All These Things I've Done

Evan was good at making promises to people. In the aftermath, though, however sincere his intentions, he was never quite able to keep them. The night following Brooke's funeral, he had stood by her gravestone with the wind in his hair and false stars in his eyes, gazing up at the sky as he silently promised never to let himself make the mistake of falling in love again. Her death had destroyed his heart, but the hollow abyss of his chest would remain forever open for her ghost to haunt, to torture, an open doorway to the shallow misery that sculpted his every waking hour with such care. His memories kept her alive, her blood in the veins of his future's ashes, and for as long as the breath stayed true to his body she would be the only one who would ever know his heart.

To fall for someone else, to let the riot of emotions staining his lips break the skin of another...well, that would be betraying her memory, and he was nothing if not loyal to those he loved. The security of her presence was born of more than simple desire, it had become a necessity, the fuel that kindled fireworks in the corners of his heart, and moving one, letting her go, that would kill something as fundamental to his everyday survival as the whispered symphonies of his pulse. Brooke wasn't really dead; he could still hear her, sense her, feel her - sometimes she even entered his dreams, a blessing shrouded in the sweet robes of a curse, the honeyed words seeping from her tongue to the back of his throat. Not yet dead, not quite alive. Suspended in between, a realm simmering just beyond the reach of his fingertips, but one day he knew he would be strong enough to bridge the gap and pull her back to him.

Six years on and still in denial.

There was one person he could talk to. Within the midst of his agony, one person who would understand the soundless intent behind the oceans in his eyes and interpret correctly the graffiti of emotions shrouding his stained-glass smile. Ange smiled and wiped his tears away, she said all the right things, she told him that she understood the boundless sacrifices contained in his suffering and no matter how deeply the spear carved, the pain would fade given time. Both of them knew she was lying, but pretending was so much easier, if only for a little while. Nobody else could understand what he'd been through, but Ange saw his agony more clearly than most, and her presence provided a temporary balm for the bleeding flow of tears.

It was inevitable, really, that their relationship would start to develop in ways he wasn't quite ready for; she had been there for him right from the start, leaving undefined facets to their friendship shining through the shadows that descended across their shared grief. He told himself it didn't scare him, but the thoughts fooled nobody, least of all himself. At first he regretted taking a step back, turning away on this second chance of love - he knew all too well that he wasn't ready to face the world alone, but he had no choice. Whatever it was that drew him to Ange, it was no more than an illusion, a shattered mirage of broken mirrors and soft sea mists; their mutual attraction would amount to nothing but an infinite pool of hurt.

The excuse he forged as a shelter was that he simply craved love. People called love a drug, didn't they? It was entirely possible he had become addicted. Brooke had taken her capacity to love with her when she left, a precaution against the snarling she-wolves stalking her jealous, fitful dreams, and it was the emptiness trailing in her wake that led him to Ange. What he had with her wasn't love, but it filled the prayers of the emaciated curves dreaming deep inside his soul, spaces that Brooke had dug out for him, and it soothed away the pain of his loss with love's bloodless salve. The need for soft words and empty touches had driven him to Ange's arms, a mirage of everything he'd denied himself with that one bittersweet promise.

Over time, his dependence on Ange lessened; it both proved his point and further strengthened his resolve. He would be fine on his own. All he needed to do was keep his head down and carry on, safe behind a sequinned mask of petty lies. Ange had been no more than an outlet for his tears, a brief flirtation with weakness, no more and no less; he figured that for as long as he continued to imprint the thought across his mind, he might even be able to convince himself it was true.

The semblance of normality he had restored to his life by the time Dylan joined the Special Projects Group was really quite impressive, especially in comparison to the shattered mess he had made of himself in the six years leading up to it. On the outside, at least, he appeared almost fine; things were slowly getting better for him, although it would take a long time for the bruising held inside him to fade, and his soul was torn in places that would take eternities to heal. Brooke's death had resulted in so many more lives being saved - it was that one vague statement, a secret knowledge burning deep within his core, that allowed him to hold his head high and grit his teeth in something resembling a serpent's predatory smile.

He wasn't alone anymore. He finally had something to live for, a reason to laugh and be genuine about it. That was something to be grateful for, right? He lived his life surrounded by those who cared about him, not one woman who carried his heart between her teeth but a team of people he loved and respected, four people he could fully immerse his trust in and find himself trusted by in return. Mac, the reckless British idiot. Toby, his smart, sassy physics genius. Ange, his oldest friend, his confidante, his partner. And...and Dylan. Poetry personified. Beautiful, strong and yet so gentle...the source of all his fresh unravelling. There was no way he could stop himself from falling from her; she was the light to his dark, the fireworks in a midnight sky, the completion of a canvas he'd never thought to be unfinished. And it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he'd ever known before.

His relationship with Ange had been built from a mutual desperation for comfort, the blood, sweat and tears that bubbled hand in hand with grief, two lonely people who had kidded themselves they were healing each other with cut-throat kisses and whispers that bled out into the darkness. This, what he had with Dylan...it was entirely different. Dylan was the polar opposite to Ange, fiercely independent, stubborn and proud - maybe it was the sheer difference between them that had attracted him to her in the first place. She was a fighter, easily capable of holding her own, and yet compassionate, broken, with secrets of her own encased behind her eyes. Somehow, she had succeeded where everyone else had failed without even trying. Despite his best efforts to hide it she had found the key and unwittingly unlocked his heart, leaving him drowning in the molten remnants of all his broken promises.

The day his feelings became too strong to deny was the day the haunting began. He looked at Dylan and saw Brooke standing beside her, shoulders trembling with quiet, tearful breaths, restrained sadness shimmering through blind hurricane eyes. Constantly reproachful, a wound that inflicted sorrow on both of them, her gaze stabbed guilt through his body like spears as she shook her head slightly, curls dancing down her spine, and fired mindless bullets from chapped lips with velvet questions intended to be heard by his ears alone.

"I'm still here, y'know, Evan. I never really left. Does our marriage not mean anything to you anymore?"

"Is she worth that much to you? Enough to make you just forget about me?"

"Do you remember the day you gave me this ring? You promised to love me forever, had you forgotten? Or is forever really that short?"

"You told me you'd love me forever, and I believed in you. I thought you were strong enough to keep that promise. Are you going to prove me wrong, Evan?"

"I thought you cared for me, I really did. Were those all just lies?"

Then Dylan would rest a hand on his arm, lips pressed into a starlit smile as her eyes shimmered with a thousand crying galaxies, and Brooke would fade away again, leaving Evan lost within a hallucination of reality, torn between the worlds of the living and the dead. Fire and ice. Dark and light. Brooke was cold as a glacier's winter breath, bright in all her layers of serenity, moonlight and wordless peace and calm turquoise teardrops. Dylan was dark and sensual, with burning eyes and fire at her fingertips, infuriating, intriguing, a dangerous comfort wrapped in the security of warmth. Part of him wondered if he was going crazy, if Brooke's presence was an illusion or Dylan was the real ghost...but they were both so real, Brooke's anguish and Dylan's concern wrenching at his heart in two entirely different ways...how could he hallucinate something so raw, so painful? He had never believed in ghosts before, but now he was living with the evidence. And it was killing him.

In his heart, Evan knew he couldn't go on like this for much longer. The burden was becoming too much for him to bear, it was too heavy for one man to carry alone; he was tight and tense and knotted with secrets straining at the seams of his soul to be set free - soon, the bonds would break, and when that happened they would release an avalanche too big, too powerful to be controlled. Everything was going to fall apart in front of him, and the worst part was there was nothing he could do but stand back and wait for the bomb's timer to run dry.

It was inevitable. Something had to give.

Thirteen people had died. Images of their broken bodies strewn across the floor like litter, broken and battered, were tattooed across his every thought in the same scarlet ink as the blood that they slept in, draining from the wounds torn into their flesh. And three of those thirteen deaths had happened right in front of him. He had seen it all, the predators leaping from the shadows out of nowhere, the frenzy in the ripping sounds of tissue torn from bone by needle-sharp teeth, the pleading horror in the eyes of the victims as they realised they were going to die and Evan was too much of a coward to help them, rifle limp and useless by his side.

The worst part, though, had surely been the screaming. Not the screams of the dying. Those had faded out after the first few seconds, as throats were slashed and lungs deflated and soul pushed out through the tatters of skin. No, it was the screams of the predators that haunted him now, the mindless sadism in their howls of pleasure as they fed upon the corpses, mutilated them, a furious, triumphant hunger taking over them like a demonic possession as they were infused with the life of their victims.

All he'd wanted was to be left alone, the soft shadow-spun caress of isolation, drifting away into blissful oblivion. Then Dylan had arrived. Only wanting to help, entirely willing to leave if he'd rather be by himself for a while. Concerned and yet, at the same time, apologetic, her gaze consistently diverted by the floor when she spoke, a slight flush warming her cheeks. And he had turned on her without even meaning too. It was silly, really, how something so trivial could tear a friendship apart in seconds, but he'd been unable to restrain himself; the knots had finally broken beneath the weight of all his suffering, unleashing six years of raging sorrow and bitter anger onto the one person he'd die rather than see hurt by his actions. With Ange, it had been different. Easier, even. She would take every insult he shot at her, let him rage, happy for him to take his fury out on her. Dylan...she wasn't like that. Just as frustrated as he was, even if she didn't let it show, she'd lashed back at him, verbal sparring between two equally matched partners.

It hurt. The things she said, they cut him in places physical wounds couldn't touch. He knew she didn't mean them, it was just an outlet for her pain, but that didn't stop the ache from spreading, and so he reacted in the only way he could; the fight escalated beyond either's control, his mind lost in a haze of dark fog, crazed on anger and hurt and the numbing relief of restrained emotions sweeping past his chapped, bleeding lips.

He didn't know where the words came from - only once they were spoken did he realise the full implications of his fury, lingering like stardust on bitter smoke in the hauntingly silent room, almost...captivating in their permanence, their refusal to be erased.

Burning anger. Moonlight in his veins. "Like you're the voice of fucking sanity around here! You have no damn right to come in here and lecture me about my feelings when you can't even handle your own!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't play innocent with me, Dylan. I know you cut yourself. You thought I was crazy when I had those hallucinations, didn't you? But you're the crazy one," he said, his voice low, dangerous, matching her new tone. Sadistic sickness writhed through his body as he saw his bullet draw blood, painting shock across her face; he hated himself for the pleasure he took in it, watching surprise morph to injury, then a faceless blank canvas. He couldn't tell what she was thinking beyond the brief germination of betrayal; dead eyes pierced his skin, bled him dry, sucked out any hint of relief he'd felt from the argument and lay it to rest somewhere deep below the silent hills of his heart.

"Fuck you, Evan," she spoke in a soft voice, almost a murmur; when he looked closer, tearing a little deeper into the aching vistas of her eyes, he realised that she wasn't as emotionless as she had first appeared. Embers stirred sleepily within the greyscale ashes of her broken masquerade, and dewdrops held a gentle shimmer in the corners of her eyes, the barest hint of anger gleaming in the gradient of her lips. "I'm not crazy. And anyway, that...that's in the past now. You know it is, you must know that,"

"That doesn't change anything. What I said still stands," he said, tasting the emotion against his tongue, bitter as poison. It wasn't him speaking anymore; Brooke's breath wrapped itself around his throat like silk, filling his lungs, her soft, smooth voice so sweetly sardonic in the dryness of the air. She was possessing him, a ghost, a demon, not just playing with his head but taking control. Talking through him. Forcing her jealousy into the room like toxic gas, watching it choke her chosen victim through Evan's eyes, and taking some kind of sadistic pleasure in the aftermath.

Then suddenly everything flew into fast-forward; the door slammed and the room shook and she was gone, leaving only silence in her wake. It was a contradictory silence, predatory in nature, caught up in a soundless argument with all the many facets of what it was - Evan's shock at what he'd just done, a creeping sense of nausea as he slowly came to terms with the pain he'd just unwittingly caused her, and beneath it all Brooke's wordless triumph, her ghost revelling in the fact that, yet again, she'd got what she wanted. Not only pushing him over the edge as a punishment for the strength of his feelings for Dylan, but wrecking any chance of a relationship with her too.

"Are you happy now?" he asked out loud, not caring who overheard him, what they might think of the fact he appeared to be talking to empty air. "You've won. Are you happy?"

And he was certain he heard Brooke's reply, her voice laced with a combination of admonishment and gentle pity. "It had to be done, Evan,"

"No, it didn't. It really didn't," he said softly, the words little more than a choked whisper catching in the hollows of his throat. If Brooke heard them, she didn't let on. Her ghost was gone again, fading out into the evening light. What was it stopping him from letting go, moving on altogether, escaping her hold on him? All he wanted to do was make things right. He'd never meant to hurt anyone, especially not Dylan. But he didn't want to hurt Brooke, either, whether she was real or only in his head.

Yet now he sat here, all alone, the wounds he'd caused reflected in deep gashes along his own heart, submerged in more pain than he'd ever thought it would be possible for one man to feel. It was ironic, really, that'd he'd spent most of his life essentially playing with time, but found it beyond his capabilities to turn back the clock just a few minutes, thus erasing the weight of his regrets.

Of course, it was unfair of him to expect her to keep his cruelty a secret. The hard looks his teammates gave him when he walked into the Tank the next day were only to be expected, but he couldn't help flinching nonetheless. Whilst he did all he could to isolate himself from them, he knew in his heart he wouldn't be able to avoid them forever; the confrontation was inevitable, and when the next anomaly alert sounded he knew from the fire in Toby's eyes that he couldn't delay it any longer.

Her fingers circled his wrist like an eagle's talons, nails digging deep into his skin, scowling up at him as she pulled him away from the anomaly detector. "I'm coming with you this time, Evan. We need to talk, you, me and Dylan. Got it?"

There was no room for debate. "Fine. Whatever,"

In the end, however, it wasn't much of a conversation. Mac took one look at Toby's glare and opted to take his motorbike, defending himself with the excuse that they might need it to escape from a dinosaur in an attempt to preserve his reputation. Dylan sat in the back of the car, muscles rigid, barely moving, staring out of the window and pretending that the others didn't exist. Toby, for her part, spent almost the entire time shouting, a haze of angry noise that settled around his head and shot arrows through his brain without ever really sinking in.

"Have you seen the state she's in? That's your fault! All your fault! And you don't even have the guts to apologise for what you said!"

That was what Toby said, but she didn't have Brooke standing by her side, haunting her, controlling everything she did, forcing her to drive away the people she loved the most to quell the insatiable appetite of a lovelorn hallucination. She didn't have to suffer through the fear of wondering what was coming next, whether what she saw was real or just a product of her mind's instinctive darkness; she had no idea of how he suffered. The guilt, the pressure he didn't know how to handle...it made him sick, all of it. Not just physically, but sick in the head. Fucked up. Out of control.

"For God's sake, Toby, will you just leave it already? It's not my problem, what do you expect me to do about it? I never forced her to do it! I wasn't the one holding a knife to her wrists! None of that was my fault; she made bad choices and now she's got to live with the consequences! That's how the world works!"

Silence settled over them once more, bitterly familiar, his lungs sore and bleeding from the vicious abrasion of his anger. Already, though, the swell of hatred was slipping through his hands, remorse flooding in to replace the sudden surge of feeling. What was the point of apologising, of trying to take the words back? It wouldn't help. He had screwed up big-time, not just with Dylan and Brooke but now Toby as well, and there was nothing he could do. Everything was spiralling out of control again. His head hurt. His heart hurt.

Hot, bright tears were shimmering across Dylan's eyes, spilling out in a wordless cascade over her cheeks.

The urge to kiss them away was overwhelming, but he forced himself to resist.

He'd hurt her enough already.

Evan wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd expected reaching the site of the anomaly to be a relief, a final respite from Toby's incessant wrath. The blank stares, unreachable faces, distant eyes...he quickly discovered they were so much worse than the anger. After a brief silence that couldn't have been more awkward if it tried, Dylan walked over to Mac and quietly asked him to come with her so they could check the area for creatures. Mac glanced over his shoulder, trying to mask the gesture a moment too late, then turned away, putting a gentle arm around her waist as they left. He knew that it was just an act of comfort, that Mac would never even considering looking at Dylan that way...nonetheless, he couldn't ignore the sharp stab of jealousy he felt at the sight of them together.

So this was his life now. Ignored. Shunned. Branded permanently by a moment of impulsive fury, violence tripping like shooting stars over his tongue. Scars that took only seconds to carve, but would remain intact forever.

The anomaly itself wasn't hard to find with the accuracy of his detector, just a brief walk over some open land and a close encounter with a field of bulls that left him considerably more shaken than his pride would ever allow him to recognise. But in the soft, serene light of a billion golden shards, the glass of everything that had ever and would ever come to be...it was all forgotten, rendered meaningless. Watching it was almost hypnotic, a slow stream of thought and prosaic emotion, infinite possibilities. He couldn't help but wonder what world lay on the other side; the anomaly almost seemed to beckon such thoughts to his mind, as though he couldn't help but close his eyes and dream of pristine wilderness, clothing himself in all the beautiful colours of memories he had not yet lived.

To step through it all, sate the countless ravaging questions with the answers they craved...it was tempting, to say the least. The idea of stepping out of this life and into another, setting down the baggage of heartache and misery, was one that would never lose its appeal. Turning and walking away was harder than he'd ever thought it would be, but he knew that choice had no place here; even in the wake of all he'd lost, there was still so much left to lose, so many abysses waiting patiently to disintegrate him before he hit the bottom.

The past couldn't heal his wounds, however beautiful it was. His scars were gaping open, leaving him entirely susceptible, the scars which Brooke had cut into his heart and that Dylan had then torn wide open once more. To leave behind all he'd grown to love...it would kill him, a final slice into a wound that was already almost too deep to sustain his life at all.

It was Ange who brought him the answer. It always was.

The problem was that she answered the wrong question.

She told him it hadn't been Brooke talking to him. It was all in his mind, trying to twist his bruised emotions into masochistic snowflakes of agony, finding endless excuses to keep him from falling in love and thereby preserving his long-ago promise.

"I knew Brooke, remember? She wasn't like that, she wasn't bitter or jealous. The Brooke I remember would be happy for you, she would never do anything to hurt you or the people she loved, especially not out of something as petty as revenge. You're just scared of letting her go...but the truth is, Evan, you already have,"

His promise, the vow that for six long years had been the basis of his entire self, had been nothing more than words; for nothing and everything, he'd thrown his life away. Stretched across the many miles that separated life and death, his love for Brooke would never falter, but the intensity of the pressure it withstood stole away the power it guarded to keep him from falling once more. He had bound himself to that promise...but in the end, it was just another promise that he'd never be able to keep.

The more he came apart, the harder it was to fight. What had seemed at first like a familiar battle was growing tougher by the minute, and now it took all the energy he had just to carry on walking, breathing, staying alive.

He needed to apologise. Whilst he would never be as good at reading people or situations as Dylan was, it didn't take a genius to figure it out. And he tried. Honestly, he did. But when he first approached her, tentative to say the least, it became instantly obvious that she was nowhere near ready for an apology. She didn't say anything; she didn't need to. Without ever breathing a word, the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. It said "Haven't you done enough?" - and he didn't doubt for a moment that it spoke the truth.

This wasn't the right time. She had nothing to say to him, and he couldn't blame her, not after he'd hurt her so badly. Maybe one day she would find it in herself to forgive him, but for now whatever it was that had existed between them was broken, perhaps beyond all repair. It wasn't a clean break, either, but rough, dangerous, a shattered mess that would take more than just time and care to put back together.

Even so, giving up wasn't an option, whatever the risks involved, however likely it was that he would only end up cutting himself on the jagged edges of everything they'd once been. He would give her the space she needed to heal, and then try again. So simple in theory, and yet in practise so convoluted, woven through with excuses and reality.

But their relationship was worth fighting for. It had to be. Surely there was some way to make things right and begin piecing it all back together again? The solution was out there, somewhere, somehow; he just hadn't found it yet. A whole month since the argument, and he still hadn't found the courage to apologise. Every time he tried, the words seemed to wither in the back of his throat, painfully sour as they expired to their deaths.

For every reason he could think of to just get it over with, a counter-argument would spring forth from the darkest crevasses of his depression, bright and cloaked in screaming fire as it began to shriek, a low, mournful tale interlaced with reminders as to why he should leave it alone, why Dylan would be better off without him.

He couldn't bear seeing her so lonely, so hurt by the ridges of his distance.

He knew that his closeness would only hurt her more.

He was irrevocably in love with her.

He'd said the same about Brooke, and look how that had turned out.

Every day, the ache to hold her close and wipe away her tears grew a little stronger, a little more insistent.

He'd been the cause of those tears in the first place.

Gunshots rang out, a sudden spray of bullets that he could barely remember firing, and almost instantly the dinosaur collapsed to the floor; shudders ran along the vertebrae stacked like wet marbles beneath the gashed skin of its back, accusatory eyes staring out darkly from behind a gathering veil of thunderstorm mist. Blood oozed from the shattered mess of its throat and chest, as readily as the pain oozing with every desperate, flagging movement, every choking gasp it made to keep itself alive.

It was dying.

He didn't have the guilt to spare on a dinosaur. However much heavier the rifle now felt in his hands, weighted down with the remnants of yet another premature soul, he couldn't let it get to him.

Dylan was his priority. Always. And she was hurt, too. Leaning against a tree, fighting to catch her breath, with one arm cradled awkwardly against her body; his overwhelming instinct was to help her. In an instant, he was by her side, the short jog it took to reach her so natural, so automatic that he barely noticed it, and as he reached out to brush her shoulder gently with his fingertips it was almost as though the past month had never happened at all. For a moment, everything was right again; he'd travelled back in time to fix the past and the future lay before him in a sweeping arc of silver shards.

Illusion and dream, nothing more, nothing less. An illusion more real than reality itself, mirrored in Dylan's shining eyes as the utopia blazed through him and began to unravel his veins.

But mirrors were no more than glass. Veins were softer than dreams.

Both were prone to breaking.

The moment passed. Shattered fragments of illusion lay scattered around him, cuts that nobody else could see tearing into his skin; happiness was flowing out of him, bleeding like it was never going to stop, his heart pumping liquid paradise faster than the earth could soak it up. Dylan's face was guarded again, closed off, and already she was turning away from him, pulling free of his touch, refusing even to look at him properly. "I'm fine, Evan,"

"No, you're not," he replied, his voice so quiet he barely recognised it. Blood. There was blood seeping through her sleeve, slowly at first, but the more he watched it the faster it seemed to spread out, taunting him with its maniacal silence. Insidious nausea was stealing through his body, intensifying with a painful jolt as he noticed the jagged tear in the fabric and the inky-black droplets welling up through it. "You're bleeding, Dylan,"

"It's nothing," she shook her head, and Evan bit his lip. Maybe a month ago she would have been more willing to let him look after her. Now, though...he knew he had no right to expect her acceptance, her honesty. She hated him, and how could he blame her? Despite her outward strength, he was well aware of how sensitive she was; it was a part of who she was, and therefore a part of what he loved about her.

Slowly, though, she was fading, and it terrified him. He deserved all the hatred she could give him, all her anger, all her bitterness, but that didn't do anything to stop him from hurting, it could never alleviate the terror seething in the very core of his being at thought of Dylan, bright, beautiful Dylan, so cold and dark and dead inside. "It's not nothing. Please...just let me look,"

This time, she didn't give any kind of reaction. After a pause, he reached out to touch her injured arm, the slight flame of optimism that still burned in his heart whispering that silence didn't mean refusal, that optimism could shape it into anything it wanted, something as soft as willingness beyond a charade of reluctance, an unspoken acceptance of his touch...of his heart.

Time passed, frozen; neither spoke a word.

Fragile. That was the only word Evan could think of to describe it. One wrong move and this...whatever it was holding them in place, slowly edging the speed of his racing heart upwards as his fingers gently encircled her wrist...it would all collapse. Broken, maybe to the point where it could finally be deemed irreparable. And Evan didn't think he'd be able to take it.

He looked at her with questions in his eyes.

She didn't look away.

Evan's heart was burning, his head spinning with a hurricane force of bone fragments and poison as the liquid memories tumbled through his mind; his chest was so tight that breathing became impossible, his lungs shrieking furiously for oxygen he couldn't find. Pain replaced his blood, fire twisting his throat and tearing his skin to ribbons with claws as sharp as knives, tornadoes ripping into his pathetic excuse for a heart as storm-clouds began to gather in the corners of his eyes-

She yanked her arm away from him, cheeks flushing red with a curious mixture of shame and defiant pride. "Don't. Just don't,"

Transfixed as he was by the all-too-visible manifestations of the pain he hadn't been able to save her from, he heard her, but the words barely registered. "Oh, God, Dylan,"

So many cuts. Some shallow, some deep, dark red and brooding; some neat and regular, some wilder, blazing with an untold fury. Scars, too. Pink and white and purple. Mocking him with their false permanence, a hatred not healed, but simply pasted over. Too much. It was too much. And the knowledge that he had done this, that what he saw here was all down to him...that made it worse than he'd ever thought possible.

"Stop it, Evan," she pulled her sleeve down, one fist clenched, dragging her nails like claws over her palm. "If I wanted sympathy, I'd ask for it,"

And what could he do but shake his head, eyes lowered, unable to watch her walk away and take with her everything that made him whole?

Every day he was forced to see her frightened eyes, her resignation, every tiny fragment of her heart. Every day, he was forced to remember everything he'd done, all the pain, the anger, and what he'd done to cause it. How could he live with himself, knowing that he'd done this to her? Maybe it wasn't all his fault, but it was too damn close for his liking; Dylan was hurting herself. He hated seeing her in pain, felt it more acutely than if it was his own...and the fact she was doing it to herself made it so much worse.

Dylan was trying to pretend nothing had happened. As though those few seconds had never happened.

She was believing a lie.

Evan wanted to believe it too. But he couldn't. There was no way he could forget what he'd seen. No way he could miss the sleepless nights spelt out across her face, the exhaustion, the lost weight, the long sleeves and quick, defensive movements...lying to himself wouldn't erase any of those things. Lies were good for nothing but burial; they couldn't kill the knowledge.

More regret. More anger. More blame to carry. When was it ever going to end?

Another star to waste a wish on.

Another moon to pace away.

Where was the point in picking up the pieces when he knew they would only end up shattered again?

He had tried to take his words back and she hadn't listened. That didn't mean it was over. There had to be something he could do. There had to be, for the simple reason that if there wasn't, he would be helpless, and helpless was the one thing that he refused to be in this situation. It was different now, he couldn't just stand back and let her fade without a fight. She was his constant, the single shred of sanity in this crazy, crazy world, and he loved her, in every sense of the word. Without Dylan, he was nothing. They were a team.

Even now.

Ange had promised once that she would do anything for him. Now that he needed that the most, she was gone. Still, he knew exactly what she'd say.

It had been his words that started it.

It had to be his words that ended it. Ended it, for better or for worse; only time would tell.

He could still remember the day he'd made that first promise. He didn't think he was ever going to forget. But forgetting and moving on, rectifying mistakes...they were two entirely different things.

Love did terrible things. People were willing to die for it. It brought nothing good or light, just hurt and false hope and heartache.

Only now could he see that he'd been wrong.

Caution counted for nothing in situations like this. It was little more than a synonym for cowardice, and Evan was done with being a coward. For once, he was going to be bold, be brave, forget that his actions had consequences and do what had to be done. Dylan had once told him that not everything waits for tomorrow. She'd been right. Tomorrow wasn't guaranteed, and besides...all that was left still waiting for tomorrow was Evan himself. Trapped, suspended, free-falling into the future; he was done with waiting.

Years ago, Brooke had died, and whilst part of him had died alongside her, the rest of him was still alive, healing, hurting, desperate for a nod of recognition. There was blood in his body and love in his heart and a reason to fight, to stay alive. It wasn't just him anymore, an alien dimension to his unravelling trains of thought; he would survive.

For Dylan, he would survive.

"Dylan...I need to talk to you,"

"No," she turned around, moonlight spilling over her face like molten silver as she looked at him through hard, unyielding eyes. "Leave me alone,"

Wincing, Evan dropped his gaze to the floor, forcing himself to take a breath and keep his hands steady. "I'm not going anywhere. You need help, and I...I can't just stand back and let this slide anymore,"

"What I choose to do to myself is none of your business,"

"Yes, it is," he glanced up at her, his heart clenching at the open dismissal of her tone,1 and this time when their eyes met he held her gaze with steady determination. "Your self-harming isn't just hurting you, y'know. It terrifies me; the thought of you...cutting yourself, hurting yourself like that. I'm not going to pretend to understand why you do it, where the urge comes from...I just want to help you. Believe it or not, you're still my best friend; I've treated you like shit, I took my anger out on you, and that was wrong of me, but..."

She was still watching him as he paused to take a breath made shaky by silent tears, and whilst it could have been mere wishful thinking on Evan's part, he was sure he saw her expression soften, just slightly. "Dylan, you're still the most important person in my life right now. This is my fault, all of it, and I'm so, so sorry for what I did to you. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I just wanted you to know that I wish I hadn't said those things, and I didn't mean any of them, and...I'm still here for you, if you want me to be,"

"You blame yourself for this?" she tilted her head to the side, genuine surprise registering in her voice.

"Yes! Of course I do!" he could hear his own exasperation, far too blatant however hard he tried to hide it; shouting would do nothing to help the situation, which was delicate enough already. Dylan flinched at his raised voice, and all at once he felt the anger rushing out of him again, a burn of relief, soon replaced by a painful twisting sensation in his chest at the realisation...oh, God, she was scared of him. And who could really blame her? "We argue, I hurt you, you start cutting again. How do you expect me to feel? Those things I said...that's what triggered this whole situation. It's my fault. And I don't know how to make it right, I don't know what to do. Why didn't you talk to me? Not...after the argument, nobody could have expected you to...but before. I mean, this...it has to have been building up for a while, right? All this time, I honestly thought you were okay, I thought..."

He broke off, his throat so tight it hurt to talk, bringing his hands up to his face to hide the tears that were starting to fall. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried," she said quietly, her voice low and haunted. And he listened, perhaps more closely than he ever had before, but there was nothing. No emotion. No trace of her suffering, her pain. The voice of a ghost, trapped in the wrong world amongst people she didn't belong with. A ghost and all her demons. "I honestly tried. But you...you never seemed to want to listen,"

He couldn't breathe. "What?"

Where the hell had she got that from? And yet...the hurt in her eyes was undeniable, the cuts blanketing her arms a clear indication that in her mind, at least, what she said was the truth. He wasn't very good at dealing with emotional people, or emotions in general, and he would be the first to admit the advice he gave was probably better off ignored, but...that didn't mean he wasn't willing to listen. Especially when it came to Dylan. She was perhaps the one person he'd genuinely be happy to give his time to.

And then suddenly his arms were wrapped around her with fierce intensity, his face pressed against her hair, trying to stifle the desperate sobs and wishing, beyond anything, that he'd cared enough to look closer. Every word she'd ever said to him was scrolling through his head, being analysed, one by one, searching for any hidden nuance, the invisible plea for help; he found nothing, and it only made him more desperate, because without that he was left with nothing, aching for Dylan's pain. "I'm sorry. Oh, God, I'm so sorry..."

She gave a small squeak of surprise as she found herself pressed up against his chest, a sound that shot new tension straight into his heart as he thought that even now, even after all his apologies, the bearing of his soul, she was still rejecting his need to love her, hurt too badly to let him heal her...but then she relaxed slightly, leaning into him, and when he glanced down he realised that her eyes were closed, her face not exactly happy but more at peace than he had seen it for a long, long time. "It's alright, Evan,"

A lie.

It wasn't alright. Not by a long shot. "No, it's not. You're in pain, and that's never alright,"

"So are you,"

"Doesn't count," he shrugged, tightening his hold on her, still trying to keep the tears caged in his eyes, where they belonged; he'd shed too many tears in the lifetimes he'd suffered through since Brooke died, broken down too many times to justify another catastrophe. "My pain stems directly from yours. You gave me hope, Dylan. You made my life worth living, you gave me more reasons to fight than I ever thought possible. You healed me. Now it's my turn. I can't do much, but I'll...I'll do everything I can to make you happy,"

"Of course it counts," she said quietly. "Pain always counts,"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But you were always there to help me put myself back together. This isn't easy for me, Dylan. The things I'm telling you...I guess what I'm trying to say is partially that I trust you. I trust you not to walk away, or laugh at me, or...I don't know. Break my heart. Because it's not...it's hard, telling somebody how much you care. You probably know that as well as I do. But also, well, I thought you knew how much you mean to me. Evidently, I was wrong. So I'm telling you instead, because it's important, and you need to know..." he almost let his voice trail off, there and then. He'd told her everything she needed to know. Told her how much she cared, how much she'd done for him, how much of a necessary part of his life she'd unwittingly become. But his chest was still tight, a menagerie of quivering, expectant fireworks, an apocalypse waiting to happen; his blood was frozen, suspended, watching, his lungs tight and poised on the edge of the abyss, ready to let the words drop. "You need to know that you're loved. That I love you, more than anything or anyone I've ever known. I love you, Dylan,"

So many hundreds of ways that sentence could be interpreted. If she gets it wrong, he knows he won't have the courage to explain what he means.

But she knows. She knows. He can see it in her eyes.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't be," she interrupts before he can complete the apology. "Don't you dare say you're sorry. Not for that, anyway,"

"Okay," he says, and the word holds a resonance of finality. Okay. That's it. Dream extinguished. No more hoping, no more pretending that maybe, maybe his feelings would be reciprocated; now, suddenly, he's reminded of all the reasons she was never supposed to know the extent of his feelings in the first place, but strangely enough, he doesn't regret a thing. Not even the loss of his dream. He can cope with that, as long as Dylan isn't left to think she has to face the world alone. There's more, of course there's more. With the aftermath of his admittance hanging in the air, he wants to tell her everything. Jagged shards of memory tear strips from his veins, weave them into unknown soldiers, stories that compose his heart; there's so much, so much that he knows he'll never say; the haunting, passionate dreams sewn by candlelit embers as storms pound against his windows and demand to be let in; the way he sees her in every sunrise, the pastel shading of the dawn that she alone has given meaning to; the way her hair catches the light sometimes and seems to explode into a thousand molten stars, silver and red and gold all at once.

He bites his lip and tames the silence with a sigh. It's gone, all of it, gone; a layer of naiveté peeled away when he had precious little left to spare in the first place.

"I wish I could give you what you want," she says suddenly; there's emotion in the way she speaks but Evan hears only the soft chime of an enigma, something too deep and too complex for him to understand. So he latches on to questions instead, incapable of reading between the lines and vaguely hoping she'll be able to do it for him. That's what she always does; brings order to the things he can't quite make sense of.

"Why can't you?"

"Because..." she stops and gives a dull laugh. "Because I can't. I'm barely able to cope as it is, Evan. I don't think I'd be able to handle a serious relationship...not right now. Don't get me wrong, this has nothing to do with the way I feel about you...I'm just...I don't know,"

"Maybe it would be good for you," he can't help but suggest, well aware that there's a fine line between caring and coming across as ignorant, unable to face rejection. "Being...being loved. Letting someone love you...no, you're right, I'm sorry...I'll stop pushing you. But if you ever change your mind, I'll still be here,"

His heart is breaking, and she's in tears. Evan's not sure how much longer he can keep his own cheeks dry, and he's aware he's rambling on - not for the first time - but can't stop the words. "I'm always here,"

There's a long, long period where neither says anything.

Then Dylan smiles, tiny, steadfast fairy-lights flickering at the corners of her lips. "I know that now,"

One small part of Evan can't help but wonder if maybe she always did.

What can I say, I'm on a roll here! Finally managed to finish the rewrite, I've got a couple of other fics that just need editing and the plan for my multi-chapter fic is well underway. Is this fandom even still alive anymore? It's been so long...I really hope there are still some fans out there. Primeval: New World will stay alive for as long as we can keep it that way!

More to come soon. I promise! And I hope you enjoyed the rewrite!

- Disaster's Playfield.

NOTE: Yes, this is going to get a better cover too, don't worry!