Chapter Fifty-Four:
Creep

Bobbie paced across the oriental carpet that lay in front of the fireplace. There was already a roaring fire sparking and spitting at the grate. The heat came at her like a furnace blast -- an invasive, if welcome, presence. She gathered the shawl Mrs. Landsbury had brought around her, and stared into the leaping flames.

This was not a good plan. Granted, Bobbie didn't live her life through 'plans'. Not something she gave much thought when she wasn't in her present company. It wasn't like emotional impulse had steered her that far wrong in life. Or rather -- it wasn't like emotional impulse had ever gotten her killed. She did Ok. But it did land her in situations like this. Stuck on Spoon Island, with her ex-husband, soaked to the bone. Her silk blouse was a particular source of irritation. Essentially a second, golden brown, skin. The shawl kept soaking up the water, and she was beginning to wish she'd asked for another towel, since the first had been exhausted wringing out her hair.

She heard the click of a door closing behind her, and turned to see Stefan had entered the room. He looked at her appraisingly, and she tightened her grip on the shall.

"Can we keep the door open?" she asked, irritably, as he crossed to the drink cart.

"What do you think is going to happen to you, Barbara?"

His tone was bland and patronizing, and Bobbie struggled not to rise to the bait.

"You'll excuse me if I don't entirely trust you."

"Hmm. One of life's little ironies," he slipped the stopper out of a decanter, and started to pour himself a drink. "Brandy? Or is it Scotch now?"

"I suddenly have a strong desire for Port."

Stefan glanced back at her, then resumed pouring. "Your brand of humor has always escaped me."

"The one thing Stefan Cassadine doesn't like dark," she sighed, stepping forward to take the drink as he offered it. "Do we have to keep doing this?"

"I was about to say the same thing," he picked up his own drink, and directed his gaze towards the fire. "But it is not I who keeps referencing our illustrious past."

"Not our past, no." Bobbie muttered to herself. She crossed the room and flopped down into a leather chair set before the fire, tossing her legs brazenly over the side. A posture she never would have tried when she was actually married to this man. She expected a look of disapproval. What she got was a prolonged stare. Which she took for disapproval until she noticed his gaze was resting on her legs. "You are distracted today," she muttered, adjusting her posture and tucking her legs under herself. "I don't suppose there is any chance in hell that you feel like sharing."

"It amazes me that, after all we've been through, you still seem to feel you have a right to pick away at my personal affairs."

"I think it's the part where you have my daughter in your cross hairs that gives me rights."

"Ah, yes. The innocent Spencer marked by the villainous Cassadine. I believe I've heard this one before."

"You're so hard done by."

He glanced at her, his eyes sharp. "You haven't spoken to Caroline lately, have you?"

Bobbie felt herself flush. "Carly," she said, sharply. "And no. I've spoken to Nikolas." She knew it was childish, but he couldn't help but put a little extra stress on her son-in-law's name.

"Caroline is her given name," Stefan was ignoring the jibe. "She hasn't objected to my using it."

"Uh huh," Bobbie smirked, raising her glass to her lips. "In your numerously tete a tetes?"

"We actually discussed it over lunch yesterday."

She barely managed to force the brandy down her throat, rather than spewing it in his general direction. She managed to just get away with clearing her throat. Hard.

"You discussed it."

"She seemed agreeable," he confirmed, staring down into the glass in his hand. "Caroline can be very pleasant company, when she is so moved."

Carly had been lifted off her feet -- arms wrapped tight around her husband's neck, while he held her flush against him. It was a tight, desperate, unsteady embrace. Their weight constantly shifting, uncertain and unstable on the uneven terrain beneath them. She was holding onto him, despite that. Despite this constant feeling of being seconds away from slipping, tipping, falling. It was becoming familiar to the point of apathy, the danger she felt when she was close to him. Be it physical or emotional, eventually it all had to slip away into background noise. At some point the desire to hold on overruled everything else.

Nikolas couldn't get a grip that felt absolute. He could only stand to hold her a matter of moments, before moving his arms, his hands, to try to bring her closer. It never felt right. It was clumsy and artless, and it didn't feel like anything near enough. Her arms stayed firmly around him, her body hanging off of him, and he was still grappling to feel close to her.

He felt her begin to slide -- the sensation felt like she was coming away from him, and he had to fight an irrational desire to throw them both against the hard brick wall just so that he could keep her close. He was struggling, in these last few seconds, to remember what linear thought looked like. Reason, common sense, whatever you wanted to call it. His head was swimming, and it rejected all of it.

Carly's feet hit the ground -- or at the very least, a pile of newspapers -- and she found her balance with his arms still holding her around the waist. She fixed her eyes on his shoulder while her hands slid down his chest. His shirt was wet -- soaked through. Thoughts were flying through her head so fast, she barely had a chance to absorb them. She could feel sharp pricks on her arms -- the back of her neck, across her shoulders. The rain was still pounding down onto the street -- splashing up and into the doorway. She was cold, she realized. And her heart was beating at an incredible speed. She kept moving her hands over Nikolas's chest, feeling the rough cotton weave of the material. His body was firm and solid. It always was. And she could remember standing in front of him on occasions before this and thinking rock. Solid. Safe.

There were cracks. She had done her best to chip away at them. But he was still here. He'd seen a thousand things she'd tried to keep away from him, and he was still here. She let her hands slide up his chest again, up to his shoulders, then down his arms. His grip on her tightened, and she felt herself being pulled closer to him -- pressed right against him. She took a breath, then raised her face towards him. Her temple rubbed up against the line of his jaw. His head bowed, and she felt him nuzzle her cheek. She bit her lip, eyes closing. His breath on her neck. Strong arms around her. She knew she could step away from this any time. He'd let her.

She leaned back in his arms, eyes darting up to check his. He raised his head like he sensed what she was doing and for a moment, they saw each other. There was a moment of recognition -- a sense that they were both afraid of the same thing. Of what was going to happen next. Equally nervous, equally insecure. She made a tentative, almost accidental brush of her lips over his. Pulled back quick, her eyes searching his again. His head dipped down towards her, then he straightened again. He held himself a moment before his body started to lean forward again, and Carly stood up on her toes, head tipped towards him. Their lips touched -- that was all. Bumped against each other -- and he pulled away again. He moved immediately back down to her, pressing his mouth against hers again. Her hands flew up, taking his face in her hands, and held him close to her. They were both struggling. Like they were just figuring it out. Like they'd never kissed -- each other, or anyone else -- before. The urge to be close had short-circuited the rest of their impulses. She pulled back slightly, moving her lips over his, then capturing his lower lip and gently sucking on it.

Right. It all came flooding back.

Bobbie's hackles were officially raised. Oh, sure -- Stefan was probably going for that. But who really gave a damn? Caroline. Caroline is agreeable company. Oh, Nikolas must just love that! And that was just lovely irony for everybody. She and Carly were at odds. Nikolas was, unless he'd been hit with something heavy, still full of suspicion towards his father... But Carly and Stefan were getting along just FINE.

Wonderful. Really. She wasn't even remotely jealous.

"Am I supposed to guess what brought you to their house, then?" she said, icily. "Just hanging out, were you?"

His eyes darted in her direction, then he turned, taking a sip of his drink. "I was wiring the building for sound. You can never be too careful."

"Clever. Doesn't begin to answer the question, but very nice deflection. I've completely forgotten what I was asking about."

"There have been some security issues," he said, blandly, sinking into the chair opposite her. "Your brother, for instance, made an unexpected appearance."

"I know. He's not any danger to Carly."

"You forget that your daughter isn't the only one who lives there."

"And he wouldn't hurt Nikolas!" Bobbie said, indignantly, only to be met with a snort of laughter from Stefan. "He wouldn't," she argued. "He's had more than enough chance before this, he wouldn't do that to Laura."

"Ah, Laura," he nodded, "She still considers Nikolas a concern, then. I thought she'd forgotten all about him."

Bobbie frowned. "That's not fair." He glanced over at her and they held each other's gaze a long moment before Bobbie broke. "Oh, what do you want me to say? She cares about him, Stefan. She worries about him. I know she's messed up, but --"

"But what?" he raised his brow. "What do you have to say for her?"

Bobbie chewed the inside of her cheek, wondering if she should say anything, then shrugged, lightly. "It's just that --in some ways -- You could argue that her mistakes only rival your own with him."

Wrong. Thing. Very much the wrong thing to say. Stefan stiffened, and his eyes flashed with a sudden rush of anger.

"I have never, ever, put Nikolas anywhere but first in my life!" he snarled. "I did what I had to in order to keep him alive! To spare him the additional pain I knew that outsiders would bring -- Question my motives all you want, Barbara, but Nikolas has never suffered for lack of love from me."

"You never gave Laura much of a chance --"

"And the ones I did give were squandered. I did not incite Nikolas to cut her out of his life. That was his decision alone."

Bobbie watched him, a little disturbed by the attack of real emotion that had just erupted from him. Since she'd arrived, she had noticed a frayed look about him. Like something in his world had gone terribly wrong. When something disturbed Stefan -- really disturbed him -- he could be an altogether different sort of man. When he was scared or uneasy, the mask inevitably slipped and there were glimpses of the turmoil that lay below. Unfortunately, he'd immediately try to turn that slip to his advantage, which made his moments of true vulnerability just as dangerous as the rest of him. Still. Something stubborn -- and possibly quite stupid -- in her nature made it very hard to turn away from.

"Stefan," she said softly. "I get it, you know. Do you really think you're the only person who's ever wanted to stop their child from getting hurt?"

He snorted. "I occasionally wonder."

She ran a finger carefully around the edge of her glass, willing herself to stay quiet. Or, at the very least, to be careful.

"It's the same with Carly," she said, finally. "No one can stand to see their child hurt, but when you feel like they've already been hurt more than their fair share..." she shook her head. "It's hard to watch them walk into a situation where you can see the chance for even more pain." She smiled slightly. "I don't supposed that's occurred to you. That Nikolas could hurt my daughter just as much as she could hurt him."

"And how do you suppose he could do that?"

She sighed, and looked up at him.

"By loving her."

He had the softest, fullest, sweetest lips on earth. She was convinced of that as they started to move against hers. His body leaned forward, one arm sliding up her back, the other reaching out and finding the wall -- holding his weight while he held her up. He started to kiss her. Really kiss her. Deep, soft, slow wet kisses that she could feel to the soles of her feet. His mouth gently tugging on hers, his tongue exploring her so thoroughly, she felt utterly open to him. Her heart started to pound in her chest, closely followed by a wave -- a surge -- of something. Emotion. Awareness. Existence. Her hands moved around the back of his neck, and sunk into his hair. She had been afraid to be with him for so long -- suddenly she felt afraid to be separated. She felt like she was waking up. Like she was coming to life.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, into his mouth, suddenly. He wrest away from her a millisecond -- enough time to spit out one word.

"No."

"Mmm," she arched her back, pressing into him. She just wanted to feel him. Unlike that morning, it was the only thought -- the only plan -- in her head. Him. Close. "Nikolas."

His name sounded glorious coming from her mouth, which he could not stop kissing. He gave up on trying to hold them up, and in a rush, he pressed her back against the brick. His body was flush against hers, and it was all he could do not to grind against her. His hands, now free from the task of holding her against him, started to run up and down her sides. He was aware that he should be careful. Somewhere in the haze was the knowledge that he had wanted her this much before -- had he ever really wanted anything this much? -- and she hadn't been ready. And that could happen again. He should... ungh, her fingers were trailing along his neck... He should... So soft. She felt so soft... He should really --

"Don't stop."

Oh, thank God.

"Unless you are taking issue with his name," Stefan was looking at her, obviously perturbed by the comment. "Nikolas's history can't possibly be compared to Caroline's,"

"No," Bobbie said, shifting her weight in the chair. "He has no history at all. We don't know how he functions in a relationship. There's no clear indicator, because this is the first serious relationship he's ever had! Your filing cabinet must be close to bursting -- dossiers, newspaper clippings, psychological profiles -- Have you raided her files at General Hospital yet?" He didn't answer her. "God," she muttered. "You probably know more about my daughter than I do. And that's because you CAN. Nikolas is an unknown entity."

"You've known Nikolas since he arrived in Port Charles. I wasn't aware you had such concerns about his character."

Bobbie frowned at him. "You know I adore Nikolas. He's sweet, and kind and he's wonderful with his sister. And I know his feelings for Carly are honest and strong -- But being in love brings out the best and the worst in all of us. God, Stefan -- you know that's true!"

"So the question you are asking, then," Stefan leaned forward, gesturing with his glass. "Is what does my son's 'worst' look like?"

Bobbie pressed her lips together before answering. "Do you even know, Stefan? Do any of us? -- Because Carly will. I know my daughter, and if Nikolas was looking for a peaceful and unchallenging life, he wouldn't have married her. She stirs people up. It's what she does. There are things Nikolas probably doesn't even know about himself that he'll discover by being with her. Trust me."

Carly's arms were around his neck now, and he took the cue, sliding his hands under her thighs and lifting her. Her legs grabbed his waist, her hands his face, and she bent his head back, kissing him voraciously. He surrendered to it. There wasn't anything else to do. He just squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think. There was so much that existed between them. There had been dark moments in the past week where he'd started to think it was all in his head. As much as he insisted that she knew what they'd been, a coldness had been sitting inside his gut. That it was all in his head. That it was one-sided, and what he felt for her was unrequited and was going to stay that way. He'd done nothing but want more from her, since their first night together. Told himself, over and over again, that it was possible. He needed to believe that. He still needed to believe that, if he loved someone as much as he loved her, if the connection really was as strong as it felt like it was -- then she'd have to feel something for him. But deep down, something had been stirring. Whispering, incessantly -- what if it's not? What if she never loves you back? What then?

Then he would settle for being kissed like this. Her touch was penetrating, hungry. Possessive. No woman had ever kissed him like this. He wasn't sure he'd ever have been able to let anyone else. It was unnerving, to want to belong to someone like this. To be willing to give yourself up to them. To be aroused by it. His hands kneaded her through her damp jeans, and he fought against an urge to reach up and grab her. To let her know that he was letting this happen. It was an agreement. I'm yours if you're MINE. He knew that wasn't true. She had him. There was remarkably little he could do about it.

Stefan sat back in his chair, looking at Bobbie with the sort of wounded irritation any parent wears when listening to aspersions being cast in the direction of their child. Bobbie felt a little guilty. But damn it -- it was true! It was, at the moment, her personal hell. Having no idea how Nikolas conducted himself in situations like this. Knowing that her daughter provoked people and would inevitably provoke Nikolas. Sweet, kind -- and thoroughly emotionally damaged -- Nikolas.

"We are, both of us, in a questionable position."

"I don't know," she swirled the contents of her glass around. "Occasionally, I entertain the wild notion that this might work out."

"Yes," he murmured. "You would."

She bristled. "And what does that mean? That Carly's gotten a much better deal than Nikolas? She's the one who married into the fratricidal, matricidal, homicidal nuthouse. You think that the money and the prestige makes up for things like your mother?"

Stefan glanced up at her with an expression that bordered on amused. "And these things -- your family isn't familiar with them? Spencers are always very skilled at looking outward to discover their dark side."

"No one in my family actively wants Nikolas dead," she hissed. Then amended, "At the moment."

Stefan looked fatigued. "It won't do either of us any good to look at history, Barbara. Not of that sort, at least. Certainly neither of us will rest any better," he waved a dismissing hand. "And I was speaking of your tendency to be more romantic than pragmatic. I could argue it was the downfall of our union."

"Oh, could you?" she said, archly. "I could argue you were pragmatic enough for both of us."

A small, biting smile appeared on his lips. He took another hit of the brandy, then looked at her, brow raised. "Here is the question I put to you, Barbara -- as a reformed Cassadine wife. Do we," he gestured between them, though it seemed clear her was speaking of the families as a whole, "Bring out the best in each other? Or is it the worst?"

Carly forced herself away from Nikolas, and struggled to catch her breath. Oh. God. She looked down at him, their faces only inches apart. After a moment, he blinked heavy eyes open and she gazed down into them. They were so dark. She felt like she was being sucked right into them, into him. She smoothed his hair back from his face, and his eyes fell closed again. She watched him swallow. She let out a soft sigh, and brushed her lips across his eyelids. Then lay a light kiss on his temple, against his cheek, then placed soft, supple kisses on his neck.

Nikolas was faltering. His breath was coming rapidly, his blood rushing through his veins in response to the affection she was lavishing on him. He was starved for her. He would have been incoherent at almost any gesture. But her touch was gentle, tender, and loving. He could barely keep his feet.

"Carly," he murmured, his hands holding her waist now, tugging her down the wall. She loosened her grip on him, and brought her feet down to the ground again. He brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her again -- greedily. Crushing her lips under his. He leaned his forearms against the wall behind her, keeping their bodies close, and took his momentary fill of her, before finally breaking the kiss, and managing to hold himself away from her, forehead resting heavy on her shoulder.

"I love you," he panted before he was aware of what he was doing. He waited to feel the resistance. The inevitable pull away from his feelings for her. She stilled, and he felt his heart drop into his stomach. He kept trying to tell himself it didn't matter -- but the truth was... it hurt. But some masochistic part of him kept saying it to her.

Caged in his arms, Carly was staring at the thin sliver between the wall and Nikolas's body. The street -- the rain, the gray, dismal sky. She stayed there, still, for a long moment. Then, slowly, she slid her palms down his chest and found the edge of his shirt. Her hands slipped under the cotton, and she turned her head to look down , as her fingers traced his hard, muscled stomach. She heard him let out a soft, needy moan.

"Are you sure?" she whispered back to him.

He went hot, then cold at the question. He nodded, unsteadily. "Yes," he felt his throat tighten dangerously, and turned his head away. "I love you, Caroline."

Carly's eyes immediately filled with tears and she struggled to bite back a sob. She wanted to ask him to say it again, but she knew she had no right. She pressed her hand, flat, over his navel, and looked up at him.

He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were squeezed shut, like he was trying not to see something. The muscles in his neck were strained, his head turned away and held away with incredible tension. He looked like he was fighting something, and in an almost trancelike state, Carly brought her other hand up and cupped it against the cheek he had turned away from her.

He let out his breath, and his whole body seemed to deflate. She turned his head back to her, and moved up on her toes again, to find his mouth. He cooperated, gave it no thought. Just lowered his face to hers and let her kiss him again. Deeply. Over and over again, while tears ran down her face for the hundredth time that day. He kissed her back with equal intensity, and there was a feeling of acceptance. It passed between them like a charge. That whatever this was -- whoever they were -- right now, it was all safe. They could be what they needed to in this moment, and nothing outside of that counted for anything.

Bobbie felt the hairs on the back of her neck at his question. She shook herself, forcing the implication of what he might have meant out of her head.

"Spencers and Cassadines?" she shrugged almost convulsively. "There's always a chance for change."

"Yes. Our marriage, for instance."

She shook her head. "But I was never really your wife."

"What makes you say that?"

"You weren't in love with me," she said matter-of-factly, looking down into her glass again. "Nikolas and Carly married for love. A radical concept for your family -- but that's what they're doing. They're trying to love each other. That's different than what you and I were."

"Do you believe love is going to provide Nikolas and Caroline with what they need? Deep in your heart -- do you think it's enough?"

"No," she sighed. Her hand was shaking slightly, and she put her glass down. "It's not enough. Which is why I'm crossing my fingers every minute that they find something else to build their marriage on. Because they have a start -- and it's a beautiful start. It's something they both need so much..." She realized she was talking rapidly, and stopped to suck in her breath. "Nikolas really does deserve someone -- a woman -- who loves him to his core. He needs that."

"Yet. He has survived this long entirely without it."

"He shouldn't have to."

"Ah ha," Stefan extended his index finger, waving it at her with an air of triumph. "And that is what I mean. You will always come back to this. This belief that a person can't be happy, can't have a full life without having a devoted lover by their side. I thought I was supposed to be the relic in this conversation."

"Why would you begrudge him that?" she leaned forward in her chair, looking at him incredulously. "Really, if Nikolas could have that -- and he wants it desperately enough to up and marry Carly out of nowhere -- why wouldn't you want that for him? No matter who the girl was. No matter what her background is--"

"I think I've made it abundantly clear that background is not my concern."

"Oh," she raised out of her seat, slightly, so that was almost kneeling in her chair. "Because you lowered yourself to marry an ex-hooker turned nurse? Who's father was an alcoholic before he was anything else -- that proves it? I'm not as mixed-up and heartbroken as I was when you were after me, Stefan. My legs are a little more steady. And I know my background was exactly what you were interested in. It was just one more way you could get back at Luke for taking away the woman you wanted for yourself!"

Stefan's expression darkened considerably. "And this theory wouldn't happen to come from that camp, would it?"

"Come on," Bobbie tried to keep the insistent quiver out of her voice. "I never stood a chance with you. I'm a redhead."

"And a fiery one, at that."

"Don't patronize me!"

"Don't insult me," he returned. "I gave you many reasons for our marriage. I promised security, financial freedom, I promised stability for your son -- "

"Right," Bobbie laughed bitterly. "And you said divorce was unknown in your family. So you lured me into the fourth shot at the fairy tale by telling me it wasn't a fairy tale after all. And that it would work."

"It could have."

She grabbed her drink off the table and took a large gulp of her drink. "You were in love with another woman," she said, her voice made hoarse by the alcohol. "At least one. It might have been more. I never bothered to count."

"And among those, never would you count yourself."

She looked up at him in shock. Absolute, stunned, gaping shock. He was glaring at her, body rigid and leaning forward in his chair, eyes narrowed and hard on her. He looked angry, fed up, and -- she saw a flash of it, just for a second -- hurt. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing happened. Nothing, save her glass slipped from her fingers and dropped onto the floor.

Nikolas felt like he was on fire. Like his skin was burning and she was the only thing that could soothe it. Their kiss had turned mutually demanding, both suddenly wanting -- needing -- more. He finally managed to wrench away from her, and took half a step back, pulling his shirt impatiently over his head. Carly looked at him in dazed surprise, then moved forward, her hands moving to explore his exposed torso. She pressed him back, and they stumbled together, Nikolas's back scraping against the cold brick on the opposite wall.

Carly pressed up against him, provocatively rubbing her still-clothed body over his skin. She lay wet kisses on his chest -- along his collarbone, then down his breastbone -- sucking, biting, licking her way down his chest, towards his stomach.

Nikolas threaded his hand through her hair, and forced himself to look around them. At no point had he stopped to think about where they actually were. It just seemed inevitable that she would turn away, that she would stop things. Now, he was certain, there was no stopping anything. And they were in a dirty, run-down doorway of an abandoned store front. Not only unattractive, but a completely impractical place to do any of the things he had in mind.

"I want to make love to you," he groaned, as Carly's tongue swirled around one of his nipples. "Now."

"Then do it."

God, she really did know exactly how to get to him. He pulled her head up towards him, and she slid up his body again. Like she was reading his mind, she went straight for his mouth. He kissed her, his arm hugging her against him, his tongue thrusting promisingly in and out of her mouth until he heard her moan in response.

"You want this," he didn't pose it as a question, but she nodded convulsively.

"Yes," she hiccuped. "God, yes."

He stood up, pushing himself off the wall and kissing her again. Hand on her face, this time, holding her close, his mouth moving worshipfully over hers. His other hand still clenched his shirt, and he tightened his grip on it as he pulled his mouth away from hers again. He turned and looked over at the old wooden door, the windows framed in panels -- dirty and neglected. He reached down and took her hand, pulling her with him deeper into the doorway. He reached out and tried the door knob.

"It's locked," Carly said like it was fact before he had even turned it. She was right, as it turned out.

"Uh huh," he traced the wood on the window with his fingers. Just one panel. He started to wind his shirt around his hand.

"Nikolas --"

She was cut off by the sharp sound of breaking glass.

You could never break anything at the Wyndemere without feeling like you'd just spit on the Mona Lisa, and Bobbie was immediately on her feet when she head the glass hit the carpet. Luckily, the glass only bounced on it's side, and rolled on the carpet, spilling what remained of her brandy.

"Oh, God," she crouched down to the floor, allowing her shawl to slip from around her. "I'm sorry, Stefan." Yep. Very sorry. Terrible accident, this. What was it you were saying? She picked up the glass, brushing at the liquid with her hands, then giving up, and trying to pull her shawl around her again. The short fibers of the carpet irritated her knees through her nylons, and her hands were now covered in brandy that she was, in no way, actually cleaning up. She was beginning to feel ridiculous. She sat back on her heels, letting out her breath in frustration. Stefan was still sitting in his chair, looking at her with a typically unreadable expression.

"What?" she demanded, putting out her arms. "You could at least throw me something to mop this up with."

He moved, then, silently off the chair and down onto the carpet with her. His eyes were searching hers with an intensity that just pissed her off. He always did that. Thought he had the right to just examine her. She was about to say something when he started to undo the buttons on his jacket.

"What are you --"

He started to pull the garment off. "If you're concerned --"

"No," she pushed his hands away, her face burning. So she hated him. There was still something intensely sexy about watching him remove his clothing. Any of it. She turned her attention back to the rug. "If you're going to do something like that, we might as well use this." She pulled the shawl around and started to use it to mop up the liquid. "You have enough of these, anyway. What is it? Do you have Stevie Nicks locked up in the attic?"

The joke was predictably lost on him, and he didn't move or speak -- just knelt a little too close to her. She was channeling an incredible amount of energy into the care of the rug beneath her.

"Water," she said, finally, sitting up and looking at him. "We should --"

His hand moved quick as lightening around her neck, and pulled her to him. Bobbie let out a shout of surprise, which was quickly muffled when his mouth closed over hers. She froze a second, then felt herself lean towards him. It was hard to know what did it. The taste, the smell -- something that was familiar and missed. It was everything she hated to admit him, about her marriage. That she had found Stefan safe, comforting, pleasurable. In that kiss, she found all of that again.

It took a lot of determination to push him off her. Both hands, on his chest, shoving herself back, so that she actually fell, gracelessly, back against the chair. She stared at him, her hair a mess around her face, her breathing coming far harder than she wanted it to. She was so thoroughly disturbed by all of it, that she didn't so much as notice Stefan's own lack of composure.

"Oh! God," she jerked herself, and looked down at the mess she was. Her hair everywhere, skirt riding too high up her thighs, her blouse still stuck to her stomach. She pulled at it, and then looked up at him in fury. "Never. Ever," she used the chair to help her get to her feet. "Don't you EVER do that again!" she spit at him. With that, she grabbed the shawl by her feet, and stormed towards the door of the study. "I should never let myself forget --" she stopped at the door, wrenching it open. "ANY natural disaster is still safer than you!"

***NC-17 Section***-- Warning, adult content

A dull, aching pain traveled up Nikolas's hand, through his arm, on impact. He was only dimly aware of it, as his hand punched through the small pane of glass. It had been both easy and hard - giving away, but breaking into larger shards than he expected, leaving sharp, jagged edges framing the wood. He started to pull his arm out of the pane when he felt a hand press up against his back, a gentle brush of a cheek on his arm. He stopped, steadying himself, before attempting to muster a shadow of the focus that was floating just out of his reach.

The glass caught on the cotton of his shirt as he systematically cleared out the remaining shards. Carly's hands were sliding around his waist, and he swore he was breaking out in a sweat. He felt her lips press against his biceps. Soft, gentle kisses along his shoulder. He let out a rough breath, before shaking his shirt off of his hand, letting it fall to the floor inside, and reaching around to feel for the locks.

He could barely see. The chipped dark green paint of the door seemed to fade into black, then rush up on him like he was being hurtled into it. He closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on his other senses. His hand was feeling something -- cold metal -- and he struggled to remember what he was trying to do. He put a hand over the exterior lock, and managed to instruct his brain to find it's match. Deadbolt -- he flipped it open, then felt around the door, finding a chain lock just above it. He would never really be able to understand how he did it, but he managed somehow to unhook it, and reach down, popping the last inadequate lock in the main mechanism by just turning the doorknob.

He leaned forward, head resting against the door frame, and savored the heat of her, against him, before pushing the door open.

"That wasn't very secure," Carly murmured. He reached back and grabbed the hand that was resting on his waist.

"No," he pulled her through the doorway, failing witty repartee 101. He kicked the door shut, turning her towards the wall, and bringing his mouth down on hers again, not even pausing to take in their surroundings. He pressed her back against the wall inside the entryway, acting on pure instinct. His mouth consumed her, while his hands started to explore her without any hesitation. Want was bubbling over into need. He couldn't think about anything else. He had to have her. His leg parted her thighs, bringing her body as close to him as he could manage in his semi-clothed state. God, he just wanted to drown in her. It was killing him to be this close and still feel so damned far away. He slid his hands up her body, moving them into her hair -- he gripped her with a ferocity he'd never directed at her before. Held her still and kissed her like she was in danger of vanishing from underneath him. As if there was some way for her to just evaporate at any second, and he had to have as much of her as he could. Right that second. More, more, more, more...

Carly was barely managing to pull in air. To say she was unprepared for the austerity of his touch was an understatement. It startled her. It was new, it was unanticipated. But his urgency was utterly contagious. She needed to feel it. All of this spilling out of him, the heat, the desire, the hunger for her. She had no right to it. After everything she'd put him through, it was beyond her comprehension that she still had it. But she wanted it like air.

His hands were all over her. Pawing at her, pulling at her clothes. They blindly found the knotted shirt tail at her waist, and yanked at it hurriedly, pulling it free. His hands dove under her T-shirt, and he groaned when they felt the hot, smooth skin of her torso. It was the first contact he'd had with covered skin in over a week. With more than her hand, her neck. Her skin was always so warm. So incredibly touchable. A deep possessive growl rumbled from deep within him. He wanted to devour her. The urge was so strong it burned him. He had never felt anything like this before. It didn't feel like love. It felt like cavernous need. Selfish, willful avarice. Beyond anything he'd known or wanted to know. The darkest part of him. The most primitive, basic elements.

He was aware of all of this, in a rush of heat and desire. It was so extreme, he could barely even feel her. She was just sensation, just something that he felt under his hands, his mouth. And he needed it. He had removed his hands from her, occupying them with the task of discarding her clothing. His mouth was still working over hers, while his fingers fumbled hopelessly with the buttons on her shirt. Kept pulling, yanking, trying desperately to pull them through uncooperative holes. It was like higher engineering -- no matter which way he tried, nothing seemed to work. He finally pushed back in abject frustration, swearing violently in Greek, and directing his eyes down to the offending garment.

She was breathing hard. Her chest rising and falling rapidly as she gulped air into starved lungs. The violence of it shook him, and he dropped his hands, taking a step back to regard her. He could barely make out her features in the dim light cast through the shrouded doorway. Her eyes were closed, and she was leaning into the wall holding it for support. There was an unmistakable tremor running through her as she tried, desperately, to catch her breath.

He put a hand up on the wall, supporting his weight while he turned his head away from her. He became aware of the thick, musty quality of the air -- a slight odor of some kind of rot. They were standing on glass -- a marked and thick with dust floor -- in a small cornered off entryway. There was an open room on the other side of the wall Carly was leaning against. He hadn't even managed to get her that far. He closed his eyes. Breathe. Breathe, come on, Nikolas.

He became aware of her hand, stroking his arm, very softly -- something he hadn't even realized. Hadn't been able to feel. He shook his head out. Opened his eyes and turned to talk to her.

It was useless. The second he looked at her again, he lost himself. His mouth crashed down on hers, and he felt her body jerk under him -- hard and sudden. He still didn't stop. His hands reaching up and holding her still, trying to take enough -- just enough -- to try and fill something inside of him that just wouldn't END. He felt like he was choking. Things he'd been able to give names only minutes before were mutating inside him like a disease that was taking him over. Frustration, tension, desire -- It had all turned into a demanding, raging, ache that he couldn't live with one second more. It HURT. Even to try to feed it -- it hurt. Tore at him in a way that made him feel crazy. Incurable and tormented.

He pushed away from her, suddenly and without warning -- nearly threw himself away from her. He reached our for the doorway to the main room, gripping the wood and pulling himself forward, forcing himself through the entry way. Out of her presence. Out of her sight.

Carly was still leaning back against the wall, in a daze of confusion, unable to process what had just happened to him. The air had rushed at her with his withdrawal, and she felt ice cold. She blinked a few time, feeling herself sink into the realization of what had just happened.

What the fuck was THAT?

She shook her head, her hand combing through her hair in an almost automatic attempt to draw herself together. Her legs had the consistency of Jell-O. Forget that -- her whole body felt like liquid heat. She tried to push herself off the wall, but sunk back against it almost immediately, sliding partway down on very uncooperative legs.

Oh, God... She let her eyes close. She could still taste him, still feel the imprint of his body pressed against her. What was he doing -- She let out a choking gasp of recognition as it hit her. She'd done this to him. The floor seemed to dip, and she held the wall for support. She'd just done this to him. Payback.

The self-loathing was sharp and bitter -- but it was nothing compared to the crushing disappointment that crashed over her with the force of a tsunami. She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling yet another sob. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't, she didn't think it of him. That he would turn around and try to punish her. In a moment like that, that he'd use this to hurt her.

She stared down at the floor, through a blur of tears. Her eyes caught a glint of light and she blinked, bringing on sudden focus. Something on the floor. She reached out and picked up a shard of glass. Glass he'd broken just to get her in here. To get them away from the elements, and the filth in the street. To get them alone. She'd been shocked when that glass shattered. She hadn't thought it was the sort of thing he'd do. But she was beginning to realize she didn't know the lengths he'd go to. Right now, she didn't feel like she knew him. Because what she knew of him screamed that he wouldn't do this to her.

She let the glass fall from her hand, and heard the sound of something moving in the other room. Oh, to hell with this. She wasn't going to crouch here like some pathetic castoff tramp of his. She'd been through enough today without taking forty lashes over something she hadn't even MEANT to do. She let that spark propel her, convincing herself that she had to do it. She had to ignore the sucker punch to her self-esteem, and at least stand up. At least get to the doorway and try to hit back. She forced herself back up the wall, and practically threw herself at the doorway, her fingers catching the wooden frame and holding her on her feet.

He was standing at the far side of the room, bent over a counter covered with dust cloths. Hands flat on the surface, arms locked and supporting his weight as the rest of him seemed to hang forward. His breathing was rough and unsteady. Raw. Her body leaned into the door jamb as she felt something in her soften. Turn sad. Confused, and torn, wanting to reject what her gut was telling her at the sight of him. That he was in pain.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her stomach, feeling the tremble that was running through her. She had to swallow a few times before she could trust herself to speak.

"I didn't mean to do that."

It took a moment for him to acknowledge that she'd spoken. Then she saw him raise his head.

"What?"

She wiped at her eyes, trying to deny that there were tears there. "I was really trying to be with you. This morning. I didn't --"

He turned around. She couldn't make out anything other than the shape of him. The room was too dark. "No."

"I don't need it thrown in my face."

"Carly --"

Her voice cracked. "I tried --"

"It's not that."

"Then what the hell is it?"

He didn't say anything. Just stood there in the dark, shrouded and away from her. The room was dank and cool -- the only sound the echoing reverberation of the rain beating down on the storefront's newspaper-lined window. All shapes and hints of things. Nothing real or absolute. She shifted her weight, letting out a hiccuping sigh -- and then she was moving forward. Not even aware of making the decision. Just moving towards him and suddenly aware that he was doing the same.

They met in the middle of the room, their bodies crashed together. Her arms circling his neck, his going around her waist and lifting her as their lips met. She kissed him feverishly, and he was right there with her. Mouth grinding into hers, his tongue invading her without invitation. She forgot about being hurt. She forgot about being confused. Everything felt very black and white, just then. And then it faded into sound and fury.

"You're shaking," he managed, pulling away from her for a microsecond, before sinking right back into her. She flushed hot, and nodded in agreement before pressing her lips to his again. Holding him even more tightly.

"So are you."

"I don't," he grabbed her mouth again, in a quick and probing kiss, "...want to scare you."

"You don't." Her hand had found the fly on his pants, and she undid the button with incredible efficiency. The heat he'd been trying to push down, to escape, rose up again like alcohol poured on a fire. He grabbed her ass and pushed her firmly against him, effectively stopping her hands. "Nikolas," she gasped his name and he could hear the longing in her voice. He didn't understand it. But it was there, and he wasn't going to be able to deny her.

"I," his fingers dug into her and he let out a growl of frustration. "I feel like I could tear you to pieces right now."

His voice made her shiver and she let out a moan, "please."

Nikolas let his grip on her slip, allowing her to slide down his body onto the floor again. No. he couldn't. He couldn't let her see this much of him, he couldn't be this needy, this completely animalistic, in front of her. There was only one way, and that was if she wanted it. His hands delved into her hair, tipping her head back and kissing her again and again. He couldn't -- he kept thinking that -- but the truth was, he couldn't stop. Not again. Not when she was telling him not to.

Her hands were on his back -- alternately stroking, and then tracing her nails along his spine. The sensation of her hands on him, of the material of her shirt pressed against his chest, was driving him crazy. He pulled back slightly, just giving himself enough room to access the buttons on her shirt again. His movements were unsteady, clawing. He just needed to feel her skin against his. But it she might as well have been wearing a straight-jacket for all the good he was doing.

"It's your shirt," Carly managed to pull away for a second.

"What?"

"Man's shirt," she grabbed his hands, bringing them to her breasts, to the top button. "Buttons are the wrong way 'round."

"Mmm," the information didn't help his brain work out the technical answer to this problem. He pulled at the shirt, popping the first button, then took half a step back from her. He spun her around, pulling her back against him, and holding her there, firmly, one hand pressed against her stomach. He kissed her neck, let his teeth nip at the tender skin he found there, while he started to undo the shirt with newfound ease.

"Tell me you want this," he murmured to her. She leaned into him and let out another moan in response. His hand slipped between her thighs, sliding up the seam of her jeans. Her legs buckled and she let out a whimper as he began to stroke her, firmly, through the denim. "Tell me, Caroline."

"Nikolas..."

He changed his grip on her without warning, catching her around the waist and turning her back to him. His mouth took hers again in another deep, penetrating kiss. He pulled back just long enough to whisper, again. "Tell me."

He kissed her again, before she had the chance to say answer. Hot and demanding, stealing her breath, her sense of place or anything that existed outside of him. She was burning up. She started to pull at the shirt, trying to free herself, to bring herself closer to him. He yanked it off of her with one hand, not breaking the kiss. Her arms free, she brought her hands up to his face, and held him close to her.

~*~When I was here before
I couldn't look you in the eye~*~

He lifted her up again, this time pulling her legs around his waist. The kiss finally broke, and she looked down at him with glazed eyes. It was close enough, it was just light enough, for them to look into each other. He could see her arousal, her need for him, and for a moment he thought he was just going to sink to his knees. Her thumbs brushed along his cheeks, and he could feel her strained breath brushing across his face. Her chest was rising and falling, brushing against him enticingly. He remembered her words from the night before -- remembered her crying, shaking, pushing him away from her. Saying she loved someone else. And then saying she wanted him. Nothing had mattered after that. He could feel it now. He felt alive to her touch. Intuned to it, completely. He was scared -- of himself, of what she made him feel -- he was lost, he was desperate. And none of it mattered. Not as long as she wanted him.

~*~You're just like an angel.
Your skin makes me cry. ~*~

He turned and carried her swiftly to the only flat surface available. He set her down on the end of the counter just in time for her hands to fly back up to his face and pull him to her for a long, sensual kiss. His eyes fell closed. God, he could kiss her like that forever and never be satisfied. In a deep down body thirst sort of way. His hands smoothed back her hair, then moved down her body to capture the hem of her T-shirt. He started to gather it in his hands, and felt her arms lift. He pulled it up and off of her, tossing it aside without thought.

His breath caught at the sight of what had just been revealed. Her skin was so pale it seemed to glow. A light in the dark. He groaned, and put his hands on her. Running over her stomach, around her back, gathering her up in his arms. He brought her body to him, hugging her against his chest, feeling the cool of her body on his skin, finally, finally, finally... Her hands were running over his arms, gripping him, massaging muscles that were more tired and strained than he'd realized. He lifted her off the counter, pulling the dust cloth aside -- pushing it out of the way, bringing a cloud of debris up and swirling around them. He leaned forward, forcing Carly back, and clearing off the space with his arm. Making it safe, worthy, before he lay her down on it.

~*~You float like a feather
In a beautiful world~*~

Carly could barely bring herself to move. Her breath was coming in rasps and she knew that she was bubbling over with desire. God, this had always been so hard for her -- to just let go and let someone do this to her. But he always demanded it, and something in her kept letting him do it to her. She submitted to him without a fight, now. Because she'd lost that battle a long time ago. He had to see that. How, in spite of everything, he could make her what he wanted her to be. How he could make her beautiful, he could make her feel pure and new to this world. He could make everything feel different. He was kissing her neck... trailing with haste down towards the hollow between her breasts. His hands were on her -- caressing her roughly through the black lace bra, teasing her, making her writhe underneath him. His mouth descended on her without warning, covering one hardened nipple, and sucked it into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the lace. She heard herself gasp out his name again, and her hands went into his hair, holding onto him in anticipation of crumbling into dust.

His hands were underneath her, lifting her up and towards his mouth. He moved away from one breast, nuzzling against her as he moved to the other, and it was only in the momentary break that she realized that he was sliding his hand over the back strap of her bra, trying to find the hook. She reached forward hurriedly, and popped open the front clasp her bra, letting her breasts spill free for him. He pushed the garment off of her impatiently, the lay her flat on the counter.

"You're so beautiful," he groaned, as his mouth closed over her again.

~*~I wish I was special.
You're so fucking special. ~*~

She was incoherent -- absolutely without thought -- until he lifted his head. He started moving down her body, planting wet, sucking kisses on her abdomen, across her stomach. Dug his tongue into her navel. She let out a cry, and he straightened up. For a second she thought he was stopping, and she reached out a hand that caught his. He squeezed it, pausing to give her palm the same treatment he'd just lavished over the rest of her, then let her hand drop. His eyes were on hers. She struggled to speak, to say something, but nothing came. She just stared back at him, feeling utterly helpless.

She felt his hand trail along the skin just above the waist of her jeans. His fingers found the button, and he undid it with a flick of his wrist. She swallowed as his fingers gripped the tab on the zipper. He pulled it down while she raised her hips, like she was offering herself to him. His hands gripped the waist, hooked under the scant underwear she had on underneath, and he pulled them down and off her legs in one swift movement.

In that moment he was, without question, the sexiest thing alive. She sat up, unable to stand the air against her skin one second more. She reached out for him, bringing him close to her again. She started to kiss him -- his skin. His neck... God, he was incredible... the space just under his Adams apple, his collarbone, his chest. She ran her hands up and down his rib cage, raking her nails over him, then slid them down his stomach to his waistband. She unzipped him, pushing the material away without taking her mouth from his skin. He was already hard, and she closed her hand around him. He shuddered against her, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. She leaned into him, letting her teeth graze his shoulder, and she stroked him. He was so beautiful. Did he have any idea? Really any idea of how unbelievable he was? How short he was selling himself by giving all of this to her?

~*~I don't care if it hurts.
I want to lose control. ~*~

Nikolas lifted his head, moving like he was under water. He gently pushed Carly back from him. She looked up at him through half-closed, her lips parted, skin flushed. He cupped her cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb over her lips. He'd never be able to fathom how this had happened to him. How, after losing out so many times, he'd ended up with her. In any capacity.

"Kiss me," he murmured.

She smiled and it about killed him. Her fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of his neck, and she pulled him back to her, her mouth covering his hungrily. He leaned into her, holding the edges of the counter with both hands. She slid forward, her legs hugging his waist, her body arching into him. Her hands slid down his chest, and he felt her pull at his pants and boxers, bringing them down, freeing him.

~*~I want a perfect body.
I want a perfect soul. ~*~

He couldn't wait anymore. It had been too long. He wanted her now -- right now -- He could feel her; warm and wet and GOD, he didn't know how he could stand. He lifted her up, and entered her with an ease that felt completely foreign; it just happened. He was inside her, her arms and legs around him, her breast pressed right up against his chest. For the first time since all of this had started, he felt himself let go. Completely. Just let go and feel nothing but what was going on inside of him. He was unaware of anything else outside of this. That same feeling that had sent him spiraling before -- of being nothing but want and need and sensation. Of barely even being aware of what was existing outside of himself-- or even what constituted outside of himself. She consumed him. Mind, body, soul -- He'd held back for so long -- as much as he was capable of. Now he let go. He reached for her, and he let the love pour out of him.

~*~I want you to notice
When I'm not around~*~*

He kissed her as deeply as he knew how, his hands on her hips, holding her against him. He felt her lean back from him and her arms went around his fingers dug into her skin, possessively. Then her felt her arch into him, her arms locking on the counter top, pushing herself against him. Her body lifted, thrusting towards him. They started to move together. He lifted his head, and saw her eyes again. There was a heavy, drugged look about her, and he gazed into them like he was being drawn right into her. Hypnotized. Her lips grazed over his, quickly taking his lower lip between her teeth, biting him to break the spell.

It worked.

She felt the build in a way she never had before. It felt so small, so subtle at first. She had felt almost detached from what was happening to her. They were slow -- rocking together, almost. Teasing. She'd felt her legs start to shake, this unreal, deep, burning quiver moving through her. Then he leaned into her, pushing her down while she pushed up towards him. His movements becoming stronger, rougher, than they had been before. She'd felt everything -- the hard counter top beneath her, the damp air in the room, him - pressed against her, the sensations coursing through her. And then she felt like she'd suddenly been lifted up -- with a snap back of her neck, her back -- everything broke. It ripped through her, and her hands instinctively grabbed for him. She let out a scream, her nails sinking into his flesh. Then she hadn't felt anything. Nothing -- not until she felt him come inside her, felt his body jerk against her the same way she just had with him. She realized she was lying stretched on the counter again, her legs still shaking, and holding him, his body lying limp against her.

The rain was still beating hard against the window.

~*~I wish I was special.
You're so fucking special. ~*~

She stroked his hair -- soft and damp -- as she drifted back to herself. Felt him lift himself up on one arm, in an attempt to pull himself away from her. She lifted her head, catching his mouth, and kissing him again. Deep and full of gratitude. God, she didn't deserve this. Not one second of it. She felt him move, holding her so that their kiss wasn't interrupted while he found solid ground again. She let him lift her again, so that she was sitting again, on the edge when the kiss finally came to an end.

He let out a sigh, and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her body against him again in a simple hug. Her body felt so much more limp that she expected it to, and she leaned into him, putting her head on his shoulder.

"It wasn't enough," she said, softly.

He made a choking sound -- something related to a laugh -- and raised his head.

"No," his hand gently combed her hair back, and he placed a soft kiss against her neck before murmuring, "It's never enough."

~*~Whatever makes you happy.
Whatever you want.
I wish I was special.
You're so fucking special. ~*~

*** Song Reference: Creep by Radiohead.