom ache in her chest, over the scar that had actually stopped causing her the least trouble some months ago.
"What about bullets, Ethan? Do they work the same way?" She leaned forward just a little, hand closing into a loose fist over that pebble, something of a sudden, strange talisman to her now. "Why did you kill Victor? What had he ever done to you, that you would? I knew him, for some time. To the best of my knowledge Ethan, you weren't so much as an acquaintance of his. Not even his gardener or his manicurist or his pool boy. Nada."
"So why? How?" Bree stopped chewing the inside of her lip, letting out a long breath of air she didn't even know she'd held inside. "And did you mean to nearly kill me too, Ethan? I've chased you all over this country, East coast to West, just to know these things."
"I can barely sleep, Ethan. Not since that day," Bree admitted, helpless to stop the words once they had begun. "I close my eyes, and I see Victor's head explode, and then I'm falling. Just falling, until I hit the ground and wake up screaming, piss off my neighbors, scare the hell out of my cat. But even worse are the nights he talks to me, Victor does. A dead guy with half a gory head, asking me why I didn't keep him safe like I said I would, so much for witness protection and all that B.S... "
Her voice finally trailed off as she closed her eyes, wrapping her arms almost protectively around her knees, covering her belly, her vulnerable chest and her long scar, until she could finally meet Ethan's gaze once more.
Bree did her level best to understand, to try to wrap her head around what it was that Ethan was saying. Her instincts told her he was telling her the truth - but only just so much. There were whole layers of truth he was keeping beneath the surface. It seemed to Bree that he was showing her an iceberg from the prow of a ship, and trying to convince her it was floating like an ice cube in a cold drink, and not concealing a mountain of treacherous ice beneath the frigid waters.
But at the very least, there was some truth there. It was a start. Bree could work with that.
"All right," Bree said, pulling her knees to her chest, wincing in pain though she rested her chin atop her kneecaps. She let out a slow, ragged breath before taking yet another, to speak once more. "So... You can see the... Probabilities? Though in water it is... Somehow easier for you. Because water is predictable?"
It was really more of a statement than a question, and Bree chewed her lip thoughtfully, knowing she was missing something vital here, something crucial. But her body ached, her head ached - hell, she would have sworn even her brain ached. All the impossible things she had ever seen him do ran through her thoughts like a stream she was helpless to dam. Water. Probabilities...
The leaf.
The leaf she had watched him play with just before he went over the edge, dancing on nothing at all but Ethan's will. There was so much Bree had seen him do, so much that should not have been - but the leaf. He had made a leaf float. She had seen it with her own eyes, and she wasn't insane, or concussed or delirious or hallucinating.
"But how did you make that leaf float, before you went over the railing back there? What does probability have to do with that, Ethan?"
But at the very least, there was some truth there. It was a start. Bree could work with that.
"All right," Bree said, pulling her knees to her chest, wincing in pain though she rested her chin atop her kneecaps. She let out a slow, ragged breath before taking yet another, to speak once more. "So... You can see the... Probabilities? Though in water it is... Somehow easier for you. Because water is predictable?"
It was really more of a statement than a question, and Bree chewed her lip thoughtfully, knowing she was missing something vital here, something crucial. But her body ached, her head ached - hell, she would have sworn even her brain ached. All the impossible things she had ever seen him do ran through her thoughts like a stream she was helpless to dam. Water. Probabilities...
The leaf.
The leaf she had watched him play with just before he went over the edge, dancing on nothing at all but Ethan's will. There was so much Bree had seen him do, so much that should not have been - but the leaf. He had made a leaf float. She had seen it with her own eyes, and she wasn't insane, or concussed or delirious or hallucinating.
"But how did you make that leaf float, before you went over the railing back there? What does probability have to do with that, Ethan?"
Bree winced as he spoke, shaking her head as she sat up painfully. She heard the hitch in his voice, the unexpected defensiveness she couldn't possibly have known her words would elicit, but she had no words for it, no defense.
"Well don't we all?" she said, as much statement as a question. Bree was confused by his reaction, his words, utterly at a loss for words for some seconds as she watched him. Obviously something in her own speech had hit... A nerve? A wide open raw nerve but for the life of her, she couldn't begin to guess what it was. Sell his soul to the devil? Really!? What in all the world would possibly make him think she'd been insinuating any such thing?
Had someone accused him of that before? Seriously? What in the hell had he done, could he do, that would lead anyone to think... Bree rubbed at her sore eyes with her fingertips, as if she could somehow wrest an answer to this painfully strange enigma from her aching eyelids.
"What I wanted to know Ethan, is what the hell you did to make this happen," she said finally, hands falling from her face, wrapping easily about her knees as she brought them to her chest. "It's not... normal. Not maybe one in a billion - hell, maybe not even one other person on the planet - could have done what you just did."
"I'm not your therapist, and I'm not going to rehash your childhood injuries or your adult traumas, and what 'life choices' brought you here to this riverbank today. I've also got zero interest in burning you at the stake either, for whatever the hell that might be worth. I left my pitchfork and torch in my other change of shorts. Sorry."
Bree shrugged, and then she tried a smile. It was a confused smile, an exhausted smile and, quite likely, a relatively battered smile, but it was still there, and still genuine nonetheless. " Please Ethan. You're here. I'm here. You just saved me from the proverbial watery grave, and I'm not out to poke fingers into whatever tender parts you have. I'm tired. I'm confused. I think I swallowed half the damn river and, I'm pretty sure, you swallowed the other half."
"I'm also a genuinely sarcastic bitch, and it's both a gift and a magnificent defense mechanism. I want to know what just happened, and how you did it - and honestly that is all."
"Well don't we all?" she said, as much statement as a question. Bree was confused by his reaction, his words, utterly at a loss for words for some seconds as she watched him. Obviously something in her own speech had hit... A nerve? A wide open raw nerve but for the life of her, she couldn't begin to guess what it was. Sell his soul to the devil? Really!? What in all the world would possibly make him think she'd been insinuating any such thing?
Had someone accused him of that before? Seriously? What in the hell had he done, could he do, that would lead anyone to think... Bree rubbed at her sore eyes with her fingertips, as if she could somehow wrest an answer to this painfully strange enigma from her aching eyelids.
"What I wanted to know Ethan, is what the hell you did to make this happen," she said finally, hands falling from her face, wrapping easily about her knees as she brought them to her chest. "It's not... normal. Not maybe one in a billion - hell, maybe not even one other person on the planet - could have done what you just did."
"I'm not your therapist, and I'm not going to rehash your childhood injuries or your adult traumas, and what 'life choices' brought you here to this riverbank today. I've also got zero interest in burning you at the stake either, for whatever the hell that might be worth. I left my pitchfork and torch in my other change of shorts. Sorry."
Bree shrugged, and then she tried a smile. It was a confused smile, an exhausted smile and, quite likely, a relatively battered smile, but it was still there, and still genuine nonetheless. " Please Ethan. You're here. I'm here. You just saved me from the proverbial watery grave, and I'm not out to poke fingers into whatever tender parts you have. I'm tired. I'm confused. I think I swallowed half the damn river and, I'm pretty sure, you swallowed the other half."
"I'm also a genuinely sarcastic bitch, and it's both a gift and a magnificent defense mechanism. I want to know what just happened, and how you did it - and honestly that is all."
"Yeah sure, Ethan." Bree shook her head with exasperation, knowing full well he was deflecting, pushing her away - but she was just too tired, and far too relieved - strangely, inexplicably relieved - he was actually alive and coherent to give much of a damn.
The woman lay back, palms of her hands over her suddenly exhausted eyes. The stones of the riverbank dug into her bare back, but she was just far too tired to even squirm to a more comfortable position. "Just like... Cuff yourself or something with these nonexistent handcuffs I've got tucked away... Oh... Somewhere? Don't get any ideas there, we'll both regret it."
"Then you go do the right thing, turn yourself in. Like, the closest park ranger station, all right? I'm just going to lay here a little longer and soak up the fact that somehow, some way, I'm not dead. All because the person who's haunted my nightmares for the better part of a year did something... "
Bree barked a short, curt laugh, cut off quickly as she let her arms fall to her sides.
"Something impossible. That was impossible, Ethan. I should be dead. You should be dead. Hell, for a few moments there, I thought you were." Bree lifted up her head for a moment, eyeballed the green-eyed man for a moment and then letting her head fall black for again. Weakly, she tossed the wet remnants of her T-shirt toward him, the whole thing kind of splooshing in a soggy mass relatively close by.
"You're still bleeding, by the way," she said, the fingers of one hand waving toward him weakly. Bree hadn't missed the look of revulsion on his face when he looked up at her from her arms. Just one more contradiction in the mass of contradictions, improbabilities and impossibilities. He somehow had Victor killed; but he still cradled the FBI agent hunting him through some of the most deadly whitewaters in the nation. She disgusted him - yet he saved her life, wrapping his arms and hands around so tightly that even unconscious, he didn't let her go.
Bree didn't get it. But if he wasn't going to explain himself, she was in no condition to beat it out of him. 'Beat it out of him? Really?' The very thought made her grin, as if she'd ever done such a thing in her life, but the wistful little smile still felt good.
"So are you going to answer my question," she asked, face skyward where she lay catching her breath, "Or are you still calculating the odds of me ever figuring out what the hell just happened on my own? I can tell you the chance of that right off - they're practically nil."
The woman lay back, palms of her hands over her suddenly exhausted eyes. The stones of the riverbank dug into her bare back, but she was just far too tired to even squirm to a more comfortable position. "Just like... Cuff yourself or something with these nonexistent handcuffs I've got tucked away... Oh... Somewhere? Don't get any ideas there, we'll both regret it."
"Then you go do the right thing, turn yourself in. Like, the closest park ranger station, all right? I'm just going to lay here a little longer and soak up the fact that somehow, some way, I'm not dead. All because the person who's haunted my nightmares for the better part of a year did something... "
Bree barked a short, curt laugh, cut off quickly as she let her arms fall to her sides.
"Something impossible. That was impossible, Ethan. I should be dead. You should be dead. Hell, for a few moments there, I thought you were." Bree lifted up her head for a moment, eyeballed the green-eyed man for a moment and then letting her head fall black for again. Weakly, she tossed the wet remnants of her T-shirt toward him, the whole thing kind of splooshing in a soggy mass relatively close by.
"You're still bleeding, by the way," she said, the fingers of one hand waving toward him weakly. Bree hadn't missed the look of revulsion on his face when he looked up at her from her arms. Just one more contradiction in the mass of contradictions, improbabilities and impossibilities. He somehow had Victor killed; but he still cradled the FBI agent hunting him through some of the most deadly whitewaters in the nation. She disgusted him - yet he saved her life, wrapping his arms and hands around so tightly that even unconscious, he didn't let her go.
Bree didn't get it. But if he wasn't going to explain himself, she was in no condition to beat it out of him. 'Beat it out of him? Really?' The very thought made her grin, as if she'd ever done such a thing in her life, but the wistful little smile still felt good.
"So are you going to answer my question," she asked, face skyward where she lay catching her breath, "Or are you still calculating the odds of me ever figuring out what the hell just happened on my own? I can tell you the chance of that right off - they're practically nil."
Not a problem - almost there! 
That grey sky overhead was very nearly the same color as her eyes, though she could not possibly have known such a thing.
"There you are... " Bree couldn't resist the small smile, the little twitch at one corner of her lips as she looked down at Ethan, his head still cradled in the crook of one arm, pulled closely to her body. His arms were still wrapped about her, and it was actually the twitch of a finger against the bare skin of her back that let her know yes, the movement of those impossibly green eyes was more than simply some unconscious bodily function.
Careful, tender fingers had felt Ethan's head for the source of the bleeding, but could find no laceration, no lump that could explain the blood. And though she knew very well that head and scalp wounds tended to bleed far worse than the reality of the hurt, it comforted her not at all to find nothing to explain the bleeding but some kind of... Well, she was no doctor, no nurse, but Bree could only surmise the bleeding started from within.
So when he finally began to stir, she was unspeakably relieved - and then vaguely discomfited, wondering if he'd do what he always seemed to whenever she was near, leap to his feet and run. Bree knew that if he did - because frankly, she was beginning to wonder if there were anything at all he was incapable of doing - she'd never be able to keep up with him. Whatever had happened in the rapids, whatever strangeness dictated they live where so many others before them had died, Bree was as done in as he seemed to be, and she just didn't have it in her to run after Ethan.
Her heart - her miraculously beating heart - just wasn't in it. Not anymore.
And so she simply waited, still wiping the blood as it flowed from his nose, his mouth, with the now scarlet-soaked T-shirt. In any other moment, she would have been horrified knowing how exposed that thick rope of angry pink scar truly was, bisecting her chest and rising nearly to her throat above the cut of her bathing suit top. Only Jarod had seen her like this since she'd left the hospital all those months ago - and even he simply pretended it wasn't there at all.
But strangely enough, Bree felt uncannily certain Ethan wouldn't be taken back or... Well at the very least, he wouldn't be shocked, perhaps not even horrified at the sight. She was near overcome with the unnatural certainly that... Well, somehow he simply knew.
Still cradling his head in her arm, Bree set the blood-soaked T-shirt aside with a small, resigned sigh before she began to brush the tendrils of dark, damp hair from his face.
"If you're going to run Ethan, just know I'll try to give a damn good chase. It's what I do after all, how I make my living - and most days I'm very good at my job. But in all honesty, I'm just... Tired. Really, really tired. It won't be a chase to remember, I guarantee it. And frankly, you look like hell warmed over anyway. I don't think either one of us is up for a whole lot of cat-and-mouse at the moment so... Can we not? Please?" A small, humorless bark of a laugh escaped her lips as her long fingers tucked a piece of his hair behind one ear.
"What are you, Ethan? I feel flesh and I've wiped away your blood, but I've seen you do things that simply... They shouldn't be. I thought I was going batshit insane. I really did. But you're here. And I'm here. And that's just as impossible as everything else that's happened since the casino in Richmond."
"There you are... " Bree couldn't resist the small smile, the little twitch at one corner of her lips as she looked down at Ethan, his head still cradled in the crook of one arm, pulled closely to her body. His arms were still wrapped about her, and it was actually the twitch of a finger against the bare skin of her back that let her know yes, the movement of those impossibly green eyes was more than simply some unconscious bodily function.
Careful, tender fingers had felt Ethan's head for the source of the bleeding, but could find no laceration, no lump that could explain the blood. And though she knew very well that head and scalp wounds tended to bleed far worse than the reality of the hurt, it comforted her not at all to find nothing to explain the bleeding but some kind of... Well, she was no doctor, no nurse, but Bree could only surmise the bleeding started from within.
So when he finally began to stir, she was unspeakably relieved - and then vaguely discomfited, wondering if he'd do what he always seemed to whenever she was near, leap to his feet and run. Bree knew that if he did - because frankly, she was beginning to wonder if there were anything at all he was incapable of doing - she'd never be able to keep up with him. Whatever had happened in the rapids, whatever strangeness dictated they live where so many others before them had died, Bree was as done in as he seemed to be, and she just didn't have it in her to run after Ethan.
Her heart - her miraculously beating heart - just wasn't in it. Not anymore.
And so she simply waited, still wiping the blood as it flowed from his nose, his mouth, with the now scarlet-soaked T-shirt. In any other moment, she would have been horrified knowing how exposed that thick rope of angry pink scar truly was, bisecting her chest and rising nearly to her throat above the cut of her bathing suit top. Only Jarod had seen her like this since she'd left the hospital all those months ago - and even he simply pretended it wasn't there at all.
But strangely enough, Bree felt uncannily certain Ethan wouldn't be taken back or... Well at the very least, he wouldn't be shocked, perhaps not even horrified at the sight. She was near overcome with the unnatural certainly that... Well, somehow he simply knew.
Still cradling his head in her arm, Bree set the blood-soaked T-shirt aside with a small, resigned sigh before she began to brush the tendrils of dark, damp hair from his face.
"If you're going to run Ethan, just know I'll try to give a damn good chase. It's what I do after all, how I make my living - and most days I'm very good at my job. But in all honesty, I'm just... Tired. Really, really tired. It won't be a chase to remember, I guarantee it. And frankly, you look like hell warmed over anyway. I don't think either one of us is up for a whole lot of cat-and-mouse at the moment so... Can we not? Please?" A small, humorless bark of a laugh escaped her lips as her long fingers tucked a piece of his hair behind one ear.
"What are you, Ethan? I feel flesh and I've wiped away your blood, but I've seen you do things that simply... They shouldn't be. I thought I was going batshit insane. I really did. But you're here. And I'm here. And that's just as impossible as everything else that's happened since the casino in Richmond."
'What are you?'
Her first instinct was to fight, to fight the hands that wrapped around her chest. But that was the instinct of a drowning woman, and then suddenly? Suddenly she just wasn't anymore.
Somehow Bree knew, with a certainty almost as terrifying as the hungry waters all around them, that the arms that held her belonged to the green-eyed man of her nightmares. There was no one else this could possibly be. He was keeping her afloat, both of them afloat, somehow, and even when her head fell back beneath the roaring river waters, he wasn't shoving her there.
It was Ethan's arms that bought her breath, carried her above her waves, kept her safe from rocks and drowning alike.
It was Ethan's hands around her that kept her life anchored to this world.
He was strong. Bree could feel that beneath her shoulders, her back, her neck in those eternal minutes they hurtled down the whitewaters. But she knew just as certainly that it wasn't mere human strength that was fighting the river for their lives.
It couldn't be.
'What are you, Ethan?'
Those four words pounded through her head, over and over again, a roar almost as loud as the river itself. Somehow, they weren't shattered against a single rock. Somehow, he never lost his grip on her, pushed her head above the waters with his own body. Ethan refused to let her die though she could feel the unspeakable strain in every last sinew of his arms, the rasp of his breaths at her ear.
The rapids couldn't last forever, and somehow this man saw her through them. Ethan, the green-eyed man who banished her sleep... He'd just carried her through hell on Earth. And as the waters smoothed out, Bree could hear his breaths at her ear, feel the desperation thrumming through the muscles of his arms, his hands, as he clung to her still, keeping her close as if she might yet slip away from him, and be eaten by the river. But the breaths were slower, slower still, no words even now...
Bree's grey eyes opened wide, the sky above clouded and eerily still, as she felt him sink behind her. She twisted in those arms that still would not let her go, breath hissed through her teeth in shock. Those intent, impossibly green eyes were rolled up into his head, the whites bloodshot through, beads of river water mixing with the scarlet trailing from his nose, his mouth and even his ears, like obscenely brilliant ribbons trailing back to the water.
"It's all right... I got you, Ethan," Bree whispered, instinctively wrapping her own arms around his chest, pulling him closer. One hand reached up to pull his head to her shoulder, cradling him there as she kicked to the riverbank through the far kinder, gentler waters that now seemed to push them to safety.
And though he spoke not a word, likely didn't hear a single other thing in this world at all, Bree whispered soothing comfort as powerful strokes of her legs propelled them to the rocky shore. "Shhhhhh... I have you now... I won't let go either... "
Bree heaved them both to the shore, twisting and pulling as carefully as she could, knowing to the bottom of her soul that ever breath she took from now to the end of her days had been bought by the man in her arms. She struggled to sit up on those rocks, pulling Ethan to lay in her lap. There was no sign the man was conscious, that he saw or heard a thing about him or so much as knew they were no longer in the river. And yet his arms refused to relinquish their hold on her, as if she were somehow his lifeline too, every bit as much as he'd been hers.
She cradled his head in the crook of her arm, and struggled with the other to awkwardly pull her T-shirt over her own. "What are you, Ethan?" she asked softly, almost tenderly as she dabbed at the blood on his face with the only cloth she had, frowning, grey eyes lit with concern.
Could monsters really be angels, if you just scratched the surface?
"What are you?"
Her first instinct was to fight, to fight the hands that wrapped around her chest. But that was the instinct of a drowning woman, and then suddenly? Suddenly she just wasn't anymore.
Somehow Bree knew, with a certainty almost as terrifying as the hungry waters all around them, that the arms that held her belonged to the green-eyed man of her nightmares. There was no one else this could possibly be. He was keeping her afloat, both of them afloat, somehow, and even when her head fell back beneath the roaring river waters, he wasn't shoving her there.
It was Ethan's arms that bought her breath, carried her above her waves, kept her safe from rocks and drowning alike.
It was Ethan's hands around her that kept her life anchored to this world.
He was strong. Bree could feel that beneath her shoulders, her back, her neck in those eternal minutes they hurtled down the whitewaters. But she knew just as certainly that it wasn't mere human strength that was fighting the river for their lives.
It couldn't be.
'What are you, Ethan?'
Those four words pounded through her head, over and over again, a roar almost as loud as the river itself. Somehow, they weren't shattered against a single rock. Somehow, he never lost his grip on her, pushed her head above the waters with his own body. Ethan refused to let her die though she could feel the unspeakable strain in every last sinew of his arms, the rasp of his breaths at her ear.
The rapids couldn't last forever, and somehow this man saw her through them. Ethan, the green-eyed man who banished her sleep... He'd just carried her through hell on Earth. And as the waters smoothed out, Bree could hear his breaths at her ear, feel the desperation thrumming through the muscles of his arms, his hands, as he clung to her still, keeping her close as if she might yet slip away from him, and be eaten by the river. But the breaths were slower, slower still, no words even now...
Bree's grey eyes opened wide, the sky above clouded and eerily still, as she felt him sink behind her. She twisted in those arms that still would not let her go, breath hissed through her teeth in shock. Those intent, impossibly green eyes were rolled up into his head, the whites bloodshot through, beads of river water mixing with the scarlet trailing from his nose, his mouth and even his ears, like obscenely brilliant ribbons trailing back to the water.
"It's all right... I got you, Ethan," Bree whispered, instinctively wrapping her own arms around his chest, pulling him closer. One hand reached up to pull his head to her shoulder, cradling him there as she kicked to the riverbank through the far kinder, gentler waters that now seemed to push them to safety.
And though he spoke not a word, likely didn't hear a single other thing in this world at all, Bree whispered soothing comfort as powerful strokes of her legs propelled them to the rocky shore. "Shhhhhh... I have you now... I won't let go either... "
Bree heaved them both to the shore, twisting and pulling as carefully as she could, knowing to the bottom of her soul that ever breath she took from now to the end of her days had been bought by the man in her arms. She struggled to sit up on those rocks, pulling Ethan to lay in her lap. There was no sign the man was conscious, that he saw or heard a thing about him or so much as knew they were no longer in the river. And yet his arms refused to relinquish their hold on her, as if she were somehow his lifeline too, every bit as much as he'd been hers.
She cradled his head in the crook of her arm, and struggled with the other to awkwardly pull her T-shirt over her own. "What are you, Ethan?" she asked softly, almost tenderly as she dabbed at the blood on his face with the only cloth she had, frowning, grey eyes lit with concern.
Could monsters really be angels, if you just scratched the surface?
"What are you?"
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