Essential listening: Sick of Losing Soulmates, by Dodie

0o0

"Father Paul didn't kill Matthew," said Mr Benton sadly.

Mrs Benton was sitting straight backed in a chair, rigid with hate.

They had showed up at the Bentons' house with little hope they would let them in, but Rossi had barged them inside with a mixture of charisma and authority, and they'd even allowed Prentiss in – though reluctantly. The way they were treating her – especially Mrs Benton – made Spencer's blood boil. They had allowed their son to be murdered and she was still more furious with him – and with Emily – than she was with the person who had killed him.

He wondered what Emily had done to engender that level of hatred in someone. She'd hinted before that she'd had a wild past, at times, but like Pearce she kept a lot of things close to her chest.

He glanced at Pearce, who was being the model of the perfect agent, which meant that she was more angry than she could currently deal with and had pushed it somewhere numb to get through the interview. An image flickered through his mind, of the soft glow of candlelight, and a letter, and hands intertwined, and two lost souls feeling slightly less alone. He hadn't asked about the things that made her close up and run a whole continent away; he wasn't going to ask Emily, either. It was enough for him to know that they were hurting. He didn't need to know why to be there for them.

"Why are you so willing to accept that?" Emily asked. "I'm just trying to find the truth about how your son died."

"Then listen to me," said Benton. "Father Paul never laid a hand on Matthew."

"There are a lot of ways to kill someone without touching them, Mr Benton," said Pearce quietly.

Rossi gave her a look and she shifted slightly, acknowledging the wisdom of staying silent. There was a darkness to her tone that Spencer hadn't often heard. He found himself moving marginally closer to her.

"How do you know that?" Rossi asked, as Pearce shifted slightly.

The man sighed. "I was there," he admitted.

Emily gasped in horror. "You stood there and watched Matthew die?"

"He wasn't the person you knew," he said, with absolute belief.

"Because Father Paul said that?" Emily asked, angrily.

Both Mr and Mrs Benton looked uncomfortable.

"Something horrible happened on that trip to Spain," said Matthew's father.

"You believe that because Father Paul said it," Emily retorted. "You can't think for yourself?"

Spencer winced. He agreed with her wholeheartedly, but this level of anger was likely to get them kicked out before they could get anything useful.

"Young lady, do not speak to me like that," said Mr Benton, and something inside Spencer snapped.

"I'm sorry, how exactly is she supposed to speak to you?" he found himself asking.

Benton stared at him.

"You just admitted to us that you allowed a man – a man we believe is suffering from a psychotic break – to physically detain your son, in your presence, and conduct a procedure that even members of the Catholic church describe as controversial and extremely dangerous. A procedure that caused your son to have a heart attack and die." He was breathing hard, aware that he was letting his anger get the better of him. "A heart attack which, for all we know, he might have survived if medical help had been sought. So, forgive me, how would you like her to speak to you, Mr Benton?"

Benton swallowed hard.

Spencer might have continued, but Pearce had slipped light fingers over his hand – a warning.

"I loved my son."

"Then you knew how Matthew was. You knew how paranoid he could be," said Emily.

"I was trying to save his life –"

"Thar priest must have done something to him! His heart wouldn't have just given out like that!" Emily snapped, rising from her seat.

"That thing killed him!" Matthew's father shouted and Emily sank back into her chair, despairing of him. "It was inside him for years. I know you know that's true."

"No," she argued passionately. "Matthew was a sweet boy! He was just troubled."

"He was never troubled until he met you," said Mrs Benton with open loathing.

"That's enough," said Grace, taking a step forward.

Spencer felt the absence of her hand like an ache. He crossed his arms, trying to dispel the feeling.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, that's enough." She stood, considering them for a moment before coming to a decision. "Emily, Rossi, wait outside."

"What?"

"No, I'm staying right here until –"

"Emily," said Spencer quietly. "Wait outside."

Rossi got to his feet and guided her out, shooting them both a look that plainly said he hoped they knew what they were doing. He hoped Grace did, at least – but by leaving out his name she had asked him to stay, which meant that whatever drastic recourse she was planning, it wasn't something that would put him at risk.

And it was something she needed a particular kind of back up for. The kind that knew about London.

When the front door had closed and they could hear the two agents stamping their feet on the front steps, Grace spoke.

"I was a police officer in London before I joined the FBI," she began.

"I don't know what that has to do with anythi-" Mrs Benton scoffed, but Grace silenced her with a look that could have stripped paint.

"We had a case like this. A rogue exorcist was working his way around the catholic congregations of the city, seeking out families with 'troubled' children – particularly teenage girls. The girls who were always in trouble, the ones who drank, or did drugs, or got pregnant. The ones whose parents had given up on them. The ones who were the most vulnerable."

There was something about the set of Grace's shoulders that told Spencer she was operating under a kind of barely-controlled fury and he was grateful that the Bentons were choosing to stay quiet.

"He would befriend their families, commiserate with them, inveigle himself into their confidence and then deliver the awful news – their daughter was possessed by a demon. That was why they wouldn't do as they were told anymore. That was why they were disobedient and wild. And – and he always made them believe – and he could help them, if the family would only trust him. He had the girls' best interests at heart." She spat the last word.

Spencer, who had read the file, knew exactly where this was going. Mr Benton was beginning to look pale.

"He'd request a private meeting with the girl, at the end of which she would either be sullen and tearful or half-mad, and he would tell the family that there was no other recourse but exorcism." She paused for a moment, her hard eyes on Mr Bentons. "When the traumatised girls told their parents that the priest had raped them, they dismissed it as the ramblings of the demon.

"Before we caught up with him he had physically detained, starved, tortured, raped and ultimately murdered nine girls, most of them in front of their families. The youngest was thirteen. We got there in time to stop him killing her, but she cut her own throat six weeks later, when she discovered she was pregnant and her parents denied her an abortion. Her five year old brother found her."

Mr Benton looked away. Spencer didn't blame him.

"He told us Matthew – he told us he and those other men – they – they killed a man," said Mr Benton.

"That's not what happened here," said Mrs Benton, interrupting. "It's an awful story, but our son – there was a priest in Galicia –"

"Your son, Mrs Benton, was a troubled young man. You have said as much yourself." She watched the other woman shake her head and turn away. "Father Silvano preyed on you and these other men's families, just as much as Father Casey did in London."

"You don't understand," Mrs Benton spat, suddenly waspish once more. "You faithless woman, you can't begin to understand the evils in this world."

"You need to be quiet now," said Spencer, and she stared at him. "Um – our team chases serial killers for a living – you really think we don't have a concept of evil?"

"I know demons are real," said Grace softly. She cast a slight, almost imperceptible glance at Spencer that told him to be ready. "I've seen a few in my time, and fought them." The certainty in her voice sent a tiny thrill of fear down Spencer's spine. "And they are wicked, despicable things. But no more so than people choose to be."

She raised her hand then, palm out, and opened her fingers to reveal a small, flickering handful of flames. Spencer swallowed. It was beautiful and brave and a little reckless.

Mrs Benton gave a little shriek and put the chair between herself and Grace, her hands over her mouth. Mr Benton stared at the flames, transfixed.

"I know there is more in this world than most people believe. I know that there are demons," she said softly, looking intently at Matthew's father. "And I know that those girls were not possessed… and neither was your son."

She closed her hand and the flames went out. Spencer let out the breath he had been holding. He had half been expecting one or the other of them to run.

"Our analyst did a little digging," she continued, as if nothing had happened. "Matthew, Patrick and Tommy V were indeed in Galicia when the priest at Santiago de Compostela died, but their financial records place all three of them forty miles outside the city, in a small village in the countryside, at a yoga retreat with a group of twenty other people. They were there for all but one day of their visit, which was their last day in Spain, when they accompanied Patrick Cavanaugh to a local hospital to seek a second opinion on a medical condition from which he had been suffering.

"The priest himself – I asked an old coroner friend of mine to look at his autopsy – died of a pre-diagnosed heart condition," she went on, in that same calm, strangely dark tone. "Your son didn't hurt anybody."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Father Silvano used you to satisfy his own compulsion as a result of a serious psychotic break," Spencer told them, trying to match Grace's tone. "And he secured diplomatic immunity before he came so that when he had murdered his victims he couldn't be prosecuted for it."

Mrs Benton gave a sob. "You don't know – he was – that wasn't our son –" She turned and fled from the room.

Spencer had a shrewd suspicion that she was probably calling Quantico to complain.

Mr Benton, on the other hand, was white as a sheet. "He told us – he said – he said that he could help –" He broke down.

Grace knelt down before him and took his shaking hands. "He convinced you that you were saving his life. You're victims here, too. But right now, he's out there somewhere, and he's picked another victim. He as much as told us, but we don't know who. Please," she urged, gently. "Help us save them."

"I don't know. I don't know who it would be," he said, shakily. "He said anyone who opened themselves up to Matthew risked infection –"

"Did he have any visitors?" Spencer asked, his phone already out and ready, but Mr Benton shook his head.

"He wasn't supposed to see anyone until he – until he was –"

"Until he was 'better'," Grace finished.

"Was he here the whole time?" Spencer asked.

"Yes – he – we kept him in – in his room…"

He nodded and called Garcia as he and Grace hurried out of the room. They passed Mrs Benton, who was sobbing down the phone in the hall.

"Garcia, I need you to check the phone records for an address." He said, as they joined Emily and Rossi on the front step. "No, I'm not going to tell you. Yeah," he said, glancing up at Emily. "It's for Emily."

"What happened?" she demanded, and Grace explained about the conduit of evil theory.

"But his dad says he didn't see anyone," said Spencer.

"Yes, and I believe him," Grace nodded. "So I'm guessing Matthew snuck out of his room and called someone."

"He spoke to John Cooley," said Emily, suddenly. "The friend that let me know he had died. He told me Matthew had been even more paranoid than usual."

"Thanks Garcia," said Spencer. "The only phone calls made in the week leading up to Matthew's death were to the phone Father Silvano had on him when we escorted him to Quantico and to 911."

"So, how did he get in touch with John?" Emily asked.

"Reid, ask Garcia if there was a John Cooley on that yoga retreat in Galicia," said Grace, studying Emily's growing expression of horror.

"Did you catch that? Yeah…" There was a pause, where everybody stared at him. "He was there. He was on the same plane," he said at last, when Garcia told him.

"Son of a bitch lied to me," said Emily, hurrying down the steps.

"Garcia? Thanks."

"Anything," she promised. "You just look after our girl!"

"You got it."

"What are we going to do?" Grace asked, that same dangerous edge in her voice. "We have no authority to arrest him."

"I'll deal with Hotch," said Rossi. "Whatever you did in there," he added, as they climbed into the SUV. "Good work."

0o0

"We need to talk."

Aaron looked up and sighed. He'd known David Rossi for years and he knew that the cagey, urgent, calculating look on his face right now meant he had something to say that Aaron wouldn't like.

"What about?"

"There's going to be another victim."

Aaron narrowed his eyes. "And how do you know that?"

"Prentiss, Pearce, Reid and I went to speak to the Bentons."

Oh, for Christ's sake.

"I gave her a direct order," he said out loud, though he had half expected it.

"This one is all on me," said Dave, immediately.

"Well, that's fine, Dave," Aaron complained. "But the State Department's all over my ass. Where are Prentiss and the others now?"

"They went to stop it. Morgan, too."

Aaron's heart clenched. Although he knew what they were doing was right, that was four agents on his watch who had essentially just gone rogue. This could go very badly wrong, and if – when – it did…

"I can't protect them."

"I don't accept that," Dave argued.

Aaron rolled his eyes – actually rolled them.

One of these days, these guys are gonna…

"Dave, governments don't really appreciate being accused of accessory to murder," he protested aloud.

Dave ignored him. It seemed like it was one of those days all round.

"Why not go straight to the Vatican?" he asked

"And what are we supposed to say to say to them?" he demanded.

It isn't like we can just wave a magic wand and have the whole thing go away, he thought, and then he remembered Pearce was out there, looking for a rogue exorcist. Oh God.

"Say, 'Talk to the Italian government. Help us stop this man from perverting your beliefs.'"

Aaron looked out of the window for a moment. It couldn't be that easy, could it? If the Italian government were still pissed then this was going to create a shitstorm of epic proportions – and it would take all of them out.

I can't protect them, he thought, and picked up the phone.

"This comes down on all of us," he warned his old friend, who nodded, satisfied.

"I'm fine with that. You?"

It was a challenge, and Aaron knew it. He dialled.

0o0

It was pouring down now, which seemed appropriate somehow, like an open protest at the blatant misuse of a force that should have been for good.

"This is the place," said Grace, when the car screeched to a halt outside the row of townhouses.

Reid shot her a look of confusion, but she ignored him. She could smell the magic from out here – it crackled in the air like electricity.

There wasn't much time.

The door was open when Prentiss pushed on it. She called out her friend's name, but she needn't have bothered. They could hear him screaming.

"Upstairs," said Reid, who had his gun out.

Grace didn't bother with hers as they ran up the stairs.

"I cast you out, unclean spirit!"

"You're a murderer!" Cooley screamed. "A murderer!"

"I adjure you, in the name of the spotless lamb," Silvano continued, in a louder voice.

Emily kicked the door in. "Step away from him!"

"FBI!" Morgan shouted.

Two other men – attendants, Grace guessed, immediately went to stop their progress; a third simply stood in the corner of the room, watching. Ignoring the ensuing scuffle, she ducked under the first man's arm.

"Get away from him!" Emily cried, from somewhere behind her.

The rogue priest's magic was thick within the room, coiling tighter and tighter around Cooley. He was writhing on the bed, bound at the wrist and ankle, sweating like he had a fever and bleeding from his nose and mouth. Grace gritted her teeth. She would have to find a way to interrupt it and counter it without Morgan or Emily seeing.

She put a hand on Cooley's leg, using her own magic to shield him, and immediately he stopped thrashing. His head fell back in open relief and he laid back, panting.

"Oh, thank God," he muttered. "Thank God."

"As we call on the name of the Lord!" Silvano thundered, then frowned. "In the name of the Lord!" he cried again, but it had no impact on Cooley.

Then he looked up and saw Grace, her hand still hovering protectively over the man in the bed.

"I will not let you hurt this man," she said softly.

"No!" he cried. "Even now, Baliel, you have moved into another host!"

Behind him, Emily was untying Silvano's latest victim.

Well, I've got his attention, Grace thought. Better keep it before he remembers Cooley.

Swiftly, she pulled out the necklace she was wearing and dangled it in front of him. It was a gamble – she'd picked it up on holiday, years before, and hardly a demonic symbol, but he was sufficiently crazed at this point to see anything old as a threat. And the triple spiral of the triskele the ancient Celts had carved at Newgrange was well known enough that he might recognise it as pagan.

Apparently, he did.

"I will cast you out!" he roared, and all the magic he had been focussing on John Cooley surged towards her.

Unprepared and concentrating on keeping Cooley safe, it hit her with the force of a steel support beam. She cried out, staggering back. Blearily, she saw the man who had been watching in the corner slip out of the door, and then Father Silvano's hands fastened, vice-like, around her throat. He slammed her head back against the wall. White and red spots swam across her vision.

Fuck, she thought, as his thumbs pressed into her windpipe.

Her hands scrabbled at his, but it didn't do any good. From the sounds of it, the others were still busy. Her only chance was surprise. As hard as she could, she drove her knee into his stomach; her magic, working on pure instinct, surged through her hands and drove him back into the burly young lay brother who had been trying to disarm Reid, knocking them to the floor.

Grace gulped the air, falling to her knees as the weight of the priest and his magic fell away.

Bastard, she thought, as Morgan hauled him to his feet.

"You have no right to stop this!" Silvano cried, struggling, but as strong as the priest's madness was, Morgan was stronger.

"You okay, kid?" he asked.

Grace heard Reid growl something that sounded affirmative and heard the click of handcuffs as she hauled herself upright.

"You can't do this!" someone complained.

"Yeah, well, you just attacked a Federal Agent," said Reid, and hauled the man out of the room. "Pretty sure that means I can!"

"The other one got away," Morgan complained, as Emily helped Cooley sit up. All of them were ignoring Silvano, who was screaming bloody murder. "Pearce, you okay?"

She waved his concern away, walking stiffly through the house in the direction the third man had gone. Her lungs were on fire and she was sure there were bruises on her neck and ribs, but she was alive – and so was Cooley. Emily would get through this without the death of two old friends on her shoulders.

The back door was open. Grace stepped out into the back yard and looked around. The young man was long gone – but then he had only been an observer. A local lay brother Silvano had convinced to accompany him on his 'mission of mercy'. Hopefully he had seen the error of the old priest's ways – or at least the experience had scared him into not trying anything like this himself.

Grace turned her face up to the rain, which was stopping now, and followed the path that led to the front of the house.

0o0

Emily helped John out of the front door. She had wrapped him in a blanket as soon as she'd managed to get him to stop hugging her, and as soon as he'd felt strong enough to stand he'd started insisting he was fine.

"No, really, Emily – I'm okay," he said, as she helped him down the steps.

"No, you're not. Look at you," she said.

You look like you had a fight with a bear – and lost.

"Really –"

"Stress like that can tear a body apart – that's what happened to Matthew."

He caught her elbow just before they reached the ambulance. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," he said suddenly, and she could tell from his eyes that he meant it – though what 'it' was escaped her for a moment. "In Italy."

It was strangely difficult to breathe, all of a sudden. This wasn't something she could deal with right now – maybe she would never be able to deal with it. Not with him. She managed to nod. "Let them take care of you," she insisted, but didn't protest when he kissed her on the cheek.

"Goodbye," he said, and allowed himself to be led away.

"I'll check on you later," she called after him.

And maybe by then I'll know what to say, she thought.

It had started to snow. She walked over to Hotch, who was standing by the line of official cars, glowering. Not at anything in particular, just generally glowering.

"If you want my gun and badge, I understand," she said, but he shook his head.

She turned to find Morgan and Father Silvano behind her; they had cuffed him, since he'd made a couple of attempts at getting to Grace. He was not happy to see any of them.

"There's a plane ticket in your name to Rome," Hotch told the angry priest. "Agent Morgan and I will drive you to the airport. Any of your belongings can be shipped to you."

"You have no right to deport me," the father retorted, insolently.

"The Vatican intervened," Rossi said, with some satisfaction. "The Italian government has rescinded your diplomatic status."

Emily stared at them, relieved.

"They'll do with you as they see fit when you're back in their jurisdiction," Hotch added.

Silvano looked around at them. "You've all just made the world a much more dangerous place."

He turned to Emily and said, in Italian, "May God's love be with you."

Go to hell, she thought, but she didn't say it, conscious that he was trying to get a rise from her. "And also with you," she replied, in the same language.

It shook him for a moment, but then an officer was leading him away, and she allowed herself to relax.

"I saw that guy up there," said Morgan. "He was certain he was fightin' against some kind of evil."

"We all have to be certain," said Rossi, philosophically.

"Rossi, don't tell me you believe in evil," Morgan complained, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't tell me you do this job and you don't," Rossi said, with a frown.

"I believe there are evil acts," said Morgan. "But those are choices, brain chemistry. What do you think, Hotch?"

Emily looked at him, still unsure of how much trouble she was in.

"I think deep down we're all capable of unspeakable things," he replied. "Where it starts or what you call it, I don't know." He grimaced. "Let's get him out of here."

Emily caught Morgan's arm as he turned to go. "Thank you," she said, hoping that he'd understand that all the times she had snapped at him over the last couple of days had been stress-related.

"Always," he said, and ducked into the passenger seat of the car.

0o0

Grace watched Morgan and Hotch drive away, the furious, delusional man defeated in the back of the car. She was pleased she wouldn't have to go with them. She didn't want to listen to whatever bile he intended to spew until they could get him on his flight.

He glared at her as the SUV passed, and she sent him her very best insolent stare until he was out of site. Then she allowed herself to subside, acknowledging the pain emanating from her abdomen, chest, throat, and head. It was strong enough to leave her clutching the iron railings in front of Cooley's house, aching and a little winded.

Gingerly, she touched the part of her head that had hit the wall. There was a lump forming.

Great.

Aware that she ought to try to get to a vehicle before she had to explain why she looked so battered, she took a step forward, but her leg felt wobbly and uncooperative.

Bollocks, she thought. And I probably have a sodding concussion, too.

The arm that slipped around her waist took her by surprise.

"Give me one good reason – why I shouldn't let the paramedics have you," said Reid, allowing her to lean on him, which she did without thinking.

Grace croaked out a laugh, relieved. "Because I don't want to explain why it looks like I've been hit by a car when he only choked me."

"Only?" he huffed, but he tightened his hold around her, supporting as much of her weight as he could without making it look too obvious that that was what he was doing. "Hotch'll kill you if you don't at least see a doctor."

"Hotch is busy," she argued, tiredly.

She expected him to turn her around and direct her straight to the ambulance, where Cooley was being assessed, but instead he led her away from the scene and across the street, lifting the tape for her to shuffle under. They stopped about a street away.

Really, she thought, she ought to ask where they were going, but everything hurt too much for her to care. Reid was warm and solid, and his arm around her waist felt dangerously pleasant. She knew if he hadn't been there she wouldn't have made it this far. She leaned her head against his shoulder (with no thought at all about why she shouldn't) and closed her eyes against the gently falling snow.

I wish it could be like this again, she thought, and then swallowed hard, aware the ache in her throat wasn't all bruise. Feeling ashamed, she buried her face into the thick woollen fabric of his coat, hoping he wouldn't know she was crying.

They stayed like that for a few quiet minutes in the artificial hush of the snow. She could hear him breathing, little clouds of condensation floating off into the night above her head.

"The cab's here," he said, at last, and she made a show of rubbing snow that wasn't there off her face.

"Hey, man, if she's drunk, you can't get in," said the driver, leaning over the back as Reid helped her in.

"She got hit by a car," Reid lied. "We – uh – we were just heading back from the doctor's office, but our car broke down."

"Oh man, sorry. That's a rough break. You okay, honey?"

Grace managed to stop staring at Reid's unusually brazen countenance long enough to give the man a grimace that was intended as a smile. "I've had better days," she said, as Reid slid into the seat beside her and gave the cabbie her address.

"Good job you got someone lookin' out for you," he said. "I'll try to make the ride as smooth as I can."

"Thanks," said Reid, and turned to stare out of the window, away from Grace.

0o0

It took a little while for all the emergency vehicles to clear.

Emily was vaguely aware that Reid and Grace had disappeared, along with the ambulance and the SUV taking Silvano to the airport. She had been standing in the middle of the street for some time, just looking up at the snow.

"What are you thinking?" Rossi asked.

She hadn't even known he was there.

"It's like the end of The Dead," she told him sadly. "When Gretta remembers the boy she loved when she was younger. And she says, 'I think he died for me'."

She swallowed, thinking of Matthew's earnest eyes and the way he had held her hand that day in the church, and the hundred other times he had been there for her that long, lonely year in Rome.

Rossi nodded, understanding. "You know, James Joyce also said, 'There is no heresy or philosophy so abhorrent to the church as a human being.'"

Emily smiled. Matthew would have appreciated the sentiment.

"Where can I drop you?" Rossi asked, and Emily understood why he'd waited with her in the snow.

They were a family, this team. And God save all of us that he cares to, she thought.

"I'm gonna walk for a while," she told him.

He patted his shoulder as he turned to go and nodded up at the falling snow. "Almost seems unreal, doesn't it?"

Emily wasn't sure how long she had been walking for. By the time she realised she was cold the snow was an inch thick around her feet. She stopped and looked around, then laughed.

She had come to a halt outside the doors to a church.

Sadly, she took out the picture she had been carrying around with her since John had told her the news and looked at the smiling children, lifting their arms up in some kind of teenage triumph. She was in the middle, with John trying to look cool on one side of her and Matthew looking jubilant on the other. He looked so different from the angry, frightened mess he had become.

But we were children, she thought. We made mistakes, same as any other kids. And he stuck by me, even when my world was ending.

Emily brushed away a tear, remembering the people they had been. She frowned. Amongst the wet blotches of snowflakes accumulating on the photograph, something darker had fallen.

Blood, she realised.

She raised a hand to her nose, surprised.

Huh.

Rossi was right. Everything about this night felt a little unreal.

0o0

The cab driver, to their very great surprise, refused to let them pay him, stating that the fare counted as his good deed for the week, and drove off before either of them could protest.

"Well, it looks like chivalry isn't dead," Grace joked, and then coughed, because her throat still felt pretty gravelly.

"Come on," said Reid, and put his arm around her again. "You don't wanna slip..."

He saw her all the way inside.

"Are you gonna be okay?" he asked, a little brusquely.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," she lied. "You know me."

He nodded and made to leave.

"You could –" she began, and he turned back. "You could always stay," she said, looking up at him.

He stared at her, a deep frown on his face.

There was a bruise above his eye that he must have got in the fight. It seemed to make his eyes, already half in shadow, even darker.

When he didn't answer, she tried again. "I was thinking I'd order takeout." She swallowed. "Maybe that Thai place… You could join me – if you like? My shout."

His expression wavered, and for a moment she thought he might agree.

"I can't," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. He turned to go. "Night."

"Spencer," she said, and with a visible effort he stopped and looked back at her. "Thanks."

He nodded, turned up his collar against the snow, and was gone.

Grace locked the door behind him, pulled out the takeaway menus from behind the utensil jar and sat disconsolately at her kitchen counter.

"I wish we'd just talk about it," she said, to no one in particular.

But then, when it's important, we never do.

0o0

Well, that was a heavy way to end this run!

Once again, I have to thank my awesome reviewers. I'm not sure you know how much they keep us writers going!

Enormous thanks, as ever, to my marvellous regulars, Evanescencefan97, gossamermous101, ElisaC, BlueMarian, DisneyLover100, LeopardFeather, Angelic demon chick, ahowell1993, huffle-bibin, xenocanaan and, of course, Mugglecreator and Bones, who are in my corner both on and off ffnet. :D I'd be lost without you guys! And an honourable mention for RedDragon395 who is a regular, but only just found this again xD (I see you, friend!)

You guys rock more than Dobby in a sock!

Another honourable mention needs to go to the Glitterati (you know who you are) for helping me out of plotholes and generally being a bit mad in all the right places, and also to Jess-ter, Bones and MuggleCreator for letting me throw bits of chapter and plot at you and telling me that it doesn't suck as much as I think!

I'm doing CampNaNoWriMo this month, in an effort to catch up with my myriad projects, as well as putting together the third Anthology for the Superstars, so Moments of Break – I mean, Moments of Grace – will be back on the 3rd of August. I'm sorry! I know, I'm evil – but it's the only way I can think of to get ahead of the game so there are fewer hiatuses this time. As ever, if you want to hear the moment the first chapter appears, hit the 'follow author' button at the bottom of the page.

If you're bored in the meantime, you can find my books on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Smashwords, under Lauren K. Nixon and a picture of roughly half my face, or over at the website with an address that has laurenknixon and a dot and a com in it. There's a blog on there, too, but I'm even worse at updating that than I am this xD If you fancy dropping me a line I'm searchable on the book of the Face, Twitter (though I'm terrible at updating that) and Instagram (which I update every day, somehow!), or send me a PM through ffnet.

I've also written some Harry Potter stories and one FullMetal Alchemist drabble, if you fancy a change of pace, all of which live on the other side of the Parlanchina profile.

Love you all, my fine, delightful friends – enjoy the season, whichever it happens to be for you!

Love and pickles,

Parlanchina xx