Chapter Sixty-Five:
Only Child

Carly leaned against the dinning room table, chin in her hand, as she surveyed the spread laid out before her. It was official: A dent had been made in the wedding gifts. Achievement. There was a concept...

She glanced up at the front door, then turned her attention back to the table top. Reaching out, she ran the tip of her index finger along the curl of the candelabra that sat in the middle of the table. Silver. There was a lot of silver. Crystal. China. Silk. Some gold. And a Picasso.

A small one. A sketch. But A Picasso.

She let out a sigh and let her head drop. It was a lot to digest in a few short hours. Trying to get all this stuff done -- it was not unlike eating too much sugar. She had the distant beginnings of a headache. Her stomach felt queasy. Her face was unnaturally warm.

After Kevin had left, Carly had sat on the couch for a long time, staring blankly at the wall in front of her and trying not to panic. He'd had a proposal -- a simple one, from the sounds of it. Suggested that if she was serious about addressing her problems, then they'd have to get on track as soon as possible. And in order to really understand how it was they were going to work together -- he kept using that phrase, work together -- then they'd have to spend some time together. Hammering out the details. Assessing the situation. She'd agreed.

First appointment was set for Wednesday afternoon.

The second was Friday.

They'd take it from there, he'd said. Decide what the best course of action was. She'd agreed in a state of shock, and the minute he was gone -- maybe before he was even fully out the door, she'd had buyer's remorse.

The next hour had played out with a familiarity that made her feel ill to think of. Nikolas had been there. Waiting and silent. Watching her. And she hadn't wanted him near her -- all over again. She wanted to be alone, she wanted him gone, should couldn't fathom how she'd ended up sharing a house with him. She'd made an excuse, said she'd needed a nap, and ascending the stairs she'd seriously thought that it might be a better plan to just lock herself in the bathroom again, because she couldn't be absolutely sure that he wouldn't follow her.

She hadn't. She'd curled up on top of the bed clothes, reveling in the soft fabric of the crocheted bed spread, the delicate goose down pillows. Good bed, she'd thought as she closed her eyes. How miserable can you be in a bed like this?

She already knew the answer to that, though. She squeezed her eyes shut and begged for sleep and absence of company.

But she couldn't sleep. She could drift off, but she'd jerk awake in quick bursts of panic. Her forehead dotted with perspiration. She wasn't having nightmares -- she was sure of that. She wasn't unconscious long enough. She just couldn't seem to relax. It was maddening -- she ended up staring at the canopy over the bed, counting the multitude of earth tones in the pattern. Sand, sage, blood red. Navy blue. She ran her thumb absently over the ring on her left hand -- sliding the stone back and forth, feeling the smooth gold of the accompanying wedding ring.

Where was Nikolas?

She'd rolled over, checked the clock. She'd been up here awhile. He hadn't come to check on her. More than that, she didn't hear any noises downstairs. Had he gone out? She hadn't heard the door. It wasn't like he was noisy, but usually she had a sense -- just a vague awareness of where he was, whether or not he was near. And that sense had abandoned her. She strained to hear something and it came up empty. I dunno where he is. You go find him.

She'd vaulted off the bed and escaped the bedroom in a flash. Stole down the stairs on the balls of her feet, and found the living room empty. She'd crept down the remaining stairs and moved stealthily around the crate at the bottom. He had to be around here some place...

She found him sitting in the study in an old leather arm chair that her still-unpacked boxes were piled up next to him. He wasn't paying them much attention -- nor the stacks of wedding gifts that he'd had to move aside to clear a path to the corner. He had those folders again -- the ones from work -- and was frowning at a stapled bundle of pages when she discovered him. So involved, from the looks of it, that he didn't notice her in the doorway. Not until she'd cleared her throat.

He'd looked up quickly, but didn't seem that surprised to see her. Asked her if she felt any better. She'd shrugged, and entered the study, looking around at the contents. Glanced back through the door at the piles of packages still waiting for them in the dinning room.

"I couldn't sleep," she'd told him. "There's too much stuff to do."

It had been the sort of idle lie she told without thought, but once she'd said it, something inside of her had seized the idea and made it true. Like a switch being flipped, everything in her turned it's focus onto that -- there was a lot to do. And she had to do it all -- immediately.

"You said you'd help me with the wedding gifts," she'd blurted out. He'd frowned and put down the file.

"Right now?"

"Well," her voice had started to slide up into her throat. "You have to work tomorrow, and if I want to start getting the house in order, then I should start, like... Yeah. Right now."

There was a long pause while he stared inscrutably into her.

"What about your things?"

She knew what he was talking about, and waved an impatient hand towards the boxes. "I'll unpack them tomorrow --" quick glance around the room. "Its all books and knickknacks -- " she'd felt a wave of sadness hit her at the realization that she'd broken that ugly candle holder from her brother. "CD's..." she shook her head. "I just need a shelf. Whichever one is Ok --"

"They're all ok," he'd stood up as he spoke. "It's your choice."

Yeah. Wasn't everything?

"Fine," she'd looked at him pleadingly. "Then help me with the gifts. We have to open them together."

"Together."

That had gotten a small smile and she hadn't realized how much she'd needed to see something like that from him right now. Good, he wasn't mad. . . But then why should he be? Or why shouldn't he... or... Ok. No thinking. Thinking, bad -- she reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him with her as she backed out of the room.

"It's bad luck to open them alone," she'd insisted.

"I've never heard that."

"Well -- if that's not a rule, it should be. And look at all this! It'll take me a week on my own!"

He hadn't really taken much convincing. She wasn't even sure why she'd felt the need to be so dramatic about it. It wasn't like he'd said or done anything to make her think something was wrong. On the other hand... It wasn't like he'd said or done anything, period. And...

He did, usually. Didn't he?

Didn't bear thinking of. Or obsessing about, certainly. Really, all they needed was to do something fun. Wash the taste of lawyers and psychiatrists out of their collective mouth. This shouldn't be work -- it was presents! She coaxed the joy out of herself. Brought it forth and tried to entice him to join her.

It didn't, strictly speaking, work. Not that he was acting strange, really... his behavior was just enough on this side of innocuous to leave her wondering. He was... quiet. Still. But he spoke to her -- they talked through that whole ordeal. But it was very much about the business of wedding gifts. Who was what and from where. And if she cracked a joke, he only half-laughed. If she asked a question, there was always a pause before the answer. Everything had some sort of importance, or pedigree. Nikolas seemed to understand what it all meant -- though for all his comprehension, he was consistently unmoved. Edging on bored. He was letting her open everything, occupying himself with making notes on what came from who. She made him guess with every package she opened, and he was always vaguely correct. In that he'd name the material, the genre of gift. Often, the artistic period.

The fact was, after awhile, her own head had started to spin. And now, looking over the spread in front of her, it occurred to her. All she really wanted was ice cream. Because ice cream was, universally, fun -- And this was wearing on her.

"All right," Nikolas's voice came from over her shoulder, and she turned to see him entering through the kitchen, when he had exited from the front door. "I got it."

Tunnels. She should put a bell on the entryway.

"That didn't take long," she commented as he approached, holding aloft the key to the rest of the enterprise which they had, until this moment, been missing.

"Ask and you shall receive," he said, wryly. He held the length of metal out to her, swinging it up and offering it with both hands -- head bowed like some mythical knight. She grinned as she took it from him.

"Very nice," she observed, testing the weight. "This is going to be a first. Never had to open a present with a crowbar before."

"We can --"

She rolled her eyes. "Get someone to do this for us. I know -- you said. This from someone who learned to make a bed for -- what? Fun?"

"Lifestyle choice. But be my guest."

"With pleasure," she murmured, her eyes sweeping the room until they collided with the large crate at the bottom of the stairs. So big she kept forgetting it wasn't really ugly furniture. "Ok. That one. Who's that from?"

He looked in it's direction with terrible fatigue. "Fredrique Louis de Lioncourte."

"French." She stated the obvious.

"By ancestry. He's in Venice, now." His brow furrowed. "Or Vienna."

"Aren't those in different countries?"

"Radically." he leaned back against the arm of the couch as she approached the box. She ran a hand over the wood.

"So you guys are close."

"I've met him somewhere in the vicinity of six times. The last one when I was ten, I think."

Carly stopped, crowbar poised over the box, and looked back at him. "Are any of these from people you've seen since you were ten?"

He picked up the pad of paper that held the list of gifts already received. "Yes."

"How about people you've met more than six times?"

"Of course," he murmured with apparent disinterest, as he wrote down the name of the newest psuedo-aristocrat. "Some of these, I've met at least a dozen times."

She paused, something occurring to her. She'd been opening all of these, thinking how weird it was, to get piles of opulent, ridiculously extravagant gifts from people she'd never met. Reading cards addressed to her, wishing her a life time of happiness, and not even being able to pronounce the name of the sender. Never had so many people wished her well. And she didn't know a single one of them. It dawned on her, now, that Nikolas didn't, particularly, either. In fact, in the stacks of gifts and cards and well-wishes, there wasn't a single, solitary item from someone Nikolas actually seemed to care about.

"It's weird."

"What is?" He asked without looking up.

She gave a half shrug, trying to cover the shivery sensation that had just crept up her spine. "This place -- pretty much have wedding gifts to the rafters but they aren't from people we know. I mean -- apart from your father."

He stared at the floor a long moment before saying "My brother gave us some muffins."

"Seriously? When?"

"Morning after the news broke -- I ran into him at Kelly's. It was either a wedding gift or a backhanded apology for being so obnoxious." A beat. "It must have been a wedding gift."

Carly rolled her eyes and turned back to the box. She hooked the crowbar under the rim and started to pull again. "That's uncharacteristically nice."

"He has brief attacks of empathy. Or pity."

"I thought what you liked about Lucky was how he never feels sorry for you."

"Right." He responded after a weighted pause. Enough that she got the feeling he was unnerved by the comment. Like she wasn't supposed to remember details like that. "He's been different lately. I think it has something to do with me marrying Bobbie's daughter."

"Ah," she pulled hard on the crowbar and the wood gave a satisfying crack. "That would inspire pity."

"That's not what I meant."

"Yeah," she tossed a wry look over her shoulder. "But it's what you said. Don't you hate it when that happens?"

He didn't answer while the box let out another groaning creak of parting wood. "I get the feeling you don't like him."

She shrugged while catching her breath. "I get the feeling he's not sure what my name is."

He, thankfully, didn't pick up the joke just begging to be made. "He told me how you took your coffee."

"Must be love." The board started to give way -- and just in time. The rough edge of the metal was heating, burning her hands with the friction of trying to pry the board loose. "Ha!" She turned back to him, holding up her arm in triumph. "You sure you don't want to try this? Destruction is fun!"

"I'm fine watching the show." His voice was odd and detached.

"Your call," she said, turning back and hooking the crowbar under the lip of the box, on the opposite side. She played it off like nothing was wrong. Like doing that was going to make everything feel 'right'. There was a chance that she was reading too much into this. That Nikolas was just tired and -- ok, maybe bored -- and everything was fine. Nothing was bothering him. She kept telling herself that while she worked on the box, loosening the board. Finally, it was ready to come off, she had no other stalling technique.

"Guesses?" she asked, before the last big push.

"Grandfather clock." his voice sounded utterly dead. She felt that same shivery feeling return, but didn't turn around.

"Ok," She pushed the bar and the wood cracked again as the nails were forced from the rest of the box. "Timber!"

The board fell away easily, caught by the few nails at the bottom. She put down the crowbar and pulling it away from the box to reveal...

A grandfather clock. A very nice one, as these things went. Granted, she didn't have much to compare it to, but it was a dark stained wood, and there were ornate carvings around the clock face that suggested that it was more than the normal, every day, grandfather clock.

"Well," she said, finally. "You win again."

"Imagine that." He said it so quietly, she wasn't sure he'd meant her to hear it. But she turned on her heel, looking at him with distress and confusion.

"You don't like it?"

He wasn't looking at it

"Honestly?" he said, after a long moment. "I don't think I care, one way or the other."

That stung. More than she'd expected it to. She didn't waste time trying to figure out why -- just let the anger mix in with her anxiety, her insecurity, and turn it into something she could, at least, use.

"Well, hey," she snarked, tossing one hand up in the air. "Don't let me keep you. If you don't want to do this, you can just call it a night."

He raised his eyes to hers, but said nothing. It was unnerving -- she wasn't accustomed to melancholy Nikolas. And that was what she was faced with here -- melancholy, incommunicative, Nikolas. When he spoke, he didn't acknowledge her tone. "It has to get done."

"It doesn't have to get done together. I don't want to bore you."

Another impossible to read pause. "I thought you said it was bad luck."

"I made it up," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "And if you didn't want to do this, I wish you'd just say so."

Wow, she thought in some distant region of her brain, I really sound like a wife.

Nikolas, for his part, glanced away before saying. "We've been at this a long time. I'm tired."

She stared at him. Ok. That was it. Wasn't just her. Wasn't just in her head. Something was wrong.

"That's it?" She asked, skeptically. "You're tired?"

He glanced up at her. "What else would it be?"

The definition of a loaded question. And she wondered if he was seriously expecting her not to guess its answer. Like she hadn't seen what 'tired' looked like on him. Like there wasn't some other hint as to what was going on.

"It does bother you, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

"That all this stuff..." Her voice trailed off. She wanted to ask him - why didn't he have more friends than this? Why were they standing in a room brimming with tributes to him and his stature, that all felt a mile away from who he actually was? The more she thought about it, the more it was creeping her out. She wanted to know why these people didn't matter to him. Why the ones who did seem to matter to him were pretty much absent from all of this. She pushed out her breath, running her hands through her hair. Stared hard at a Lalique vase sitting on top of an ornately carved teak box. "It was a really nice thing, what your father gave us," she came up with, eventually.

"Yeah. It was."

"Right," her eyes moved back to him. "And your mother hasn't even sent a card."

Technically, she could have made a convincing argument for ignorance on that comment. It wasn't like they'd had a lot of deep, meaningful conversations on this topic. But the truth was -- she knew exactly what she was doing. She was jumping right into the deep end. He flinched -- tensed so quickly she would have missed it if she hadn't been looking for it.

"My mother knows better than to send something."

She nodded slightly, her eyes searching him. "Because of Luke."

"Because of me."

And there it was again. The shaky, shivery, something's-not-right feeling.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does," he was saying his words far too carefully.

She shifted her weight. "You just never really talk about her."

"We've talked about her."

"Once. Sort of."

There was a slight pause before he answered, "I don't have much to say."

"She's your mother."

He snapped his head up. "How much do you have to say about your father?"

Her face heated immediately, and she stepped back, nearly colliding with the box behind her. She knew that tactic, though -- Misdirection. It was one of her personal favorites.

"Which one?" she didn't bother to keep the acrimony out of her voice. "Frank Benson or the sperm donor? Cause in both cases -- It's been awhile."

The room fell into a decidedly tense and uncomfortable silence. Nikolas held her gaze, his jaw tight, eyes angry -- until that innate sense of decency forced him into remorse.

"I shouldn't have brought it up."

"Kinda unlike you," she agreed. Fair, maybe. But unlike him.

"It doesn't bother me," he returned to the original topic. "It would bother me if she did send something."

"Why?"

The set of his jaw suggested irritation. "She'd be doing it for the wrong reasons."

"What would the right ones be?" The words just leapt off her tongue and they were the first ones, since she'd first brought Laura up, that seemed to register with him. And by register, she meant that the air rushed out of his lungs like she'd just hit him in the stomach.

"This isn't about my mother."

She really, really, should back away from this topic.

"Yeah, but it's about something, right?"

He looked over at her, his expression twisted like he meant to be smiling, but wasn't quite getting there. "Can we talk about almost anything else?"

Carly hunched her shoulders in response to his tone. "It's not like I'm putting you in front of a firing squad! I'm just trying to figure out what's going on."

His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to say something before stopping and the edge of a realization. She watched his expression change into something softer and infinitely more confused.

"You're worried."

She shifted her weight, uncomfortable at something in his tone. "Don't look so shocked. This isn't exactly standard operating procedure here."

"You make me sound like a robot."

Well, she thought. At least I've got some experience in the arena.

"Hey, no one's going to be able to say you don't make me work," she said with a slight laugh. Bit her lip, hard, to keep it from turning into a sob. She let her eyes fall to the floor and studied the hardwood intently while trying to work out the rest of her sentence. If it wasn't about Laura, then it had to be about her, right? Or -- more likely -- this afternoon. Something with Kevin. Something she said that was too much or too bizarre or was finally scaring him off and any moment now --

"I guess it's inevitable."

He mumbled the sentence and it took her a moment to absorb that he'd spoken.

"What?"

He was staring down at the floor as well. "We have to have this conversation eventually."

"What conversation is that?"

"The one about my mother."

Oh. Right. That conversation. They both let the topic lay there, rolling around in the space between them. Carly leaned her body back against the bannister behind her. It felt steady -- like it would hold her up. Across from her, Nikolas stayed frighteningly still -- leaning against the side of the couch, both hands holding the arm. Finally she cleared her throat.

"Any particular detail you had in mind?"

He didn't move a muscle -- his lips barely moved as he spoke and the tone crept up Carly's spine. "I told you about what happened. When I found out who I was."

She rolled her shoulder, trying to deny the shiver that was moving through her body. "Yeah."

"I left part of the story out." That was all he offered for a long moment. Didn't lift his eyes, didn't give her a chance to see what was going on inside his head. Finally he murmured, "I told you I came back to the island. And I told you that then, I left. But I didn't tell you what happened. In between." His brow furrowed. "I've never told anyone this story."

Carly felt like her head had suddenly disconnected from her body. Wait. What was she doing here? Laura was a bad topic -- too many parallels, too many invitations for comparison. And details aside -- Nikolas and Laura had problems. Hell, she'd known that before she'd known anything else about him.

But he'd never told anyone this story before. And now he was going to tell it to her.

She swallowed hard and said the only thing she could think of. "Ok."

It came out soft and surprisingly sincere, given how stark she was feeling. He kept studying the floor. Looking, she suspected, for starting point.

"That night..." he started, finally -- speaking low and carefully. Like he was sifting through memory for some barely-recalled rhyme from childhood. Like every word was known, but illusive. Spoken without knowing exactly what was going to come next. "It was late, around 3 am -- before I came back to the island. My father... was not happy. But wasn't much in the position to lecture me. I didn't want to talk about what had happened -- I couldn't. Talk about it." He took a breath. "I didn't have anything to say. I couldn't stand to listen to him, either. He was scared... I knew that. He was terrified that he was about to lose me. And I didn't have anything to say to comfort him. Because I didn't know what was happening -- I didn't know, I couldn't feel anything."

She nodded. She knew of what he spoke.

"The sun came up the next day... And I couldn't stand to be in the house. I didn't want to talk to anyone, see anyone. Or be seen." he stopped again. Swallowed, before continuing. "But I couldn't stand to be on the island. I wanted to be miles away, but I didn't leave. I went down to the docks. But nothing more. I didn't go anywhere where I couldn't be found. Because I was waiting for something."

"Your mother."

"My mother."

She nodded. Her scalp was tingling. Throat tight. She'd seen this movie. Long ago, but she'd definitely seen this movie.

"It was a Friday," he continued, slowly. Methodically. "The party -- it was on a Friday. She came to see me Sunday. After the sun went down. I don't remember what time."

"Two days later."

"Yes."

She shook her head. "Wow."

"When I came down the stairs and I saw her... " He fell into silence, frowning down at the floor. Like it was reflective. Like he could see this all running in front of his eyes. "She looked like someone in a Munch painting. Those women he'd paint who looked lost and hollowed out. She was wearing a long black coat and her hair was wild. She'd been crying." He stopped then, and she didn't breathe. It felt fragile, this moment. Like if she so much as moved he'd suddenly come to. Stop talking. She desperately wanted to hear the rest. "She told me Luke had left."

"Left."

"Town." He let that sit a moment. It was an unnecessary clarification, anyway. Luke shot out of Port Charles at least once a year -- sometimes more -- with less encouragement than finding out his wife had been lying about her previously unmentioned son's paternity. "She thought she'd lost her family," he said finally. His voice was soft and distant. Dangerously close to sympathetic. "That's what it was. That's why she looked like that. Her whole world had been Luke, Lucky, Lulu. And they were ripped apart. It was mostly my doing."

She started at those words. "No," she came away from the bannister. "No way is that because of you!"

He looked at her, which stopped her dead. She wasn't expecting it -- that lifting of his head, or the look of wry resignation on his lips.

"It was," he said, simply. "I came here. And it all unraveled from there."

Carly held herself tighter against the cold feeling that was wrapping itself around her. This was hard to hear. From anyone, it would be hard to hear. For her... hearing it from him... she couldn't think about the whys and wherefores. But it hurt. As much as she felt compelled to keep listening -- she felt like someone had knocked the wind out of her. "Nikolas --"

"She looked devastated," he cut her off. "And tired. Like something she'd been running from her whole life had finally caught up with her. And I just watched her -- Like she was on the other side of the glass at a museum." His lips started to curve up. "I felt sorry for her. She made so many decisions, she made so many concessions for that man. I don't think I really realized -- not in a way I could feel -- how much she must love him. To do what she's done, to leave things behind, and to forget things that were too ugly for her to deal with..." The smile -- if that's what it was -- snapped off. "And then I stepped back and remembered that I was her son. And that my world had been turned upside down, too. By then she was telling me about Lucky. How he was furious at her. How now it was just as bad as it had been when he'd moved out -- And now she couldn't find him, and Elizabeth wouldn't tell her where he'd gone and she was worried he might do something stupid. "

"Like what?"

"I don't know," he sighed, heavily. "I don't know what she thought. She was saying that to me, and I thought 'am I supposed to care?' That Lucky's feelings are hurt? Or that he's feeling disillusioned. Again." He shook himself. "I don't mean that in a cruel way, I just... i didn't care how it effected Lucky. "

"Yeah, I get that." She said it with bile he lacked. A hard lump of anger was simmering in the pit of her stomach. This was unreal.

"She told me about Lulu, too. How she was upset, and crying and scared about the yelling and Daddy being gone --" he stared into space, blankly, a moment. "As if 'Daddy' was ever around for more than ten minutes. All of this stuff was just spilling out of her mouth -- a lot of it didn't make sense. Or just felt like it was so distantly related to the truth... I remembering wondering which one of us was crazy, because it seemed impossible that we were both sane."

He stopped talking then. For nearly a full minute, he just stared off into the distance, not looking at her, not making any move to acknowledge her existence.

"What did you say?" she prodded, finally.

He pulled in his breath. "I didn't say anything. I just let her talk. And eventually she was finished and she asked me how I was. But I didn't know how I was." He looked directly at her then -- eyes grabbing hers where she stood -- just feet away, arms still wrapped around herself protectively. "I'd been waiting for her. That was the thing -- I was waiting for her to come and make sense out of this. To say something or do something that was going to make it real. Make it feel like something had changed. But... The more she talked the more everything felt like it was just like it had always been. So when she asked me if I was all right -- I told her I finally knew who's son I was. And I was glad for that."

"And then?" Her mouth felt strange and numb.

Nikolas dropped his eyes again. "I really don't remember much more of it. She stayed for awhile. I guess I must have said some things, or she would have left sooner. But mostly, I think she just talked. And she tried to tell me that she and my father had fallen in love -- that..." He seemed to run out of breath there. Shook his head like he was trying to knock an idea, a thought, out of it. "After she left I went upstairs and I packed a bag and I left. And when I came back I told my father that accepting him as my father -- my actual biological father -- wasn't an issue. Not even remotely. And the next time I saw my mother..." he glanced up at her again. "I told her I didn't want to have a relationship with her anymore."

She nodded, but still asked "Why?"

"I didn't see the point. Eventually you have to admit the truth to yourself and end the agony. She didn't seem to be able to do it. And I didn't feel like I had any other choice. Because it really might kill me to have to sit through her telling me how worried she is about Luke one more time. Even if my world isn't spinning on a different axis than it was 48 hours earlier." He let out his breath. Smiled slightly -- at what, she could only guess. "Does that make anymore sense?"

It did. But she still felt like pieces were missing. It was too calm, too methodical. But did she really know him well enough to say if it was or wasn't the truth? It was part of the story. And he'd told her when he'd never said it to anyone else. That alone made her feel light-headed.

"She just accepted that. She didn't try to fix things?"

He looked like she'd just said something hopelessly naive. "I've known my mother for five years now -- and she makes gestures when it's convenient -- When no one is around to tell her why she shouldn't. Or when she thinks it's what she should do. I think, at first, she thought I had hurt feelings -- so she did try. She thought she could fix it. But... There's nothing to fix. We kept trying to be something we're not -- and when I watch her try to pretend there's more between us than there is... It makes me angry. And frankly? It hurts -- when you reach out to someone and they don't reach back. She doesn't like the pain."

"Neither do you."

It was hard to describe what happened in that moment. But it was like she'd reached out and had torn the mask from his face. So suddenly it seemed to catch him by surprised and for an instant he looked agonized. Devastated, exposed. He turned away too fast, right as she started to move to him. It galvanized her -- pushed away the heat of the anger and chill of her own ghosts and brought forward a purpose. To hell with the gifts and the weird and everything else. All she wanted to do at that moment was fix this. To get that look out of his eyes.

"Nikolas," she said his name gently, crossing a few steps towards him. She stopped, standing just in front him, aware that he'd pulled back as she'd approached -- as well he could, without clearing the couch.

"It was a long time ago," he mumbled in her general direction. "It's over."

Ha. And who do you think you're talking to? She reached out, touching the collar of his shirt with uncertain fingers, before pulling herself into the intimate space in front of him. He didn't move back, but she got the distinct impression he wanted to. Her brain was moving too quickly -- absorbing the things he'd said -- sticking stubbornly on things like 'two days' and then bumping up against... The things she'd seen. The look on Laura's face when she'd come across her at the Nurse's Ball. The things she'd said in Bobbie's living room.

"I--" Deep breath. You don't need to say this. Hell, you probably shouldn't say this. "I saw her." He went still. But he didn't push her away. She squeezed her eyes shut. "I talked to her," she whispered, half hoping he wouldn't hear her. He just shook his head at her. Didn't speak and she understood that it was probably because he didn't trust himself. She put both hands on him, palms flat against his chest, while she tried to catch his eyes. "She wanted to know if you were ok."

Nikolas shifted against the couch. "Don't."

She pressed a kiss against the turned cheek. "At least she cares."

"I don't," his voice matched the tremor that was working it's way through the rest of him. Climbing up his arms, into his chest. There was a desperate quality to him all of the sudden. A panic. "I can't care."

She rested her forehead against his temple. "Ok."

It wasn't enough. He shifted his weight again, restlessly, like he was trying to pull free of something without pushing her away. "I don't want you to talk to her. She doesn't have a right --" he broke off. Took a breath before trying again. "When?" He asked, turning back towards her, his head bowed. Their foreheads pressed together. "When did you --"

"She was at Bobbie's," No point in not just giving it up now. "When I was packing."

He pulled back, then. Looked up at her, studying her eyes. "Did she know you were there?"

"If she did, she deserves the Oscar."

His jaw tightened. "It's none of her business. Who I spend time with, who I want to be with..." Another shaky breath just as his voice started to escalate. "What did you say to you?"

She tried to take a step back and he grabbed the sleeve of her shirt. Held it hard enough to surprise her. "She was just worried. That's all."

He found that funny. It was unnerving -- the look in his eyes, the hollowness of his laugh. "Did she make you feel sorry for her?"

She grimaced. "Mostly she just made me mad."

"You didn't tell me."

"I didn't think you'd like it. And..." she exhaled. "I wasn't very nice to her." She decided to leave out the bit about sex and voodoo. There was really no way to explain that exchange without sounding crazy. Instead she stepped back to him -- ran her free hand up his arm, his shoulder. She felt him let go of her sleeve, and draped the other arm around him, pressing her face into his neck. Kissing the tender skin there before saying "I hate anyone who hurts you."

Even, she thought, when it's me.

"She barely knows me."

His voice was so tight she could feel the pain radiating from him ricocheting off of her. It was intense -- made her knees feel weak, her heart lodge in her throat. She sunk her fingers into his hair. Nuzzled his neck affectionately, then straightened up, laying soft kisses on his temple while he stared over her shoulder at nothing. Holding some spot on the wall hostage while he tried to push the emotions away. The effort was pointless against her attempts to bring him back to her. Her hands touching him -- with tenderness. Affection. Despite what looked to be a valiant effort, his eyes filled with tears. He bowed his head quickly like there was a chance in hell he could hide it from her.

"I'm sorry," she murmured to him softly. Didn't seem to be much else to say -- and she meant, more than anything else, that she shouldn't have brought it up. Or maybe she just shouldn't have understood it. It seemed to hurt him, to have her relate. But what else could she do? She could feel it -- unreal how much she could feel this -- that this was something that was with him. All the time.

"Don't be," he forced the words out and looked up again. Eyes still shinning, his mouth twitching in an attempt to turn itself into something that spoke to nonchalance. "I'm fine."

She smiled slightly. Liar.

"I shouldn't have asked," she tried to move closer to him, but he leaned back -- at an almost precarious angle. She stopped dead. "Nikolas."

"We should finish this," he nodded towards the still-untouched gifts. She noticed his hands were holding the arm of the couch like it was a life raft.

"Yeah," she purposely misconstrued him. "We should."

Lips grazed his Adam's apple, and she heard him swear softly. In some language she couldn't speak, but she could guess the impetus. She'd heard him say that word enough times when she hit just the right button. "It's ok," she whispered against his skin. "It's all ok."

He shook his head, hard. "You don't need to comfort me."

"Not what I'm doing," she protested, moving to taste the skin just under his chin. He let out a low, rumbling purring sound before trying to protest.

"You're..."

"Making you feel better."

He turned his head towards her and grabbed her mouth with his. Hands still holding the arm of the couch, his kiss was immediate and demanding. He kissed her like he was drowning. Where it was half hoping to be pulled out of the water, and half starting to drag her down with him. She could feel that -- either save me or join me -- and for reasons she'd never be able to understand, it didn't scare her. In fact -- as his hands finally left the arms and came to drag her body between his legs, she was realizing she didn't care which one it ended up being. She wanted to feel close to him -- she wanted him to feel the same thing. It that moment, she was willing to go where he needed to and there was no other thought in her head.

They made it as far as the landing.

Cold water. Frigid, powerful, startling glacial cold water. Something that cleared cobwebs. That brought you into the here and now without ceremony -- put you in touch with the most basic and unavoidable elements of yourself. Turned your world into simple opposites -- cold, hot. Dark, light. Good, bad. Stupid, smart.

Water so cold it hurt. It ached. That's what he was looking for. Not this. This stuff pouring out of the tap -- This was vaguely cool. Politely tepid. This was not getting the job done.

Nikolas flipped off tap with a disgusted flick of his wrist, and reached for a towel to catch the streams of water running down his neck. Then he raised his eyes to his reflection. Exactly where, his eyes demanded of him, do you get this rampant affection for self-debasement? Not just unattractive -- dumb. Pathetic.

Roughly sixty-five percent of the time, Nikolas was vaguely satisfied with who he was. With the skills he had, the talents -- things he could do, the efficiency with which he could do them. The other thirty-five percent tended to be varying shades of gray. Depending on the weather. The time of day. How long it had been since he'd been subjected to the Spencers.

Moments like these were in the extreme minority. Moments where he really just loathed himself. Didn't happen all that often, but sometimes -- for as long as he'd allow himself to play the game -- he could really hate everything about himself.

In other circles this might be what's known as remorse. Though Nikolas didn't have a lot of patience with regrets -- after all, what was done was generally done, and if he thought about these sorts of things too much, he inevitably ended up some place he didn't want to be. He listened to enough of his parents excuses and rationalizations to not particularly enjoy his own. So he usually didn't indulge himself. Tonight, he didn't seem to have much choice. His reserves of self-control were being rapidly depleted.

Why had he told her that story?

WHY? For what reason? To make her feel sorry for him? To make sure she stayed miles away from what was really bugging him? Because she looked like she was actually concerned about him? Something must have made it look like an option. He wanted that part of himself surgically removed.

Probably, it was the distraction. Unearth some ancient hurt so that he didn't have to think about what he was feeling right at that moment. Buy now, pay indefinitely.

It would help if he was anything even vaguely altruistic about this. His inability to put it aside, to pretend that everything was ok. But it was selfish -- no other way to look at it. It was about fear and jealousy and possessiveness. It was about how much he hated Jason Morgan. How he wanted to crush AJ Quartermaine when he saw the way he looked at Carly. It was about existing on the outside. It was always about that.

He had no right to have any reaction to this. None. It had nothing to do with him. He'd been telling himself that for a good ten hours. There was a chance that, eventually, it would sink in.

When she'd told Kevin that she was on Depo Privera, he'd recognized the name -- advantages of running a hospital, he tended to be up to date on these sorts of things. Drug protocols, FDA findings, changes in birth control...

Still. When she'd gone up to bed, he'd gone into the study and opened his lap top. It had taken seconds to find what he was looking for -- Depo Privera: A New Choice. It was a shot. It essentially removed any chance, outside of those statistically unlucky few, of pregnancy. Like temporary sterilization. Required every four months to be infallible, it could prevent pregnancy for up to two years.

He'd skimmed the information. The web page had read like a brochure, and once he'd gotten the basics, he'd shut the computer down and immediately picked up the first file he could lay his hands on. GTE's quarterly earnings for the last three years. Sure. Why not?

Didn't change anything, he'd told himself while the numbers swam in front of his eyes. Nothing.

He wanted to break something. He couldn't shake that feeling. Part of the reason he'd let Carly open all the gifts. He didn't trust himself not to suddenly hurl one of them across the room. Pointless, personality-less gestures from people he didn't know -- Yes, Carly had nailed that one. He hadn't felt much like talking about it.

Temporary insanity. That was the only explanation for why Laura had seemed like such an appropriate alternative. Because underneath his attempts to pretend that none of this mattered, was a barely contained rage. A feeling that something had been taken away from him. Even if it was just an outside possibility of something he wasn't sure he wanted. It was because the conception of a child was something that would link him to Carly in a tangible and unmovable way. Or at least -- that's what it was in theory. Because that parent/child bond. It wasn't always so absolute.

So he'd told her. Something he hadn't even told his father. What Laura had said to him that night. Why it had brought him to his senses, finally. And it had led, inevitably, places he didn't want to follow. Dragged him down like it always did. He hated that. He hated not being stronger than it. And he couldn't stand the idea that Carly had seen it.

And then... there was the remote possibility that, on some level... He wanted her to feel sorry for him. He tasted bile at the thought. It disgusted him. But if nothing else, he knew he could wring compassion out of people. Poor Little Rich Boy. Life had been so unfair. Hey, if you can't get people's respect, love, admiration -- at least you can get their pity.

He dropped his head, averting his eyes from the mirror, before he smashed it. He had to get a grip on himself. What was done, was done. And this was pointless. And if he didn't stop right now, it was only going to get worse.

He braced himself, elbows locked, over the basin and breathed. That usually did the trick. Breathe just right, eventually it wasn't anything you couldn't blame on fatigue.

When he exited the bathroom less than ten minutes later, Carly was already in bed. Sitting up, a large picture book propped on her knees, she was frowning at the pages like they'd just personally insulted her.

"Problem?" He asked mildly as he crossed the room. She looked up at him, then back at the book.

"No... I'm thinking," she groaned, letting the book drop onto the lap. "About Mrs. Landsbury. And that." She was indicating the empty space in the corner where the dressing table had sat. "We need more furniture."

"Right now?" He was looking at a candle lit on the bedside table -- votive. Vanilla. It hadn't been there when he'd left the room.

"Yeah," she half laughed. "If you don't want to have everything piled up in the living room for the next month. We have to figure out where to put stuff."

She must have been giving this a lot of thought, because she launched into a list of options -- furniture pieces, styles, options. Whether they wanted to keep everything in the house, what rooms things should go into, what rooms were being used for what in the first place. It was very stream of consciousness -- thinking out loud. No pauses. He wasn't sure how she was breathing.

He put a hand over the candle, with seeming absent thought, while she talked. Lowered it slowly until the blast of heat was about to burn him, then brought his hand up again and repeated the action -- seeing if he could go closer to the flame that time.

"What are you doing?" Carly had stopped mid-sentence on the third descent. He cut the flame with is index finger and looked over at her blankly.

"Listening to you."

She frowned at him. "You're being spooky."

He ignored the comment. "Where did it come from?"

"My boxes," she said, tossing the book aside and sliding down into the bed. "I opened a few -- I have more candles than I have bath gel." She gave him an odd look. "I didn't know you were into fire."

"I'm tired."

"That's really your answer for everything tonight, isn't it?" She gave him a smile that should be illegal, then reached out, drawing the bed clothes aside, inviting him in. His eyes fixed, for a moment, on the top sheet, then traveled slowly towards her. She was lying on her side, propped up on one elbow. Wearing a silk thigh-length night gown -- Think straps, that would easily slide off her shoulders with the gentlest touch. She looked like temptation. Beautiful, sexy, touchable. Looking at him in a way that was far friendlier than he deserved. With a heavy sigh, he climbed into the bed next to her. She scooted over to him, cuddling up against his chest as he settled into the pillows. She leaned over him, pausing to kiss him softly, before reaching out and snapping off the lamp on his side of the bed. The room was plunged into soft candle light and she smiled at him again -- softly this time. Fondly. -- before laying her head down on his shoulder.

His life made no sense whatsoever.

His arm came around her, holding her close to him so that it would be just that much more difficult for her to decide to retreat back to her side of the bed. She showed no signs of that, though. Just lay against him, fingertips trailing lightly over his skin. He waited -- For what, he wasn't sure. It just felt like something was coming.

"Old picture," she observed, finally. It took Nikolas moment to work out what she was talking about -- he had to follow her gaze toward the bedside table. There was a small framed picture there -- silver frame, with a black and white picture of a little girl looking up at the camera with enormous eyes. Lulu. Age four. He hadn't put that there. It was, generally, on his dresser.

"She gives me one of those little school pictures every year. I just like that one."

Carly snuggled closer to him. "How long has it been since you saw her?"

He put the photograph down -- face down -- on the table again. "A few weeks."

"Before all this happened."

"Yeah."

"Is that normal? To go that long without seeing her?"

He resisted the urge to shift away from her. Night of a thousand conversations he didn't want to have. How had this happened?

"Sometimes."

"What does that mean?"

He gave her a look that suggested he knew she was attempting to take some blame for this. "You really do ask a lot of questions all of the sudden."

She let out a slow breath that slid across his skin. "Just trying to catch up."

Right. That.

"Sometimes I see her once a week. Sometimes it's every other week. Sometimes the best we can do is once a month," he gave a half shrug. "It comes down to where we can fit each other in."

"What's the deal there?"

"With what?" he started to count half-diamond shapes in the canopy.

"With your sister. And the wacky visitation schedule."

"It's not a schedule." Everything he said came out of his mouth with this disinterested lilt. As if it was only vaguely worth speaking of and not something he gave any attention whatsoever in the general course of events. She wasn't buying it. He turned his face towards her. Kissed the top of her head and let his eyes close before saying "You'd be amazed how full the itinerary of a six year old girl can get."

"Hmmm. Let me guess. Ballet lessons, play dates, birthday parties..."

"... Figure skating, soccer, day camp..." he listed off. She tilted her face up to him and he gave a half smile. "I try to fit wherever she can pencil me in." There was a look in her eyes that looked distressingly similar to sympathy, so he lowered her voice and mouth so that his lips grazed hers as he spoke. "Is that enough information for now?"

She kissed him again. Gently, though, Tender affection, rather than tempting sensuality. He let out a sigh when she pulled back. Looked down at her expectantly while her eyes darted over his face. She frowned, and then pulled back, struggling up on one elbow.

"Do you..." she started. "Do you want to have kids?"

Internally he went cold. Externally, he just turned his face into the pillow. What. The. Hell.

"What brought that up?" he spoke into the pillow. Even to his own ears he sounded utterly unmoved by the question. Carly's head settled against his shoulder again and she drew a few careful circles on his chest before speaking again.

"I don't know. Lulu. The way you are with Michael." Fingers reversed their direction, now circling counterclockwise. She could keep doing that -- it was very distracting. He needed distracting. "You didn't seem happy when Kevin asked me about my birth control."

Not that distracting.

"I didn't know you were on anything that..." chose the word carefully. "Definitive."

"Mama asked me to go on it," she was speaking in a small voice. "I'm bad with pills. And responsibility."

"You never said anything."

"You never asked."

True. Not because it hadn't crossed his mind. Mostly because he just couldn't bring himself to care. A pregnancy -- a baby -- was a bad idea right now. Up there with investing in the NASDQ. Carly did not need the upheaval it would bring. And neither of them needed yet another person involved in this marriage. On paper, he's probably agree that it was smart not to start talking about starting a family until at least two years into the marriage. There was the depression. There was the custody of Michael. There was the fact that they'd only known each other a month... Arguments could be made. And they were good arguments.

But he'd wanted the possibility. There it was -- he hadn't wanted that door to be as firmly closed as it was.

"You didn't answer the question," she mumbled into his chest.

The question. Did he want kids?

Yes.

He'd always wanted kids. First of all -- he was just flat out supposed to have them. Family line, title to pass down, last of the Cassadine Princes... And who cared? He wanted kids. It was something he'd known with even more force when he'd met Lulu. When he'd felt that connection to this small, innocent, safe being. When he'd felt that instant love flare up inside him. That feeling of belonging. He'd wanted it enough to uproot his entire life and stay in Port Charles. The desire to be a father, one day, felt primal. More than a want. It was a need.

But. If she didn't want to have children with him... If Michael was all she wanted...

Then he wasn't going to have children.

So it had to be a want. If necessary, it had be exorcised completely.

"Maybe," he answered, finally. One day." He fingers stilled against him. A long silence, loaded silence followed. "You don't."

"I didn't say that."

He didn't want to have this conversation. Not here. Not now. God, this was why. Why he had never asked about birth control. Because he didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to lose this already.

"You have kids," he murmured. Breathe. You can do this. Just breathe -- slowly. Into your gut. You'll get through. You'll get through.

"A kid. Singular."

"But it's enough," he pressed. "You might not want more."

"I can't..." she ground her head against him. "God, Nikolas -- " Her breath rushed out, spreading over him. Hot turning cold. Cold enough to ache. "My head feels so full. I can't put two ideas together -- all I can work out is what I'm feeling..." she laughed, humorlessly. "And most of the time, I'm not sure I've got that right, either."

"That's fine," he said, numbly.

"I never looked forward. I don't know what I wanted besides something other than what I had. I've got that now." She took a careful breath. "I'm really scared, Nikolas."

"You don't have to be scared."

"I know." She smiled at him and it wasn't entirely stable. "Gut reaction." She turned her face into his chest. Her voice was muffled against his skin. "I don't want to lose you."

"Won't happen."

"And I want to give you what you want."

Oh, God. Oh, God, please... Please.

"It's not time." He said it softly. Make it safe. Just let the possibility remain. That's all he wanted right now. Just the chance -- the outside chance, if that's what it had to be.

She nodded. Her eyes had filled up with tears and her voice quaked when she spoke again. "I have to get Michael back first. I just... I have to know I can do that."

He nodded. He understood. That was the absurd part of all of this -- he really did understand. "We'll get Michael back," he assured her, hand coming up to comb her hair back from her face. "It's not a question."

She smiled again. Lopsided. Beautiful. He lifted his head and moved to kiss her. She accepted it and it was very nearly grateful. He could feel that -- and the feeling intensified as her body moved over his -- came to rest on top of him. She kissed him again. Softer. More enticing. Then pulled back again, laying her chin on her hands -- which were folded on his chest. She watched him again, as if she was trying to discern something.

"What?" he asked, finally, smiling slightly.

"You and Lulu. You remind me of me and Michael, when you talk about her."

He exhaled. "She's my sister... I guess it's the only thing in my life I can try to relate it to."

"Does it bother you? To be so far down in the rotation?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" She smiled sadly and he shook his head. "Only when I think about it. So I don't -- generally -- think about it."

"Oh, that sounds healthy."

"It's how I cope," he said, distantly. "We all have our mechanisms, right?

She smirked. "I don't. I've opted out. I don't cope at all."

He ran his thumb across her bottom lip absently. "You said you want to change that."

"Yeah."

"So that's what we're focused on. Changing that -- Changing things with Michael..."

"And not on kids. New kids."

He nodded. "Right."

"And you're ok with that?"

Yep. Peachy.

"I'm twenty-one," he logicked at her. "God willing, I still have the bulk of my life ahead of me. There's... Time."

She smiled -- it was warm. It gave him hope. "So maybe we'll talk about it again some time."

"Yeah," he nodded, eyes half closed now. He twisted his fingers into her hair. "Maybe."

He felt like there was an anvil on his chest. But it was what he had to do -- he was seeing that now. He had to think that way. Maybe. Don't get your hopes up. What are you still doing with hopes, anyway?

But he had them. He had to -- he'd married her. He lay back a moment, gazing up at her, and remembered. Fighting to get her to say yes. Fighting for her to accept it, when he told her he loved her. So it was one more battle.

It would be worth it.

He'd make sure it was worth it.

He lifted his head and she came forward to kiss him again in the same moment. This time it wasn't soft, or gentle and reserved. It was need. Want. Sex. He rolled her over onto her back, hands grabbing hers and lifting her arms over her head. Body pinning her down beneath him. She moaned in the kiss -- letting him take control. Giving herself up to him. That had been a battle once, he reminded himself as her legs wrapped around his waist. To get her to surrender to him.

He'd won that one. He'd win the rest. If it killed him.