"You look like shit."

Christian's voice wafts over to where I sit on the overstuffed armchair; the place I've been sitting for going on 24 hours. I'd imagine that he's right, but at this moment, I don't really care. I've been watching her unconscious form with every ounce of my concentration. My eyes burn dully from the lack of sleep, but it's nothing I haven't had to handle before. Every feeble rise and fall of her chest allows me to echo her breath. If she stops, somehow I know that I would too.

"You need to get cleaned up."

I don't grace this with a response. He should know by now that I can't leave her.

"Belikov."

I ignore him.

"Dimitri!"

And suddenly his face fills my field of vision, blocking out the Rose's unstirring figure. I'm forced to look into his eyes, filled with pity and concern that only makes my sense of helplessness even worse.

"Rose is tough," he says gently. "She's going to get through this. The doctor says that it looks good."

Directly addressed by a Moroi, it's not like I can remain silent. But my voice is hoarse from nerves and disuse. "I have to be here when she wakes up."

Christian seems to take this as a victory, simply getting me to talk. But I can see that beneath the triumph, he's worried about Rose too.

"Nobody thinks you shouldn't be," he soothes, making me realise that my tone was more aggressive than intended. "It's just, do you want her to see you like this?"

His cocked eyebrow draws my attention to my creased shirt still stained with her blood, my bloodshot eyes, untidy stubble, and the smell of sweat that clings to me like a second skin. I have to admit, he's got a point. Plus, it's probably the only thing he could have said that would ever have gotten me out of this chair. By the sly smile on his face as I haul myself upright, I'm guessing he knows this.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself, "I mutter, and he breaks into an outright grin.

"I'm just watching out for my guardian. Now go clean yourself up."

I roll my eyes, but head over to the door just the same. On the threshold I pause, glancing once more over my shoulder at Rose.

"I'll stay here, she won't be alone."

Christian has resumed my erstwhile vantage point, and I feel a swell of gratitude. I must be more tired than I thought, because his expression softens a little when he sees it in my face.

"Go. I'll call you if she wakes up."

I nod, and my eyes flick back to Rose. I watch her breathe in one more time, and, reassured, make my exit.

As soon as I'm out of her presence, however, I feel adrift. People pass me as I stand in the corridor, only just starting their days. Eyes slide from mine uncomfortably, but I'm too absorbed in my own problems to give a fuck. Their unease provides me with a wide ring of space, and honestly I prefer it right now.

Shower, I remind myself, thoughts surprisingly sluggish. And a change of clothes.

But my assigned apartment is all the way across the grounds. It's a 20 minute walk. Anxiety stirs as I think about all that can happen in such a short space of time. It's not like with Ivan. I won't let it be. I'll just have to stay as close as I can.

So I opt instead for the three minutes it takes for me to get to the gym. The water sluices over my skin, burning hot, the way I like it. The scalding heat replaces my acquired pallor with a pink glow, and as I scrub away the layer of grime that I've accumulated somehow, some small part of my mind thinks back to a time when I was paler, and couldn't feel the heat.

If I was still a Strigoi, I could save her.

The thought comes from nowhere, knocking into me with such force that it's a wonder I'm still standing. My temper spikes, and I wrench the tap closed with much more force than necessary. My palm stings where I gripped the metal too hard, and I use that pain to focus.

You need to forgive yourself, her voice echoes through my head from the past.

I stand there until my harsh breaths subside.

"I'm trying," I whisper. "Don't give up on me."

The towel is rough but clean, and the clothes I pull on are a little rumpled from my locker. The shirt makes a rasping sound as it catches on my stubble, but I don't have the tools or the patience to shave right now. I dump the old ones into the trash and realise that once more, I am at a loose end. It's only been about fifteen minutes since I left Rose. Somehow I don't think that Christian will be satisfied.

I could go train, but I don't want to have to shower again. I could go back to my empty apartment and worry, but I don't think my sanity could take the tension. And so, without consciously forming the decision, I end up at the only place I can think of where I might not be the most miserable bastard in the room.

"Vodka, neat," I say to the barman, and he slides the glass across the counter in front of us.

The dim room is nearly empty, which is only to be expected at the vampire equivalent of ten in the morning. But I barely take in my surroundings as I tilt the glass to my lips.

The vodka is sharp on my tongue. The initial bite of the crisp liquor reminds me of home, and the smooth way it glides down my throat is soft as a lover's touch. I taste the fumes at the back of my throat; that rich and devastating burn that warms me from the inside. It greets me like an old friend.

"Another?" asks the barman, and I nod.

I'm going to drink this one slowly, and then I'll go back to my vigil.

"Why, if it isn't Vlad the Impaler!"

The distinct voice comes from a shadowy corner on my right, and I recognise it instantly, slurred though it is.

"Adrian," I mutter, by way of greeting. Of all the bars…

"You look like shit," he informs me gleefully, lurching into the vacant seat beside me.

"So I've heard," I mutter, draining my glass in one mouthful, despite my best intentions.

He gives me a look halfway between a grin and a grimace. "Barkeep! Another vodka for the man who fucked my girlfriend!"

The barman shrugs and tops me up, before moving away to attend to another customer. He keeps a wary eye on us though, and I inwardly scoff. It wouldn't be much of a fight if he was dumb enough to take that route.

Adrian waves his drink in my face, slopping half of it over his shirt in the process. I take in his appearance with a raised eyebrow. And he said I look bad? A textbook case of pot and kettle.

"How is the fair Rose, anyway?" His words are a pleasant tumble, but I can see his pain through the haze of alcohol, and I feel a surge of guilt. He's been here for a while already, trying to numb the pain with spirits.

I take another healthy gulp, trying to avoid this particular conversation. "She wants to be the one to talk to you."

He laughs. It's harsh and ugly, and it makes me wince.

"She wants to talk to me, huh? Well, that's fucking convenient! It'll make dying a whole lot better for her!"

If it were anyone else, I would have punched them. But I'm already too deeply in debt to this man, much as I hate it.

"She loves you, you know." I know that saying it doesn't help at all, but I feel like I should speak at least. And it feels good to use my voice, after my extended silence.

Adrian takes the time to drain his drink before responding: "Yeah. Well, she was in love with you for our whole relationship."

I can say nothing. To deny it would be a lie, and to agree would be to make it worse. So we sit in silence, side by side, and he orders another round. There is a camaraderie here, where I least expected to find it. I'm aware that we make an exceedingly strange pair; the man with the broken heart sitting beside the one who used to be a monster. But the usual antagonism seems to dissolve in the alcohol we consume, and sometime during my fifth vodka, he speaks again.

"I can't hate her."

I glance across at him, and his expression is like broken glass.

"I can't hate her for what she did. For what both of you did. If I hate her and she dies…it will be my fault."

His depth takes me off guard; one sees it so rarely in Adrian. I'm hit by the realisation that the ragged, broken person sitting next to me is a good man, beneath all his faults.

"Then hate me."

He squints up at my face, seeming to take an immense amount of effort to process my words.

"Hate you?" he slurs.

"Yes. I'm not dying. And you said it yourself; she and I are both to blame."

Adrian takes a moment to gather his thoughts on the subject, searching his drink thoroughly for the right words to say.

"She's bewitching," he finally answers. "How can I hate you for the spell she cast?"

I shrug. "Maybe it will make things a little easier. I played a role."

He looks drunkenly sceptical, and honestly it's starting to get a little difficult to follow my own logic here. My thoughts scatter like fish every time I try to approach, shimmering tantalisingly just beyond my reach.

"Okay," he nods, one single but vigorous bob of a very heavy head.

When we're finally cut off, I help Adrian stagger back to his room, and when we reach his door, he turns to me.

"Can I hit you?"

For some reason, this makes me laugh, and his face crumples into a scowl.

"You gave me permission to hate you. Can I hit you?"

He's much drunker than I am, and a Moroi besides. I'm a fully trained guardian, honestly, what harm could it do to take a hit?

"Not in the face," I reply eventually, my own voice less steady than usual.

So I stand there and open my arms in invitation. He pulls back his fist with intense concentration, and punches me in the gut. I grunt when his knuckles connect with my flesh, harder than I would have thought possible. That's going to leave a bruise.

Was he just pretending to be more drunk, so I would pity him?

Energy spent, he slumps against the doorframe, and looks much calmer than he did a half hour ago.

"Go be with her," he says quietly. "Love her for both of us, when she wakes up."

I look at him for a long moment, then nod. But before I can turn away, he holds out his hand. The gesture is unexpected, and the resulting handshake uncomfortable, but my solitary walk back through the grounds sees me much more serene than I would have imagined.

Forgive yourself, Rose had said.

It's a roadmap with no markings, a task that seems impossible. I don't know where to start, or how to start, or if it will even work. I'd do anything for her, but I'm not sure that I'm capable of this.

My silent musings carry me forward, back to her.

I turn my strange evening over in my mind, sitting in the same chair, and keeping vigil over her unconscious form once more. My thoughts replay the odd conversations we had.

Love her for both of us, Adrian had said.

Rose's instructions are a wall I will have to climb. Sheer and unrelenting, if I falter I will plummet to my doom. But somehow, I feel as though tonight I received a leg up from a friend. It doesn't seem so impossible.

Love her for both of us.

For the first time in an eternity, I feel the first blossoming of hope.

Love her for both of us.

This I can do.

Author's Note

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you thought by leaving a review. It's always great to get feedback, even if I'm not so great at replying. Also, if you wish to favourite and follow, please do so. I post these random oneshots from time to time, and it's a good way to keep in the loop, as I never know when the next one will happen.

I've been toying with this one for a while. It's not a dynamic we really get to see much, and I just thought it was an interesting idea; Adrian and Dimitri helping each other to heal a little. Honestly the whole thing sprung from the "Vlad the Impaler" line, which I still think is witty and hilarious. I mean, Rose was unconscious for two days, and a lot can happen in that time. You could call it a flight-of-fancy I guess.

A huge thank you to hes-beauty-hes-jason-grace for helping me to pick out all the nits. Her work is really great, and you should totally head on over to her profile and take a look.

The VA universe and the characters therein are the intellectual property of Richelle Mead.