Chapter Fifty-Three:
Tactics

It was raining. Again.

Carly sat facing the window at Kelly's, chin resting in her hand as she stared at the rain hammering on the window. It had all come on quickly -- cloud burst about the minute they arrived at Bannister's Wharf. She had turned and looked at him accusingly, her expression clearly stating 'You have got to be kidding me'. Nikolas had sighed and said "Kelly's?"

So here she sat, looking moodily out the window and trying to work up the desire to eat her chili. She was wet, she was tired, and she had that horrible sinking post-Michael visit feeling. In addition to that, she and Nikolas had sunk into a silence that was giving her far too much time to think. It theory, they weren't talking because they had Big Things to discuss, and they were stuck in a particularly crowded, but relative-free, Kelly's. But there had been complete silence in the jag on the way over from the mansion. And now there was complete silence here. The whole thing made her stomach twist. She kept waiting for it. The promised 'we'll talk'. Something she'd been dreading. Something that was, it seemed, not coming to pass.

She shifted in her chair, feeling that age-old nervousness take hold of her. Like waiting in the principal's office, or something. Knowing you're caught, but having no idea what's going to come next. It was excruciating and it would probably be just as bad if she didn't have a small hint of what the cause of her husband's strange, detached manner was.

Emily Quartermaine. It had to be Emily Quartermaine. She'd seen them together, across the lawn, as she'd carried Michael back up the house. He'd been happily chirping away about back flips, dragon-slaying-princesses, and impending visits to Mom, and she'd seen them standing on the terrace. She wasn't unhinged enough to think any conversation Nikolas had with another woman meant something... Ok, all right. So she was exactly that unhinged... But there had been something ELSE. A prevalent mood, a tension -- and since Chris's idiotic statement had lifted Michael's spirits dramatically, she couldn't blame it on fear of a repetition of last week. In fact, Michael had barely seemed concerned about her exit this time. Business as usual. Whoopee.

She picked up a spoon and stirred it around the bowl listlessly. Well, hey. Look at this -- at least she was out in public again. First time since... That Which Shall Not Be Named. She suppressed an urge to shiver, and gathered the insubstantial material that was Nikolas's shirt around her.

"Cold?"

Carly glanced up, startled. It speaks.

"No," she gestured towards the bowl in front of her with her spoon. "I have Kelly's Cure-All Chill. How could I be cold?"

"You aren't eating it."

She glanced over at his untouched sandwich. "It's epidemic."

They lapsed into silence again. She remembered, vaguely, that silence was something she and Nikolas had mastered early on. Comfortable, peaceful silences. With snuggling. Yet another thing to add to the list of fatalities, thus far.

"It, uh," she cleared her throat. "Sounds like Emily really helped Michael get a grip on what's going on. With you and me."

"Really." His voice was tinged with something Carly didn't like.

"He's not nuts about our living arrangement, but -- he said..." She stopped. "Nikolas."

"I'm listening."

"You're staring at the table top."

He glanced up, his eyes meeting hers. He let a moment pass before assuring her, "I'm listening."

He really did have a terrifying grip on sincerity. It made her feel ridiculous for accusing him of disinterest -- and then angry for being made to feel ridiculous. Because she wasn't imagining this, Damn it. Something had happened. He was acting weird.

"So," She sat back in the chair, crossing her arms. "So are you going to tell me what you were talking about?"

"Nothing..." he was staring at the damned table top again. "Earth-shattering."

She narrowed her eyes. "Totally unimportant, then."

He shrugged.

"Was it about Michael?"

A moment's pause, then, "She has concerns."

"Cryptic, much?"

He finally deigned to look up again, but any points he might have gotten for that were sucked up immediately by the look of perturbed confusion on his face. "She's worried about him. Like we are."

She was thrown by his choice of pronoun. She hadn't given a lot of thought to Nikolas's reaction to Michael's tantrum. It felt weird to hear him draw them together in concern. She studied him with bewilderment. Why didn't she feel like he was in this with her? Why the hell did it suddenly feel so important that he was?

"You guys have been friends a long time," she started stirring the chili with great concentration.

"Since I came to Port Charles."

"So that's what?" She let the spoon drop against the side of the bowl. "Five years?"

"Roughly." He was looking at the table top again.

"So. She can't be loving this."

Nikolas exhaled. "Does it matter?"

"I don't know. Does it?"

No answer. Absolutely, unequivocally, no answer. He just looked at the table, he didn't so much as blink, she wasn't even sure that he'd heard her. She felt tears suddenly prick at her eyes. What the HELL was this? Was he keeping the conversation secret? Was something going on he didn't want her to know about? Or was he just trying to give her a taste of her own medicine?

Which she deserved. But the idea of him doing that to her made her want to turn the damned bowl of chili over his head. She felt hot, quick anger grab her by her throat, and suddenly, she just had to get out of there.

"I can't --" She pushed the bowl towards him, jumping out of her chair. "To hell with this -- I can't do this." She pushed her hair back from her face, looking around for... something. Her purse -- she didn't have a purse! Her life was that far out of her hands. She shook her head, and turned towards the door.

"Carly."

She nearly collided with some people heading into the diner, ducked around them and made for the door, wrenching it open and escaping into the downpour. She didn't hear him call her name again.

Spoon Island was always hell for weather. Call it God's little revenge on the Cassadines for messing with his beat -- or maybe just the hazards of island living -- but the wind could be absolutely out of this world. Rain showers on shore could feel like gales. And the snow...

Bobbie shivered, leaning back against the wall of the house. This was ridiculous. It was June, for Christ's sake. What was with all the rain? The wind picked up again, blowing large rain drops her way. She shut her eyes. She really did hate this place.

"It's perfectly reasonable to come in out of the storm to wait." Stefan spoke to her through where he stood, just inside the front door.

"I'm fine," Bobbie said tightly. She was not going inside. Stefan was inside. In addition to that, Carly was already less than thrilled with her -- Nikolas, too, she suspected -- and she didn't want to push her luck. After all, her daughter really didn't enjoy finding her mother in her personal space, even if it was just inside the door, on the landing, out of the blowing rain...

"Here." The screen door creaked open as Stefan stepped back onto the porch. "Then at least take my jacket."

"I don't want your jacket," she barked at him. "I'm not made out of brown sugar, I'm just FINE here."

He raised an eyebrow. "Out of curiosity. Is it the house or the company you object to?"

"Both?" she stamped her foot with frustration, "Damn it, what time is it?" she wrenched up her sleeve to read her watch -- 6:30.

"It's unlikely they'd chose to cross the lake in this weather, if there was a chance it would break soon."

"And if they did, it's unlikely they'd want to talk to either of us, if we're standing here like the Spanish Inquisition when they get back." He just looked at her blankly. She grimaced. "What the hell is going on, Stefan?" she demanded for what had to be the thirteen time. "The forced chivalry is a little late."

"If you're determined to stand here in the pelting rain, the least I can do it attempt to prevent you from making yourself sick out of some perverse sense of independence."

"I'm a nurse," she scoffed. "I've had every inoculation known to man, I'll be just fine." In a vicious attempt to undermine her, her body chose just that moment to shiver violently. "They won't be that much longer."

"Very well. It's entirely your decision." He nodded towards her coldly. "If you'll excuse me."

With that, he produced an umbrella seemingly from up his sleeve, and started down the steps. Bobbie watched him depart with an acute feeling of Argument Interuptus. Heightened considerably by her strong belief that her Ex was up to something. She glanced over at the still open door -- temptation, obviously, left ajar. She swore under her breath, then moved to the door, pulling it shut, tightly. When she turned back, Stefan was still in sight, walking under his mysteriously appearing umbrella (Ok, so it could have come from inside the house), across the stone path back towards Wyndermere.

"Stefan," she started across the porch. "Damn it, Stefan!"

He didn't change his pace until he'd reached the edge of the hedge line that separated the house from the rest of the island. By that time, she'd thrown caution to the wind and started down the stairs, into the storm, her damp hair turning to wet, and her blouse... She really should have thought this through a little more

"You've found something out," she shouted at him, as she crossed the lawn. "Haven't you."

"For instance...?"

She started to say something, then stopped. "Oh, I'm not falling into that trap --" She reached him, arms crossed determinedly. "But we both know the millisecond you knew about Carly & Nikolas that you started sniffing around to find out what the situation was. What is it? What the hell are you so tense about?"

His eyes narrowed, searching her face -- which might have been more productive if she hadn't been trying to blink water our of her eyes. He stepped closer, holding the umbrella over her head.

"You know your daughter well, do you not, Barbara?"

She laughed, brushing at the trails of rain that were running down from her hair. "As well as she'll let me."

"And you ask me what I'm tense about?"

She glanced up at him, taking in the deep, troubled lines of his face.

"What do you honestly think you can do about this, Stefan?" She shook her head. "What do you really think you can do?"

"I could ask you the same thing. You look like a drowned water rodent."

"You always were a charmer."

"Come," he took her arm, and turned towards Wyndermere. "We'll continue this discussion in drier climes."

Well. That went well.

The rain had, if it was possible, gotten worse since they'd ducked into the diner and stepping out into the weather was akin to getting hit with a bucket of water. Nikolas squinted into the darkened evening, feeling a churning, undirected fury starting to fester in his stomach. He'd just had enough. That was all he was really aware of. He'd had enough, and he wanted to stop chasing for one damned second. He'd been sitting there with her, locked in a quiet he didn't know the way out of. On the heels of this day, this week -- His conversations with Luke and Emily. His wife's continued apprehension towards him -- He just wanted to stop. And here he was, about to start running again.

Given his state of mind -- Given everything his weary intellect knew at that moment -- he hadn't expected her to be waiting for him. But she was -- leaning against the edge of the fence, hands in her pockets, looking at him with an almost accusing look. It stopped him cold. They stared at each other through the rain -- both looking frustrated. Confused. Hurt. It was a moment they'd shared so many times -- in the middle of an argument, in the middle of driving each other crazy. That spooky awareness that, despite everything, they felt the same things.

He started towards her, pushed on by yet another wave of strength, besting the emotional endurance test one more time.

"Carly --"

She pushed herself off the fence and cut him off. "I want to talk."

He came to a stop in front of her. For a moment, there was no sound outside of the deafening beat of the rain -- on the pavement, the tables, trash can lids.

"What?"

"Now," she reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, "Enough of this ambiguous shit -- I want to know what's going on."

Nikolas shook his head, uncertain, in the deluge, if he was really understanding her. "You want to talk. Now."

"No," she spat at him. "I want to chase chili I don't want to eat around the bowl while you commune with the Formica."

Carly's voice slid up an octave into the panic range. It was clear. This wasn't something she was putting up for debate. She needed answers. She needed him to explain all of this to her and she needed it right now. And if there was an irony here, she didn't want to waste time commenting on it. Nikolas, however, couldn't seem to let go of the insanity of this sudden attack.

"That's all I've been trying to do."

"No," she pulled on his arm, moving around the fence, out of the courtyard and into the alley that Kelly's backed onto. "You've been wanting ME to talk," she turned, looking around the cesspool she'd just dragged him into. Dumpsters, and chaotically arranged diner debris. It smelled like sour milk. "Why the hell do we always end up in alleys?"

It was a good question, and there was probably an answer -- But Nikolas didn't care about the aesthetic. He was looking at the back door, which was propped open with a brick jammed under the hinge. He could hear the clatter coming from the kitchen. "This isn't a good place."

She shook her head in a way that told him in no uncertain terms: she didn't care.

"What were you talking to Emily Quartermaine about?"

He blinked again, in the falling rain. He couldn't see anything. "Carly."

"Whatever it was," she pushed on, "I know it was important. And I know you don't want to talk about it. So if you aren't going to come clean about that -- then at least tell me what the problem is."

She was right. He didn't want to talk about Emily -- not to her, not to anyone, thanks. As soon as his brain would cooperate, he'd just as soon forget she existed.

"Not here."

"Then WHERE?" She was turning on the spot, circling like somehow she would turn and something would have changed. He reached out and grabbed her elbow, turning her towards him.

"We'll go someplace else."

She looked up at him -- met his eyes and saw something there she didn't like. "No," she said slowly, pulling away from him. "You say something now. Tell me what she wanted."

"Why does it matter?" He repeated another take on an earlier question. Why did he need to know? Why, after shutting him out for a week, after ignoring him completely, did she suddenly need him to draw her a map on the devolution of yet another relationship? It was like she had a sixth sense -- an ability to zero in on the best way in any given moment, to torture him.

"She. Is. A. Quartermaine," she spelled out for him. "The sister of my enemy is STILL MY ENEMY."

"Do you think I'm plotting with her?"

"Are you?"

He took a step back. "That's insane."

Bad choice of words. She took a step back from him, reeling as if he'd just hit her. He started forward again.

"Carly, no. I didn't mean -- "

"You think I'm being crazy?" She demanded. Her voice wavered dangerously. "Really? Because you must have some 'in' at that house."

Nikolas shot another look at the door. "Carly, not here."

She stamped her foot in anger -- right into a puddle.

"YES, here!" I got to visit Michael and Edward's keeping his mouth shut? The staff isn't looking at me like I'm the poster girl for Pathetic Peasant?" She started to count her list off on her fingers. "AJ doesn't show up to glare at me -- I hand off Michael to his AUNT instead. Monica and Alan aren't there to look down their noses at me. And CHRIS, for Christ sakes, is talking to Michael about coming to VISIT us --"

"Chris is what?" Nikolas grabbed onto the one thing in her list he couldn't hazard a guess at. "When did she say that?"

"What did Emily want?" Carly countered.

"No -- tell me what the social worker said --"

"You first!"

"Carly!"

"NIKOLAS!" She yelled his name loud enough for anyone who happened to be passing by -- for several blocks -- to hear. "Just ANSWER the God Damned question!"

"Emily..." His voice sounded harsh and angry. "Doesn't want to have anything to do with me. Emily..." He stopped, taking a breath. He was beginning to feel lightheaded. "Dumped me. For lack of a better word."

She was glaring at him, arms folded across her stomach. Her expression didn't change at his confession.

"Find a better word."

"Find a --" He stared at her in utter disbelief until a realization descended out of nowhere. "You're jealous."

"I'm not JEALOUS!" She hissed back -- in truth, seething with jealousy. "I'm PISSED OFF!"

"Why?"

"Because I'M SICK OF THIS!" She punctuated this, by pushing over a tower of milk crates. They toppled, landing on the ground with an impressive clatter. "Everything is out of control, I can't handle ANYTHING and I HATE IT!" She kicked one of the crates and it popped up into the air landing a foot away at best. Highly unsatisfying. "Damn it," her hand sunk into her hair. "Nikolas --" She turned and nearly collided with him as he moved towards her. She stopped dead, eyes fixed on the middle of his chest. The rain was cold -- and it hurt -- but there was heat generating there. Just that small space, a little bit of warmth. She put a hand up, holding it in the air between them. God, she looked tired.

"I want to go home." The words seemed to tumble out of her mouth, sounding small and childlike. "Let's go home, Ok?"

Nikolas felt his heart -- beating loud and insistent -- hit against his breast bone. Oh, God, did he want to take her home. No one had ever been able to turn his emotions on their head like this. On a dime, things he was possessed with would just dissipate. She said that, and suddenly he didn't care about anything, he didn't want anything, the way he wanted to get her where she wanted to be.

"No," he murmured, mostly to himself, mostly as a reminder. "No -- the launch won't be leaving the island until the rain lets up."

"And you don't walk on water?" She let out a high pitched laugh. That same awful laugh he'd heard from her too many times over the past week. "I thought you could get anything you wanted. Isn't that what you promised me? Everything I wanted?"

"It's a skiff," he said quietly. "On the water, it might as well be a lightening rod."

She tipped her head up to look at him. "So what do we do?"

There was an answer. Even in this weather. Carly had proven that she didn't get motion sickness anymore than he did. He reached out and grabbed her hand, threading his fingers through hers, pressing water-logged palms together. "Come on."

He turned, keeping his body close to her, his eyes on hers, until the last possible second when he had to turn away, and lead her through the alley, squeezing through the scant space between the dumpsters, and down the narrow lane to the street on the other side.

Princess Street wasn't aptly named. It was probably one of the oldest parts of town -- the docks area had been there before anything else -- it was narrow, the buildings were old and looked tired. The businesses had all been here since the dawn of time -- Schwartz's Footwear for Ladies -- featuring styles that were the cutting edge in 1956. The Laughing Buccaneer -- which sold, believe it or not, cigars. Carly's lawyer's office was down here some place. On another street that was equally run down and bleak. They stumbled together, half blinded by the downpour, past a pathetic looking pet store, a thousand-year-old barber shop, down the sloping street towards the marina.

It was Carly who stopped. She pulled back, yanking his hand with her, and forcing Nikolas to turn on the thin sidewalk, looking at her with confusion.

"Here."

He opened his mouth to ask what she was doing, but she turned away from him, pulling him with her -- back a few steps and into the deep doorway of a closed up store front. Slick, abused marble was covered with yellowing and rain soaked piles of newspaper. It smelt of mildew and urine. She practically threw herself back against the brick wall beside the door. She was done waiting. This was far enough.

"Tell me something," she gasped, hands wiping at her face. "Now. Just -- anything. Just talk to me."

This was it. Really -- what he'd been wanting, all week. She looked real, she looked like herself. And this place -- for all of the garbage, and debilitation -- they seemed to be alone and out of earshot. She wanted to talk. She wanted to have an actual real conversation.

He was speechless.

"Nikolas --" she started in frustration. He shook his head.

"There's so much --"

"What happened today? Let's start there, Ok? Just tell me what happened when we got to the Mansion. Why was Reginald so happy? What the hell was Edward --"

"I told you, I talked to him."

She rolled her eyes, wringing out her hair. "You talked to him. Yeah, you said that."

"Carly --"

"So clearly you talk to someone --"

"I --"

"What the hell..." she gestured helplessly. "Why? Just... WHY?"

"Why..." he took a breath. "What? Why did he do that?"

She nodded, pressing her lips together.

"I don't --" he halted. It was habit. Seconds before he told anyone anything about himself, there was always that moment of check. Was it Ok? Did he need to do it? He'd told this woman more than he'd ever confessed to anyone -- and it was still nothing. He knew that. He just wished to God she hadn't noticed, too. "I don't know how to answer that question."

"You put one word in front of the other."

He reached out to her. His hand sliding into her hair, holding her head. His eyes searched hers in the dim light. He knew he was driving her crazy. And as much as a part of him wanted to argue that turnabout was fair play -- he didn't want to be the person making her look like this. And this -- this was what Emily had said to him. That he was closed off, that he didn't share himself. And she was right. Reason number 486 -- to be filed accordingly.

"I don't confide in people." It was almost a whisper. Her eyes closed, and she swallowed painfully.

"Nik--"

"I want to tell you."

"Then tell me," she choked. "For God's sake."

"I told him to leave you alone."

It was a start. But it wasn't much of one, and when her eyes opened, he could tell she wanted to strangle him. He had no practice with this. And everything in him wanted to tell her that she didn't have to worry about it. More than that, she didn't have to know about it. He withdrew, stepping back from her, untangling his hands from her hair.

"I told him, if he didn't..." There was no oxygen in this doorway. He was convinced of it. "I'd... make his life hell."

She just looked at him. Said nothing. Didn't seem to register any feelings of good or bad. It confused him. He turned away, looking down at the newspaper mulch under his feet.

"I told him about your wrist," he said quietly. "I told him I knew what he'd done to you. And that if he didn't follow some basic guidelines, that Lila would find out about it. Failing that... That we'd... Cassadine Inc., that it would make things difficult for ELQ."

There was that silence again -- that quiet interrupting unrelenting background noise. It made her seem even more silent.

"That's it?" she said, finally. "You just... talked to him."

He looked up at her. She was staring at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion -- but there was no judgment in them. None of that knee-jerk that was wrong criticism that made him keep all of that inside. He pulled in his breath.

"I locked him into the GH library to tell him that. That might have been a motivating factor."

Her eyes widened in shock. "You what?"

"I was angry."

She laughed. Sharp and cutting, sagging into the wall. He moved forward on instinct, and he saw that she was crying. She looked up at him, eyes unnaturally bright, and choked out, "So. Are we having fun yet?"

He shook his head. "Don't."

"Can you believe this?" she struggled to stand up. "Really -- can you believe this is what you married?

"Stop it," Nikolas stepped forward, pushing her back against the wall, caging her there with his arms. He leaned forward, bowing his head, and let his cheek brush against hers. "Just stop it."

"I made you --"

"Nothing. You made me nothing -- I promised to protect you, that's what I did."

"You didn't want to," she protested.

"No," he spit, bitterly. "I wanted to choke him with my bare hands. I wanted to scare the hell out of him, the way he obviously did with you! Don't underestimate what seeing you hurt does to me."

She looked, momentarily surprised. Then she bit her lip, hard. It trembled, in spite of her efforts.

"What does it do to you?"

He felt himself flush, but the truth came out like a compulsion. "It makes me crazy. I can't sit still, I can't get my brain to stop until I know how to fix it. I need to fix it, Carly. I need to make sure it doesn't happen again." he pulled back, looking directly at her. "And it won't. I won't -- if Edward so much as looks at you sideways --"

"What?" her voice cracked. "What happens then?"

"I'll dismantle him," he admitted. "He knows that."

Carly's eyes were searching his, and Nikolas forced himself to submit to it. As exposed as he felt, he knew he had to let her do this.

"He believes that," she said, finally. "That's what you're telling me. He believes that you'll hurt him."

"I will, if I have to." He pushed himself off the wall, moving away from her. "See? This is it, Carly. This is what people keep looking for in me. Luke will tell you it's there -- he'll insist to the end of the earth that I'm evil, and for every sling and arrow that comes my way, there are half a dozen people who will stand up and say no. No, he's not like that, he's good, he's kind... They're all wrong." He never thought that he'd be able to say that to someone. And he was scared -- no other word for it -- to see her reaction. "I keep telling you. I do what I have to," he murmured, keeping his eyes down. "Nothing beyond that, but nothing less than it, either. And if I have to destroy the Quartermaines to protect you, than I will. It's not sport, and it's not a game. But if they make it a necessity, then that's what will happen. I won't let someone hurt you. I can't."

He heard her shift her weight, move up the wall and stand in front of him. He moved back from her as she moved forward, until his back had collided against the opposite side of the doorway.

"Nikolas."

He knew she was waiting for him to look at her. It was amazing how hard little things got to be, in her presence. He closed his eyes and took a fortifying breath, before forcing himself to turn to look at her.

She was shaking. Shivering, maybe. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her mouth was working hard at trying to say something to him. He held his breath.

"You know..." she managed, finally. "What hurts the most."

It was a far cry from a condemnation -- but really, he'd known he wasn't going to get that from her. But what it was... he couldn't name. Just that he knew she wasn't rejecting him for it. She was reaching out, instead. His mouth felt dry.

"I know, Carly."

"I can't -- "

He stood up. "We'll get him back."

She let out a strangled cry, the tears spilling over. "No --"

"We will," he reached out and cupped the side of her face with his hand. "It's already started. As soon as you're ready --"

"I'm ready," she furrowed her brow in determination, keeping her eyes on his. "I am."

He nodded, his throat tightening. He knew she was. On some level, he knew she'd managed to pull herself together for Michael if they got him tomorrow. And... Under that... He knew that all she'd ever be doing was just scarcely holding on. Like he watched her do today. It scared him, what that could do to her. What it could do to them.

"I tried to talk to you about this," his chest was so tight, it felt like it was in a vice. "After I spoke to Alexis --"

She jerked back from him, suddenly. "When?"

"A few days ago."

She shook her head. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did."

He watched the pieces come together for her. Watched her struggle with it. She started to shake her head more firmly. "No. No, you didn't --"

"I did. On Monday. I sat on the edge of the bed in our room, I told you I'd spoken to her. I tried to get you to listen to what she said --"

"No -- You didn't," her voice was shaking almost as badly as she was. "Nikolas -- "

"I thought it might help you!" He leaned forward, intently. "Everything I did last week -- whether you saw it or you didn't -- I wanted to help you. But you weren't hearing me, and I didn't..."

He stopped and she turned her face away from him, and just crumbled. There was no other word for it. Her hand came up, covering her mouth, and she stumbled back against the wall again. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face, her body starting to jerk, wracked with silent sobs.

"No," he said, brokenly, reaching out for her. "It's Okay --"

"You keep saying that!" her eyes flew open, and she dropped her hand. "How can you really believe that?"

"Because I will MAKE it Ok," he insisted. "Why can't YOU believe THAT?"

He watched her react to his words, watched her shoulders hunch and body try to draw further into the brick behind her. Then her hand suddenly reached out, grabbing the cotton of his shirt and pulling him, with surprising strength towards her. He stumbled on the debris, and had to throw out a hand against the wall to stop himself from falling right into her.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, not looking at him. Nikolas shook his head, not knowing if she was talking about his near-fall, her doubt, or... just everything.

"Don't be," he pushed himself back. "It's fine --"

"I hate this," she said vehemently, tipping her head back to look into his face. "I don't want to BE like this -- I didn't want you to see --" she hiccuped. "What I turn into. I didn't want you to know..."

She choked on another sob, and his hand came up to gently push her hair away from her face. "It doesn't matter."

"I don't know what I'm doing!"

"It's Okay," he let out his breath. "I do."

"I'm so sick of feeling like this!" She slapped the wall for emphasis. "I want it to stop. And I don't want to keep hurting you. Mama, Lucas -- everyone. Anyone who's dumb enough to care about me -- " She looked up at him, her voice dropping into a whisper. "I don't know how to make it stop."

"We'll find a way," he soothed, in the absence of anything else to say. She rolled her head back, letting out a painful moan.

"You don't get it!"

"You're wrong --"

"NO!" Her head snapped up again. "This isn't just Michael! It's always been like this. It's always been this ... ache. Right in the middle of me. And I don't WANT it anymore. I don't want to feel like this ALL the TIME. There has to be some way to make it stop. God, please --" Her breath was coming in gasps. "I just want to stop feeling like this. That's all."

It took him a moment to realize he'd stopped breathing. His head was swimming. She blinked tears out of her eyes, still struggling to bite back sobs. He stared down at her, unable to look away, unable to move. He could see her, he could look right into her -- everything else was insubstantial. He knew what she meant. With every fiber of his being, he knew what she was talking about, and hearing the words coming out of her mouth -- He was frozen. He saw her eyes change -- focus, almost, and then soften -- he knew she was reading him. He hated that, he'd always hated that -- when someone tried to guess what he was thinking or feeling. Particularly when they were right. And he knew she was getting it right. He could tell, and he couldn't stop it, because it was calming her down. He struggled to speak, and finally managed to push out a few broken syllables.

"Caroline..."

She reached out and put her hand over his abdomen, her eyes still holding his. He let his eyes close a moment, then put his hand over hers, pressing her palm firmly against his stomach.

"There," she said quietly. "Right there."

He didn't move. Her eyes were still invading him, and her mouth quivered at the edges until her expression collapsed entirely, and she let out a cry, arms reaching up, and grabbing his neck. She pulled him towards her, holding him tightly. He felt his knees give out, and he nearly stumbled before clamping his free arm around her waist, and holding her against him. Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, and she was crying into his shirt. He murmured her name again, and found his feet. Letting go of the wall, he brought his other arm around him and they held on to each other. For dear life.