I'm actually a bit scared to post this one, because it's a bit... bold, and I'm not quite sure what you're going to make of it. This was based on a very short idea, but as I wrote it I realised it was too complex and needed to be explored properly. It ties into Mother We Share and my Belarus series, but you don't need to have read those to read this.

Please do let me know what you think of this one, I really don't know what you're going to make of it and you are allowed to be honest! I'm also worried you're all going to lose interest while Holby is off air, so if you could let me know if you're still interested in Chloe/Ange fan fiction, that would be much appreciated too!

-IseultLaBelle x

PS- this is in parts one and two and I've posted both together- I think part two may take a little longer to show up but it is there, I promise!

"There you go, then. One cup of tea, lots of sugar. Have you got it? Sweetheart? Alright. Alright, I've got it. I've got it, your hands don't look very steady. Come on, you're okay." Slowly, carefully, Ange lowers herself onto the Darwin staffroom sofa beside her daughter, two pairs of hands wrapped together around a steaming mug of tea, one strong, stable, one trembling weakly. "Drink that. You'll feel better, it'll boost your blood sugar, if nothing else. Madani said your blood pressure was a little low when he…"

Ange trails off, sighs.

Chloe stares firmly at her knees, legs pulled up beneath her, shivers, shut down.

"So are you going to tell me what happened? Because Nicky and Madani don't seem to know."

Nothing.

"Chloe," she tries again gently. "I can't help you if you don't…"

"I don't want to talk about it." Shakily, Chloe raises the mug to her lips, pulls a face. "How much sugar did you put in this?"

"More than you'd normally have. Because Madani said you'd practically collapsed, when he called down to AAU. You'll feel better if you drink it."

"I'll feel like I'm going to be sick. I already feel like I'm going to be sick, that really isn't going to help, Mum."

"Okay. Okay, so you don't want that, and you don't want to talk about it." Ange lifts the mug out of Chloe's hands, casts it aside on the coffee table. "Okay. Just… will you promise me something?"

"Hmm?"

"Madani said it was a particularly… uncooperative… patient you were with when it happened."

"So?" Chloe folds her arms around herself, shrugs.

"Male patient. And you were on your own with him, so…"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"So… did he… I mean, did he try…"

"What? God, no, Mum. Nothing like that."

There's adequate surprise in her daughter's eyes that Ange can just about believe her.

"Okay," Ange tries. "Okay, so it's not… that. I'm relieved. But are you going to tell me…"

"I don't want to." Chloe closes her eyes, breathes, and it's almost as though she's intending to breathe heavily, recognising what's happening and trying to regain control of her breathing now before it gets out of hand, but instead all she seems to manage are startled, shallow gasps.

"Oh, okay. Chloe, come on. Chloe, breathe for me."

"I've already… once…"

"I know. I know, sweetheart, Madani told me when he called down. That's why I came out of theatre."

"You… Mum, you… you shouldn't have…"

"Yes, I should," Ange tells her firmly. "Leaving theatre was exactly what I should have done. Zav can manage perfectly well finishing up without me. I don't need to be in theatre supervising something I know he's perfectly capable of, do I? Not when I need to be here with you. Breathe, Chloe." Carefully, she takes hold of her daughter's shoulders, pulls her upright, protective mode. "Come on, breathe for me."

"It's not… that…"

"No, I know it's not that bad just yet," she agrees. "That's why I need you to get on top of it now, before itisthat bad. Deep breathes. Come on, you can do this, Chloe." She holds her daughter upright, pulled against her side with one hand, supporting her, other hand reaching to take hold of Chloe's, grips her tightly, reassuring.

Years of experience have taught her that the sooner she holds onto her hands, the better.

Chloe can't scratch away at her knuckles furiously until they're raw if she holds onto her hands.

"Just relax," Ange soothes. "Chloe, relax. I've got you. You're alright, I've got you now."

She closes her eyes, breathes in, and just for a moment she can feel Chloe's heartbeat pulsing through her they're so tightly huddled together.

She can feel Chloe's heart racing, too rapid, out of control and it's making Ange feel panicked now- she doesn't even want to think about how it must be for Chloe.

Chloe.

Still, Chloe gasps for breath as though all her attempts to calm her have been utterly useless, made no difference to her ability to calm herself down whatsoever, eyes closed, disassociated, lost in her own world of panic and despair and god only knows what else.

And still Ange doesn't have the faintest idea what's brought it on; nothing but a garbled story blurted out over the phone by Madani when he called through to AAU theatre, about Chloe suddenly losing it during a patient consult, already having a panic attack by the time the patient called for help.

Chloe shudders, sways a little in her arms now, breathing louder, more laboured, clearly not going to manage righting her breathing on her own, and Ange can't take it anymore.

"Okay. Chloe, it's okay, sweetheart, it's going to be okay. You're okay. I need you to focus on me now, alright? Just focus on my voice. Chloe, look at me. Come on, Chloe, look at me. Chloe?"

Ange doesn't think she's going to comply for a moment.

She's afraid that her baby is too far gone, that she's not even hearing her, that there will be nothing she can do now but hold her and keep desperately trying to get through to Chloe until she's ready to listen, hope with everything she has that point will come before she's too frightened, too lost in her own head, before it's going to be all the more traumatic.

Before the panic attack part will outweigh whatever it is that happened to upset her in the first place.

That's what Ange is afraid of.

She's all-too familiar with the whole process of clawing Chloe's back from a particularly severe panic attack.

That said, she hasn't seen her go through anything quite this bad in months.

Not since Evan.

What could have been so awful that it's comparable with that?

"Chloe?" Ange tries again. "Chloe, come on. You can do this. I know you can do this, sweetheart, I just need you to be strong for me. Look at me? Chloe, look at me?"

Slowly, uncertain, Chloe's eyes meet hers, red-rimmed, crying again, pupils dilated.

"It's okay, Chloe," Ange breathes. "It's okay. It's all going to be okay."

"Mu-" Chloe manages, can't quite force it out in between gasps- and she's sobbing now, only going to make her breathing even worse, inhaling sharply, laboured, out of control.

"Chloe, Chloe, just focus on your breathing. Okay? I know. I know, I've got you. Don't try and speak, that's just going to make it worse, isn't it? Just breathe for me. Slowly. Can you breathe in slowly for three with me? Yeah? And hold it for three. That's it. Breathe out Slowly. Good girl. Don't rush. There you go, and breathe in slowly again? And hold it. Calm. Slowly out. That's it, keep doing that for me. You're okay. You're okay, Chloe. Keep breathing like that, nice and calm. I've got you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, you're okay. Just breathe. Just keep breathing."

Chloe just nods, leans against her heavily, cold, clammy.

The stay like that for what feels like forever.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Chloe's breathing calms, levels out, and Ange's own panic subsides just a little.

"I'm sorry," Chloe whispers at last, curling into her arms, moves tiredly to wrap her arms around her neck, clings. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, Chloe," Ange tells her firmly, hugs her back. "Nothing. You feeling better now? Yeah? Do you want some water?"

Chloe accepts the glass pressed into her hands gratefully, raises it to her lips.

"I do," she whispers. "I do, I made you leave theatre and then I…"

"I don't want you to apologise, aright? Not for this. Never for this. It's not your fault, sweetheart. You're allowed to be upset. Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Ange asks carefully now, watches her daughter's face for a reaction. "You can tell me. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"It's…" Chloe hesitates, shakes her head. "It's stupid. It's really… I'm just being ridiculous."

Ange is lost, now.

She doesn't know how to prompt her, coax it out of her.

She'd assumed he'd tried something with her- the patient, that is. She's so preoccupied with Chloe now, has been ever since she handed over to Zav and made it out of theatre, that she's struggling to recall the exact details of her phone call with Madani, everything that came after 'Chloe' and 'panic attack' and 'can't calm her down.'

That, and the part about the patient being male and difficult, that part she'd latched onto, assumed in her panic must be the explanation, given her daughter had been alone with him when it happened, given the patient lacked the English to explain what had happened- or claimed he did, at least.

Did that come from her? Did she assume it was the patient who had freaked Chloe out, latch onto it as the most likely explanation because it just seemed so obvious, because the mere thought of anyone trying it on with her daughter after everything she's been through in the last few months made her blood boil, or did it come from Madani? Was that what everyone on Darwin concluded when they found Chloe and they couldn't calm her down, did she pick it up from Madani or was it her own assumption, projecting, panicked, lost all perspective?

Ange doesn't know.

Either way, it doesn't change things.

She still doesn't have the faintest idea what's wrong, what really happened.

And then all of a sudden, Chloe hesitates, shudders, looks down at the floor again.

"Am I Lithuanian?" She asks now.

It's not quite what Ange was expecting.

"Last time I checked you were one hundred percent Scottish islander, sweetheart. Nana's got the clan tartan to prove it." She strokes her daughter's hair absentmindedly, closes her eyes, mentally prepares herself.

They're on that.

Clearly, they're on that.

"You know what I mean. Half Lithuanian, then." Chloe glances down awkwardly, fidgets.

"Honest answer? I don't even know where Lithuania is."

"Eastern Europe. Or Baltic, I don't know. Between Latvia, Poland and Belarus, Nicky looked it up."

Ange freezes.

"Fair enough," she tells her, fights to keep her tone as normal and unaffected as possible, determined not to give away how thrown she is by this all of a sudden, how unexpectedly close to the truth her daughter has unknowingly hit, how dangerous the ground they're on now truly is. "Like I said, I didn't even really know where Lithuania is, everything east of Poland for me is a bit…"

"But could I be?" There's an urgency in Chloe's voice that Ange doesn't like at all, unnerving, almost as though she's knowing she's torturing herself asking so adamantly, pushing for an answer, but there's a need in her to know she can't shake free of.

Or she thinks she needs to know, anyway.

She's never really asked, before.

Perhaps Ange should consider herself fortunate that Chloe has never asked this question before, not properly, not pushed it.

But the trouble is now, she's not prepared.

She's lulled herself into a false sense of security over the years, she realises now, never mentally prepared herself for this kind of question because after she told Chloe she just never asked about it all again, time passed by with no difficult questions and so Ange focused on picking up the pieces instead.

She focused on supporting Chloe, on getting her help for the anxiety and the self-harming and the food issues and the depression that started right after she told her the truth about her father, because she knew it was all her fault, the way she'd handled it, telling Chloe with no warning when she was just fourteen that had caused all her problems. Because she blamed herself completely, hated herself for it, and the most important thing after that was always to look after Chloe, keep on top of her mental health, do everything she possibly could to ensure that she knew she was loved, no matter what.

That how she was conceived doesn't define her.

To make her feel secure enough, safe enough, that she would never have to suffer another mental health episode like she did over that awful, ill-thought-out revelation about the man who fathered her ever again.

She was so preoccupied with that, she never stopped to consider her response should her daughter ever ask her anything more about her… her…

She doesn't even know what she's supposed to call him.

She's had the best part of thirty years to think about how she'd handle this kind of question, Ange curses herself now.

And she's failed Chloe.

She's left it all too late.

Ange sighs. "I need you to think a bit more carefully about what you want to ask me, Chloe. Please? I need more specifics than that. I'm not just answering that question if I tell you, am I? It's not a yes or no answer. It's yes I know you are, yes I don't know and you could be, no, I know and you aren't, no I don't know what but I know that isn't it. Do you really want that level of detail? Once I tell you I can't…"

"I know. I know, I… I don't know."

"Okay. Okay. You can have a think about it? Yeah?" She's buying time, she knows she is, desperately attempting damage control, time to think, to breathe. "You don't have to make a decision right now, we can… we can talk about this another time. When you're not feeling like this. Now probably isn't the moment to be having this conversation either way, is it?"

"We never talk about it," Chloe whispers faintly. "It's like… I don't know. It's like it's just always there, always…"

"And that's my fault," Ange confesses now. "That's my fault, and I'm sorry. If I've ever… if I've ever given you the impression that you can't talk to me about this… this stuff, then I'm so, so sorry…"

"You can't even say it though, Mum," Chloe protests weakly, recoils, almost as though she's surprised at the bluntness of her own words. "You can't even say my da…"

"I can say it. I could if I wanted to, anyway. But I don't, sweetheart, because he's not that. He never will be that. Okay? He's the sperm donor. That's all. He's nothing to do with you, I wanted a baby and you were it. That's how you've got to look at it."

"You didn't want a baby at seventeen, Mum. Especially not after Dom, after everything with…"

"Oh, I don't know," Ange tells her honestly. "After Dom, I… I think it's different, when you've already had a baby. I was far, far too young with Dom, don't get me wrong, giving him up for adoption was the right decision. Unquestionably the right decision. But I… I wanted to be a mum. After I gave up Dom it was like… I don't even know how to explain it. An aching. A longing. I desperately wanted another baby, right from… I don't know. A few months after Dom, probably, right up until I realised I was pregnant with you. I was too young and immature, yes, right up until I had you, really. I only got my act together because of you. Because I loved you. Because I wanted to be your mum so much it hurt. And I really shouldn't have wanted a baby at seventeen, I'll give you that one. I should have wanted to wait until I had my Highers, at the very least. But I didn't. I wanted a baby long before I knew I was pregnant with you, and no, it wouldn't have happened any time soon, if it hadn't been for what happened with… you know. If I hadn't got pregnant with you the way I had- don't say it, sweetheart," she insists softly, reaches for Chloe's hand, squeezes. "Don't use that word. Okay? We're talking about you, I don't want you using that word when we're talking about you. I wanted a baby, and I had you. That's all there is to it, Chloe. It really, really is. I promise."

Chloe nods silently.

"I love you so much. So, so much. I never want you to doubt that, Chloe. Never. You're the best thing in my life, you always have been. I wouldn't be without you for anything. Okay?" Ange hugs her tightly, never wants to let her go again. "You promise you believe me?"

"I promise."

"Good. Because I wouldn't lie to you. Not about that, sweetheart, not ever about that. Why do you ask?" she wonders quietly, brushes stray strands of hair behind Chloe's ear, fussing over her. "What makes you ask that?"

"The… when the…" Chloe shudders again, glances up at her helplessly. "Mum…"

"It's alright. Take your time, okay? There's no rush. Tell me in your own time."

"The patient I was with, when it… When I lost the plot," Chloe says quietly, cringes with embarrassment. "He's Lithuanian. Doesn't speak much English, the ED were struggling to communicate with him when they sent him up. Madani struggled, but he had to go into theatre, so he got Nicky on it. Nicky felt totally out of her depth so she went and got me, and…" She trails off, shakes her head.

"And?" Ange presses gently. "Are you sure he didn't…"

"He didn't try anything, Mum. Not… not like that. He didn't upset me because of anything like that," Chloe protests.

"Okay. I'm a bit confused then," Ange admits now. "I don't know what you're trying to…"

"He… he was doing pigeon English, with everyone else." Chloe stares down at her hands furiously, can't meet her mother's eyes again. "Wasn't making much sense, but he was trying. But as soon as he saw me he… he just started talking at me in… Lithuanian, I guess. I don't know. That and something that sounded a bit Russian, not that I really know what Russian sounds like. Like, switching. Adamantly. Like he was convinced I should understand at least one of them. So I kept telling him I didn't understand, that I didn't speak… whatever it was, and he didn't get it. Starting saying something about my mum, my dad, Lithuania… you get the picture. Like he thought I must be… he thought I looked… that. He was expecting me to start speaking Lithuanian at him, or Russian, or whatever the other one was, I'm sure he was. Polish? I don't know. And the more I didn't, the more he seemed to… I don't know. I don't know, I don't know, it was just... weird. And then he tried to grab my hand and he started talking at me really slowly…"

Ange holds her tight.

It's true.

That's the worst part of it all.

She'd never tell Chloe, not unless she knew it wouldn't destroy her- and no one can make her that guarantee.

But it's true.

The example that always comes to mind is the Russian adoptee mother who asked her, certain as anything, what part of the Soviet Union she'd adopted Chloe from as she was waiting to collect her from her ice skating lesson one week- Chloe must have only been about seven.

But it's not just that.

Sometimes, even Ange looks at Chloe and she can't get over how much like Nastassya she looks- and she hasn't seen Nastassya for the best part of thirty years, hasn't the faintest idea what she might look like now, but the resemblance between her as she remembers her and her daughter is uncanny.

In some ways, it's probably a blessing that Chloe could practically be Nastassya's double- or that she's so convinced of Chloe being practically Nastassya's double, at least.

It means she doesn't associate Chloe with him.

Not his eyes.

Chloe's.

Nastassya's eyes.

She used to worry that Chloe belonged with them, at first.

Back when Chloe was still a baby, when she was a new mum all over again and overwhelmed, trying so, so hard to be a good mother and constantly worried that the best she could give wasn't enough, that Chloe was too perfect, too pure, to ever have been entrusted to her.

Too… them.

And when she thought that, it wasn't because of him.

Chloe is absolutely nothing to do with him.

But Tatsiyana…

Sometimes on the days Chloe whimpered for hours with colic, still too tiny to cry, not properly, and Ange too doubting in her maternal instinct to realise it was the formula the neonatologists treating Chloe insisted she give her on top of breastfeeding that was causing all her problems, she worried that her baby would be better off with Tatsiyana.

Tatsiyana with her four children, holiday rental in the nicer part of Pollokshields that smelt of home cooking and fermented cabbage and incense and another world.

Tatsiyana with her wealth of maternal experience, Tatsiyana who was old enough to raise a child, Tatsiyana who knew what she was doing.

It wasn't her fault, what happened.

Ange of all people knows that; god knows she was an absolute nightmare for her own mum, so much of her teen years.

Vanya; Ivan.

Evan.

God's cruel joke.

She could never have left Chloe with Tatsiyana for fear of exposing her to her father, and that was never, ever going to happen.

Vanya…

The youngest sister with the most complicated Belarusian name imaginable that Ange can't for the life of her remember now had leukaemia, terminal, and when Ange stumbled upon the reason why, pure coincidence, brought up by chance in one of her second-year lectures at medical school, she skipped the rest of the afternoon, jumped on the first train back to Aberdeen she could and hugged Chloe so tight.

She wishes she didn't still live in fear of it for Chloe, want her nowhere near radiology, nag her and nag her to keep on top of her smear tests, panics over how easily she bruises, loses weight, but god help her, she does.

She worries.

Chloe is everything she has, everything, and no one seems to be able to answer her questions, tell her whether her daughter is more at risk of cancer thanks to the tragedy of her paternal family

Not that she'd ever let anyone know why she's truly so interested in the answer, of course.

She'd never, ever do that to Chloe.

Chloe who shakes in her arms again now, Chloe who looks to her pleadingly for reassurance, for answers Ange doesn't know if she can give her.

Not without making it all worse, and she can't do that to her.

She won'tdo that to her.

"Chloe," she begins softly. "Chloe, look at me. It doesn't matter either way. Alright? He's one patient, sweetheart. One person in what… thirty years? He probably doesn't have the faintest idea what he's talking about, it was just wishful thinking. He couldn't communicate, and he saw you and you reminded him a little bit of someone he knows from… wherever he's from…"

"Lithuania."

"Okay. He desperately wanted to be right, that's all,' Ange tries to convince her. "He wanted to be right because it would make his life easier, so he…"

"It wasn't just the Lithuanian though, Mum," Chloe argues quietly, resigned, closes her eyes again. "He tried something else too, something Russian sounding. He didn't just think I might speak Lithuanian, he seemed pretty certain I should have understood at least one of them. That's not just a feeling, is it? He didn't just think I might be Lithuanian, he was convinced I was East European, or something, it went deeper than just…"

"Chloe…"

"And it's not just him," Chloe points out, voice almost verging on hysteria now, working herself back up into a panicked, anxious mess. She tangles her fingers in Ange's hair, takes a handful, plaits absentmindedly. "You know it's not just him, Mum…"

"I don't know what you're talking about, sweetheart," Ange tells her, lies through her teeth. She hugs her back, ignores the nagging pain in her back from twisting into such an awkward position, but she can't bring herself to tell her daughter to stop- not when she knows full well that it could easily be a choice between allowing her hair to be played with and watching Chloe scratch her knuckles until they bleed instead.

"Yes, you do, Mum. Do you remember that woman in the supermarket? When I got lost in the pet food aisle and that woman rescued me and kept trying to talk to me in something like…"

"How do you remember that? You must have been… what… no, I'll tell you how old you were, because that was the day you and Nana helped me move into my student house in St Andrews, you must have been three. How on earth do you remember that?"

"I don't know. I just do, Mum. And the woman at ice skating when I was about seven who adopted her daughter from Russia, and those Eastern European kids on the beach that time in Corfu, and the family who ran the Polish corner shop by Caple Cross who always tried to talk to me in…"

"And do you know why those have stuck in your mind?" Ange asks her gently. "Chloe? Because you… because it's my fault," she sighs. "Because I left you to wonder about why you didn't have a dad for years, and I picked the worst possible way of telling you when I finally faced up to it. It's all my fault. You're seeing a pattern that isn't there, Chloe," she tries to convince her, hugs her tightly, squeezes, and she smells of her- not of Nastassya, not of Tatsiyana, not of Vanya, of her, because she's herbaby, not theirs. "It's just there in your head all the time, isn't it darling," she realises with a sinking feeling in her heart, combs her fingers through Chloe's hair as she nods, detangles, calms her, wishes she could just make it all go away. "I know. I know, Chloe, it's okay. It's okay, I've got you. You're mine," she murmurs. "Okay? My lovely daughter. That's all anyone ever needs to know. It's nothing to do with anyone else, is it? It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, you're my daughter. And I don't think… you know, he, has got the slightest thing to do with you, sweetheart. So you mustn't either."

"I look like him, don't I," says Chloe quietly.

It isn't a question.

"Chloe…"

"No, I clearly look like him, Mum," Chloe protests, voice laced with self-loathing. "Everyone else thinks I look like him and they don't even know why that's so… so… so horrendous…"

"Chloe. Chloe, Chloe listen. Look at me." Ange waits for Chloe to meet her eyes, as though maybe, just maybe, if she tells her daughter what she needs her to know looking right into her eyes, her very much not inherited from her mother's side of her DNA eyes and both of them know it, perhaps she might allow herself to believe it. "You don't look like him, sweetheart," she promises- and she doesn't have to lie this time, because still she maintains that Chloe's whole demeanour is too kind, too gentle, too good-natured to look anything like the man who fathered her, despite the uncanny physical similarities between them. "You don't. I promise, Chloe. You're beautiful. You're perfect exactly as you are…"

"That's just mum speak for I look exactly like him and you don't want to upset me," Chloe dismisses her. "I know what you're trying to do, Mum, you don't have to make me feel better. I'd much rather you just told me so I can… I don't know. Feel sorry for myself for a while before I have to go back out and explain to my patient I might look more Lithuanian than he does, but I can't understand a word he's saying."

"Well, you're not doing that, for a start. You're not going straight back onto a ward, sweetheart, that's a terrible idea. Let alone straight back into a situation that upset you so much in the first place. Not happening."

"There's no one else, Mum…"

"Yes, there is. Nicky could have done it easily, she just couldn't communicate, isn't that what you told me? We've just established you're going to have exactly the same problem she is, so Nicky can sort an interpreter and handle it herself. Or Madani. God, I'll refresh my memory from my F2 placement and do it myself if I have to. It's not your problem, Chloe. I don't want you to think about it anymore, I don't want you working yourself into a state again. Did Nicky realise?" Ange asks carefully now, suddenly aware that it's the one aspect of the whole incident they're yet to explore. "Did Nicky realise why you were so upset about it? Only Madani didn't say anything, when he called down to AAU, he didn't tell me, and I would have thought…"

Chloe takes a deep breath, reaches for her mum's hand, child-like, clinging on, and Ange just wishes it didn't make her worry so much, didn't remind her of how her daughter used to do this as a teenager, gripped with anxiety, needing to do something with her own hands to stop her scratching herself. "She… I don't think she got it," Chloe admits quietly. "She didn't mean to upset me, Mum, she really didn't. It wasn't malicious or anything. She just… didn't make the connection. Kept making jokes about me obviously being descended from a missing Romanov when we worked out he might be speaking Russian, stuff like that. Stupid stuff. She just… didn't think, that's all. She wouldn't have said it if she's stopped and thought about it. But it was…" she sighs. "I feel really bad saying this…"

"I'm your mum, Chloe. I'm the last person who's ever going to judge you, I just want you to tell me…"

"It was… it wasn't really him," Chloe admits, glances down, ashamed. "The patient. I mean, he… set me off, I guess. But I was handling it, I was doing the anti-anxiety breathing, I was okay. Until Nicky thought it was all so hilarious she had to tell the whole staffroom about how Chloe's clearly Lithuanian royalty in disguise and she just wouldn't let it…"

"Okay. Okay, I'm getting the picture. Do you want to come home with me tonight? Or…"

"No," Chloe shakes her head firmly. "No, that will only make it worse."

"Chloe…"

"She doesn't have a clue she's upset me, Mum, and I want to keep it that way. Or I can't face telling her, anyway. It's fine. Cam's usually more on it with… you know. The rapist father stuff. Cam will point it out if she says anything tonight, it's fine. You don't need to worry."

"Alright. Alright, but if you change your mind…"

"I won't change my mind, Mum. I need to just learn to deal with it, don't I?" she sighs sadly, defeated. "I should have learnt to deal with it long before now, that's my problem. I don't look like you, I don't even look Scottish, this is going to keep coming up…"

"I think you look Scottish. You just think that because we don't look alike, you can't possibly…"

"Mr Simonis clearly doesn't think so."

"He's one patient, Chloe. One patient who knows absolutely nothing about you…"

"We're going in circles, Mum. I clearly look like him. And I know he wasn't Scottish, you've already told me that, remember? It's obvious I look like him, you might as well just tell me I…"

'No," Ange lies. "No, you… You don't look like him," she tells her daughter firmly, yet another lie, but what's coming next isn't.

And perhaps it's a terrible mistake even telling Chloe this, only going to make it all worse, but nothing else she's tried seems to have made even the slightest bit of difference, and she has to do something.

Anything to make her lovely daughter believe that she's every bit as beautiful and perfect and… and… untarnished, as Ange sees her as.

As she always will.

"You don't look like him," Ange repeats, hugs Chloe tighter. "I promise you don't, sweetheart. I've never looked at you and been reminded of him, Chloe, I wouldn't lie to you about that. Not once. You do…" She trails off for a moment, working up the courage. "You do look like your aunt on that side," she tells her softly. "You're the spitting image of her with some of my side thrown in. I still say you've got a definite look of your Great Grandma Morag. You don't remember her, do you? On Granddad's side. But you don't look like him, my lovely girl. I never want to hear you say that again. You look like your aunt. You don't look like him."

Chloe falls silent, pensive, and for several long, painful moments, Ange is terrified she's done her irreversible damage, tipped her mental state past the point of no return.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" her daughter asks at last.

There's fear in her eyes now.

"That's… that's one of the greatest compliments anyone could possibly be given," Ange tells her honestly. "Okay? I promise. She was one of life's kindest people. Would have done anything for anyone. And she was gorgeous, and I was stupidly jealous. She had the most beautiful eyes. Just like you."

"Did you know her?"

"Um hmm." Ange strokes her hair, calms her. "Walked her home once."

"Was that before?" Chloe asks quietly. "Or… or after?"

"Honestly? After."

"Oh Mum. Why?"

"Because it wasn't her fault," Ange tells her simply. "It wasn't her fault any more than it was your fault, was it? I don't ever want you to hold yourself responsible for what happened to me. Ever. You know that. It wasn't her fault either. She was… she was hanging around somewhere she was going to get herself into trouble, and I… I just…"

"You didn't want what happened to you to happen to her," Chloe finishes for her.

"No," Ange confirms quietly. "No, not the… not the awful part. You're different. Okay? You know that. You'll always be different. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, Chloe. The best. You just came out of the worst. That's all. That makes you all the more special."

"How well did you know them? Mum?" Nastassya's eyes stare back at her now, wide, blue-green like Belarusian meadows, pleading with her to give her the answers all of a sudden, she seems to desperately need.

"Not well," Ange admits. "It was… it wasn't like what happened to you. Nothing like that, it wasn't so… long term. So drawn out. I was lucky in that respect. But yes, I knew her. I knew her, and I knew your grandma, and your uncle, and your other aunt. A long time ago. And that's how I know that you're nothing like him, sweetheart. It's not…what he was, it's not in you. Okay? I know that because they were nothing like him, either."

Nastassya's eyes, Nastassya's face, Nastassya's innocence, begs her to continue.

"They were good people, Chloe," she promises. "They really were. You would have liked them. They were some of the most selfless people I've ever met, I used to think if you turned out half as amazing a human being as they were, I'd have done my job right. And do you know what, you turned out better. I couldn't be prouder of you if I tried, Chloe. I really couldn't. You haven't taken after him at all, he's… there are people like that in this world. You know that. But it has absolutely no bearing on everyone else related to them, alright? I need you to believe that. You're not like him, you couldn't be if you tried. You're like them. And I… sometimes I worry I let you down, depriving you of a relationship with them. I worry… I don't know. I worry you might have been more at peace with yourself, if you'd have a relationship with them. If you'd seen how kind they were, if you knew it's not just you. He's no reflection on any of you. Okay? Not any of you. It's not in your DNA, or anything else like that you might think. It's really not. There's nothing in your DNA on that side but kindness, and I don't ever want you to think any different. I just wish you'd seen that for yourself. But I… I chose to deprive you of that, and I made that decision to keep you safe," she tells her, watches her face carefully for a reaction. "Because I was afraid you wouldn't be safe if… if heknew about you, and I couldn't think of a way of having them in your life without him. Keeping you safe was my priority. Will always, always be my priority, and so I stand by that decision. But I still wish there had been another way. A way for you to have them in your life, so you could see for yourself."

Chloe watches her intently, silent, processing.

"Look at me, sweetheart," Ange commands. "Look at me. All you need to know," she tells Chloe gently, hugs her to her chest, rocks her, hopes with all she has she might be able to transfer some of her own strength to her, somehow, hold her together, help her believe everything she wants to tell her. "Is that you're mydaughter. And I think you're beautiful, and I couldn't love you any more if I tried. You're perfect. I wish you could see that. And if anyone asks you," she says firmly, grips Chloe's hands. "You're Scottish. You're one hundred percent Scottish, you say that, you shut it down and you ignore it. I'm your mum. I raised you. That's what counts."

"Mum?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad you told me." Chloe squeezes her hands back. "You know. About… them."

"You are?"

"Umm hmm. I…" Chloe relaxes at last. "I feel less… like. I don't know. Less…"

"Less what?" Ange presses. "Come on, sweetheart, you can tell me."

"Less like I'm a monster," Chloe whispers, and Ange holds her tight.

"You're not that, Chloe," she promises. "You could never be that. I never, ever want you to think of yourself like that, my sweet girl. Never. And I'm going to keep telling you that until you believe it."

"What was her name?" Chloe asks suddenly. "My aunt. What was her name?"

What is she supposed to say to that?

"Natasha," Ange tells her, twisting the truth a little to protect her. "Her name was Natasha."