Disclaimer: The plot and the characters are Fitzpatrick's. I am just taking over Patch's point of view.

AN:I really didn't want to keep writing this until I read Crescendo. But I still haven't read it, (I KNOW! I'm upset about it!) so there are definitely going to be a lot of errors in Ashes. I'm thinking I should just continue with my story and once I read the second book I'll make sure I'm sticking to canon. But, of course, this is all assuming that my retelling of Hush, Hush is botched up when compared to Crescendo…Does this author's note even make sense?

Ok. So, I'm done with that rambling section of my note, and thought I'd get to the part where I talk about the chapter. Before you start reading, I'd like to apologize in advanced if you hate it. It's hard to write from Patch's POV after such a long. I would read through Ashes, but if I did, I would probably criticize myself a lot and stop writing altogether. I love Hush, Hush, and reading it over while writing Ashes. However, I also love the parts of Ashes that aren't in Hush, Hush, it gives me the chance to see what happens when Nora isn't around. But, then I get afraid that Patch is out of character. So for that, I apologize.

If anyone sees any typos or errors in the Ashes, just tell me so I can fix it! Thanks!

Enjoy Chapter Five. (Then review, maybe?)

"Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts? ...We are so fragile, And our cracking bones make noise, And we are just, Breakable, breakable, breakable, girls and boys." –

Ingrid Michaelson

"So many and so various laws are giv'n; So many laws argue so many sins"- Paradise Lost

Chapter Five: Breakable

Bio was quickly becoming my favorite subject, and not because of Coach's interesting teaching style. No, Coach was droning on about something as usual, and not even the subject at hand was alleviating the boredom that began to set in.

Nora, on the other hand, was amusing me to no end.

The moment I walked into class, my eyes were attracted to her like a moth to a flame. She was sitting at our table, her red hair draped over one shoulder; she was writing furiously on a sheet of paper. I refused to believe that Nora was doing last minute homework. She was much too responsible to have forgotten her homework at home, let alone have forgotten to do her homework.

The scraping noise of my chair signaled to Nora that I was only a foot away from her. She looked up, sliding her paper over a few inches in an attempt to hide it. It looked like she was thinking of smiling, but then decided against it. Instead, she turned her body away from me, toward her paper, and continued writing.

Almost half an hour later, Nora hadn't moved a muscle, with the exception of her hand scribbling away on her paper. I had been watching her from the corner of my eye the entire duration of Coach's lecture, so I knew she wasn't taking notes. If she was taking notes, she'd be using her black pen with the sunflower on top, the one that she'd sometimes run back and forth against her cheek, as if she were feeling the soft petals of an actual flower. Nope, today, she was using a bulky blue pen that screamed "I'm on an important mission. Don't bother me. That means YOU, Patch." She hadn't even noticed that I had been tediously inching closer to her during class, and that our knees were almost touching.

After a few more minutes of writing, she had run out of steam, and her pen slowed to a stop. She lifted the writing utensil, using it to play with her bottom lip as she brainstormed something. She was definitely not taking notes.

I heard her gasp, and I turned my head to see what had happened. She was paler than normal, digging into her backpack for something important. I glanced at Coach, who was now done with his lecture and asking questions. When I looked back at Nora, she was swallowing pills.

I raised my eyebrows at her. Nora didn't do drugs. Period. She was too much of a good-two-shoes to do them, had too much ambition to let something like drugs get in her way. Stamford, Yale, and Harvard were all calling out to her and she wouldn't ruin her chances by becoming an addict. Of course, there was a miniscule possibility that my judgments were wrong. But, while judging someone isn't usually an accurate perception of what that person does or does not do, with Nora, what you see is pretty much what you get. Not that it's a bad thing, necessarily.

"So, it really comes down to survival of the fittest," Coach said. "After all, girls love guys like Brad Pitt. I'm sure there are certain traits that you like in a mate, right, Nora?"

I turned toward Nora, who seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. There was a moment of awkward silence, and I was caught between tapping her on the shoulder and laughing at her misfortune.

"Nora?"

Luckily, at that moment, she came back down to Earth from whatever planet she was on. Her mouth opened slightly as she mumbled "Huh?" Her eyes focused on Coach as he looked at her impatiently, waiting for an answer. "Could you repeat the question?"

Most of the class laughed at her, the outcome of over a dozen immature teens in one biology room. However, I would tolerate a million immature teenagers if the effect was seeing Nora's rosy pink blush.

"What qualities are you attracted to in a potential mate?"

"Potential mate?" Nora looked squeamish, like she was being asked about her sex life. But, considering Vee's laughter behind us, a question concerning Nora's "potential mate" was just as inappropriate as a question about the last guy she hooked up with.

"You want me to list characteristics of a…?"

"Potential mate, yes, that would be helpful."

Nora's eyes slid sideways and, surprisingly, glanced at me. She more than glanced at me. For a moment, she seemed to be appraising me, looking at my characteristics – a rather bold move for someone so stubbornly ingenuous.

My surprise was quickly covered by a flashy smile. I mouthed to her We're waiting, causing her to turn her attention to her hands. She laid them on the table, suddenly more interested in her chipping pink nail polish than her science buddy – me.

"I've never thought about it before," she told Coach.

"Well, think fast."

She bit her lip, probably trying to think of something, anything. "Could you call on someone else first?"

"You're up Patch."

It took me a split second to register what Coach said; two humans surprised me twice in two minutes. After a moment of pause, I responded quickly, too quickly for my own liking, although, after living forever, logic dictated that I should know what I want.

"Intelligent. Attractive." I paused, and before I could register what I was thinking I said, "Vulnerable."

Coach wrote them up on the chalkboard. "Vulnerable? How so?"

Vee found an opportune moment to but in, saving me from having to explain. "Does this have anything to do with the unit we're studying? Because I can't find anything about desired characteristics of a mate anywhere in our text."

He was half-way through writing "Vulnerable" in his chicken scratch writing when he paused to look at Vee. "Every animal on the planet attracts mates with the goal of reproduction. Frogs swell their bodies. Male gorillas beat their chests. Have you ever watched a male lobster rise up on the tips of his legs and snap his claws, demanding female attention? Attraction is the first element of all animal reproduction, humans included. Why don't you give us your list, Miss Sky?"

Her list was spectacularly predictable. She listed them off on one hand; one trait for each finger: "Gorgeous, wealthy, indulgent, fiercely protective, and just a little bit dangerous."

I couldn't help but laugh to myself; there were so many things to laugh at, so many things that were wrong with that list. But the most prominent was the fact that if Vee really did find her perfect guy, which was improbable to begin with, what were the chances that he'd like her back? "The problem with human attraction is not knowing if it will be returned."

"Excellent point," Coach said.

"Humans are vulnerable because they're capable of being hurt." Hurt physically, hurt emotionally. I bumped my knee against Nora's, the most vulnerable person I knew. Who else had a bio partner who was planning to murder him/her?

Coach nodded his agreement. "The complexity of human attraction – and reproduction – is one of the features that set us apart from other species."

This time, I attempted, however poorly, to suppress my laughter. Humans could be so naïve. Human attraction isn't complex. My years on earth and divorce statistics could prove that to me. A little less than half of the species mated for life, their original attraction transforming into a relationship based ridiculous sentimental notions. The other half based attraction on hormones and the carnal lust caused by the shallow list of traits listed by Vee.

"Since the dawn of time," Coach continued, "women have been attracted to mates with strong survival skills – like intelligence and physical prowess – because men with these qualities are more likely to bring home dinner at the end of the day." He grinned at the guys, his thumbs stuck up as if he were agreeing on a game plan for his team. "Dinner equals survival, team." He paused, waiting for something, maybe laughter, but continued when he got no response from his audience. "Likewise, men are attracted to beauty because it indicates health and youth – no point mating with a sickly woman who won't be around to raise the children." He chuckled to himself.

"That is so sexist!" Vee's voice cut off Coach's laughter. "Tell me something that relates to a woman in the twenty-first century."

"If you approach reproduction with an eye to science, Miss Sky, you'll see that children are the key to the survival of our species. And the more children you have, the greater your contribution to the gene pool."

"I think we're finally getting close to today's topic," Vee said. "Sex."

"Almost." Coach held up a finger, signaling patience. "Before sex comes attraction, but after attraction comes body language. You have to communicate 'I'm interested' to a potential mate, only not in so many words."

Coach looked at me, pointing me out. "All right, Patch. Let's say you're at a party. The room is full of girls of all different shapes and sizes. You see blondes, brunettes, redheads, a few girls with black hair. Some are talkative, while others appear shy. You've found one girl who fits your profile – attractive, intelligent, vulnerable. How do you let her know you're interested?"

Easy. I've done it a million times. "Single her out. Talk to her."

"Good. Now for the big question – how do you know if she's game or if she wants you to move on?"

"I study her. I figure out what she's thinking and feeling. She's not going to come right out and tell me, which is why I have to pay attention." That's the biggest mistake a guy can make, being too wrapped up in himself to notice her emotions. To figure out what's going through her head. I looked at Nora, trying to push away my current train of thought. She was still looking at her nails, nervously.

"Does she turn her body toward mine?" The way Nora does when I talk to her. "Does she hold my eyes, then look away?" The way Nora does whenever she feels my eyes on her. "Does she bite her lip and play with her hair, the way Nora is doing right now?" I ignored the laughter and Coach's comments. "She's game," I said in an almost whisper, wanting only Nora to hear, as I once again knocked my knee against hers. She blushed, this time a light red, either from my flirtatious provoking or from the attention the class had on us.

"The blood vessels in Nora's face are widening and her skin is warming," I continued, watching the red deepen. "She knows she's being evaluated. She likes the attention, but she's not sure how to handle it."

I hadn't heard her protesting voice since last night, but after my evaluation of her, Nora finally said something. "I am not blushing!" Of all the arguments she could have stirred up against me over her behavior, she chose the most undeniable one: her blush, so visible that astronauts could have seen it from the moon.

"She's nervous. She's stroking her arm to draw attention away from her face and down to her figure, or maybe her skin." I examined both and conceded, "Both are strong selling points."

"This is ridiculous." She all but slammed her hands on the table, looked haughtily past me and everyone else in front of her, her chin stuck up defiantly. Her stubborn pride refused to let her be the butt of a joke. However, her need to keep her pride wasn't going to stop me from irritating her more.

I pretended to stretch, much like humans did in those cliché movie moments, and hung my arm on the back of Nora's chair. The class laughed at my flirtatious antics, but I could care less what they thought of me and Nora. I captured Nora's grey eyes with my own and I knew Nora understood my intentions. Behind my flirty façade, I sent the message that I was in charge here, not Nora. She could attempt to get away from me, to rile me up, to find out who I am and what my purposes here are, but ultimately, she was at my mercy. She was vulnerable, and I let her know.

Expecting Nora to take my taunts lying down would have been stupid. She wrenched her chair forward and away from me, a little pout situated on her face. Coach's "And there you have it! Biology in motion" only made her pout more.

She wasn't going for the look-at-me-I'm-gorgeous pout; it was the last thing she'd try to do. But, I couldn't help but notice that the rosy color of her lips matched the still rosy color of her normally pale cheeks. To anyone in the classroom, the interaction between Nora and me looked coy, flirtatious, but to us, it wasn't a mere hormonal attraction. On my part, it was the dark magnetism between a predator and its prey and a fascination with Nora's capriciousness. It was a game. On Nora's part, it was her fear of me versus the enthrallment precipitated by an unsolved mystery.

Coach dictated our homework to us just as the bell rang. I pushed back my chair, standing up, and looked at Nora. I leaned down, staring at one side of her stubborn face and said, "That was fun. Let's do it again sometime." I heard a ring of girls giggle as they passed us, and I quickly followed their path out the door before Nora could respond.

Thank goodness for B.L.P.- Biology Last Period. When I first commenced my plans, I thought bio was going to be my least favorite class because of Nora. However, bio surprised me, Nora surprised me, the human experience surprised me.

In Heaven, there were irrefutable rules and punishments. They were austere, and to break a rule was normally unheard of despite our free will. Humans used to abide by the same austere rules, especially during the Middle Ages when human faith in God was vital to surviving through the plague and brutal warfare. Foolishly, I forgot that the same fear and faith didn't apply in debauched modern times where free will and hypocrisy always prevailed over a fear of an omnipotent divine being. The disparity between Heaven and earth was refreshing, and it only augmented my desire to become human.

The fresh spring air hit me as soon as I stepped out of the school. I didn't know what to do with my afternoon. It was two-thirty, I had no work, Bo's would be empty for a few hours. Would this be another day of doing homework? I asked myself, dreading the thought. One day of homework was enough for me. I sat on my bike, going over what homework I had. English – Pick a quote from Catcher and find a free-choice book to read. I could do that right before class. Math – do problems 6-56 evens for section 5.3. No one ever checks math homework. History – study for a quiz. History was my best subject so studying was crossed of my list. Bio – chapter seven. What was chapter seven even on?

I dug my bio book out of my bag, and flipped through the glossy pages until I found chapter seven. I took one look at the pictures and shut the book with a loud snap. No, thank you, Coach. I'd rather not read through twenty pages of cartoon porn. I tossed the book back into my bag, wishing Nora was here. At least she provided entertainment value.

I started up my bike with no particular plans, intending on zooming around town for fun. Maybe Coldwater had some sort of carnival going on for the heck of it. The worst possible outcome of exploring Coldwater would be finding nothing and being bored.

Most of Coldwater was boring. The route from the high school was the same route that held the exit to I-95. Not many took the exit ramp into Coldwater, and only a few cars left Coldwater. It was a quiet day; the section of the highway that was visible to me was almost abandoned with only a few cars whizzing by now and then. The school's road merged into Main Street, where I passed the Town Hall, its lawn covered in a spectrum of flowers. Most of the town was a blur to me, the colors meshing together to form a poor excuse for a rainbow.

A red light had me sliding to a halt, giving me enough time to notice a rather nice building. It looked a bit like Monticello, except in the middle of downtown Coldwater. It was across from the courthouse, but that building was much uglier. Monticello's red bricks stuck out against the green landscape and white Doric columns. Outside there was a little pavilion with the same columns. A marble statue sat in the front lawn, enjoying the day and the beauty of the building. I followed an arrow that corresponded to the word PARKING in bright white letters.

I drove down a dark tunnel, wondering how such a nice structure could have such a creepy parking lot. It was this kind of place that murders and shady drug deals happened. Ironically, if crimes really did occur in the parking lot, it would be right under a library and a courthouse. I took a sharp right, occupying the closet parking spot I found.

More arrows pointed me to the library entrance, a dingy metal elevator that reminded me more of a cage than an elevator. I wasn't interested in going into the library. I cared more about the beautiful statue in front of the library. I traced my steps back up to the street, and toward the library's front lawn. There, amid the lush green grass was a little halo of colorful flowers, freshly bloomed in the spring time. And sitting in the middle of the halo, I found a marble angel. Time had obviously worn it down, its wings covered in little patches of dirt and fungus. However, I'm sure that when it was first created it was gorgeous.

Maybe gorgeous was too much of an exaggeration. The angel wasn't a David; it wasn't a Pieta or a St. John or a St. George. But there was something, not charming, but not discomforting. It was simply intriguing. The statue was sitting, ankles crossed, head resting on his hand. He looked down, wistfully, at the grass below, contemplating. He was a statue, but he could have been an angel sitting on a cloud, staring down at the people on earth, wishing he was a human. The little angel struck a chord somewhere within me, for that little angel looked like the embodiment of my emotions from long ago, from when I was still an angel in Heaven.

The little golden plaque on the front of the statue's pedestal said Donated by an anonymous donor. Part of Coldwater Public Library's Art Collection.

I wondered if more angels inhabited the library, flying around the shelves on whim, enchanting librarians and other people around. I walked into the library, passing the neo-classic columns. The elderly lady at the checkout counter gave me her best smile and greeted me with a "Hello, dearie. How are you?" Her companion, a middle-aged woman, gave me a cautious look. I ignored Janet, as her nametag said, and directed the conversation toward Martha, the elderly librarian.

"There's a statue of an angel outside," I said, "and it's a part of the library's art collection." I cringed as I talked, feeling like an idiot for the first time in my life. It was silly of me to come into the library because of one dumb statue. I had plans for my existence, things that had to get accomplished. My presence on earth had always had an agenda, one that changed over time, but one that I stuck to. Finding Chauncey to experience humanity, playing pool and poker and getting a job to earn money, coming to Coldwater to become human. Never had I strayed from my plans, but Martha's smile pushed me to continue. "I'm fairly new to the town, so I haven't been here before. Could you direct me toward…" I trailed off, still feeling like a foolish teenage boy.

Martha, still smiling, understood my botched up question, and replied, "Of course, sweetie. The gallery is upstairs; just follow that first aisle until you see the staircase on your left."

I thanked her and set off for the stairs, restraining myself from running out of the building. I was still in earshot of the checkout desk when I heard someone, presumable Janet, say, "I don't like the looks of that boy." Martha's response was, "Really, now Jan. No need to be so negative about such a delightful young boy."

"Delightful my foot," I muttered under my breath. I was more of a menace, a premeditating murderer, and I didn't blame Jan for thinking I was some sort of hoodlum. Yet, I appreciated Martha's sweet grandmother disposition in my time of vulnerability. Vulnerable. Like the rest of human society. It was preposterous to think, even for a second, that I was vulnerable, but I was. That was the feeling that had overcome me only moments before when I was asking about the collection: vulnerability. It was a feeling I would become more acquainted with once I was human.

I almost missed the stair case leading up to the gallery, but there it was, where the librarian told me it would be. I looked recently renovated, if the modern door, tiles and handrails were anything to go by. Whoever renovated must not have like neo-classicism. Going up, I found I was in a small square room, the second floor of the library. A small cupola was in the center of the room, and I assumed it was the center of the building.

I walked around the room, first looking at the paintings hung on the walls, and then looking at the sculptures in the middle of the room. I saw something that looked remarkably like Fra Angelico's Annunciation, but not quite as well done. There were some paintings that could have been from the Hudson River School. Most of the paintings were placed in chronological order, the time frame allowing me to journey through my experiences. The collection of art in the room only accounted for a slim sliver of my existence; between the dates of the first piece of art and the last, millions of humans died. When I reached the stairs, I was mildly disappointed; I hadn't found any other rare gems like the angel statue. Yet, the gallery room left me with a chilling reminder that humanity, while beautiful, was short-lived.

I sauntered downstairs, finding it to be no more crowded than when I entered before. I dodged the few people standing in the aisle looking for books, reading a few of the titles off the spines of the books. The Prince, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Lolita, all books I remember were popular when they were published.

A book was on the floor, dropped carelessly. I picked it up and tried to find an empty spot on the shelf, however, there wasn't one. I looked at the title, wondering if it was dropped in the wrong section. Great Expectation by Charles Dickens. I've never read Dickens. Well, I never really read anything worth the read. But, there had always been some sort of craze about Dickens as a wonderful author of many different novels, Great Expectations being one of them. Perhaps, it was time to read some Dickens and find out if it really lives up to the wonderful reviews. Plus, I had to find a book for that English assignment.

When I walked up to the checkout line, a copy of Great Expectations in hand, Marsha gave me another one of her grandmother smiles, tilting her head over to a set of tables on the other side of the room, pointing at something. I turned around, expecting a painting or statue that I hadn't seen. Instead, I spotted none other than Nora who looked mortified, but couldn't look away from me, a deer in headlights. I gave her a sly grin, as if to say "Well, fancy meeting you here," and she quickly tore her eyes away from mine. I had just found Nora's favorite afterschool spot, and it was painfully predictable: the library.

After checking out Dickens with my non-existent library card, I found the metal elevator, with the full intention of finishing my jaunt around the town. I hopped on my bike, ready to start the engine when my cell phone went off. It was Bill, probably calling from Bo's.

"I'm listening," I answered the phone, starting up my bike.

"You have to get down here," he sounded excited. "You wouldn't believe what this guy's willing to bet!"

I wasn't in the mood for guessing, so I asked. It looked like I was going to win myself a new car.

AN: While reading Hush, Hush, I never judged Patch as being vulnerable. He was always the super hot fallen angel to me. But, I guess when you're writing, some characters come to life and go "Hey, judging someone isn't usually an accurate perception of what that person does or does not do!" And then they take charge and completely change where you're going with the plot. So, if you didn't like the chapter, don't blame me; blame Patch!

P.S. If you're one of those people who like to keep up with the quotes at the beginning of the chapters, I have two things to say. 1. I might run out of really good Paradise Lost quotes, so send some my way. 2. This chapter's song is a lot less angsty than the rest, because this chapter portrays a softer Patch.