Wonderwall

Dinner was fast food in another weird little town.

The boys joined the line at the counter, squabbling and peering at the menu. I waited until I was sure their attention was occupied—nothing to distract teenage boys like food—and pulled Christophe aside, to a secluded little corner of the joint. He didn't resist, allowed me to tow him along, an amused little smile playing out across his lips.

"Yes, milna? What do you wish to speak to me about?"

I faltered, momentarily diverted. "What does that even mean, anyway?" I wanted to know. "Milna." The foreign word was awkward and graceless on my tongue, nothing like the way Christophe said it, smooth and—and beautiful, in the way some words are. "That, and all that other stuff you call me. I mean, I never know whether to thank you or deck you."

He laughed, sweet and low. "Another time, malutka. I will tell you another time."

I shook my head, frustrated. "What is it with you and, and withholding things? Christ, do you really think I'm that stupid? Too dumb to understand? I am so sick of you only telling me bits and pieces, never showing me the big picture!"

I shoved his chest, hard, and he took a small step back—but more as a concession than because I'd really made him, it seemed.

I glared at him, suddenly furious. Fuck him, fuck him, why did he always make me feel so childish and weak and—and—

"Calm down," he said neutrally, eyes as painfully blue as ever, "dogboy is getting anxious."

Sure enough, when I turned around, Graves was watching us from across the restaurant, eyes narrowed with suspicion and concern, looking like he was about to march over and find out what was going on.

I sighed, the fight draining out of me as abruptly as it had risen, and I motioned for him not to bother. After a few moments, he acquiesced and turned back to the counter, but his lips were drawn tight with doubt and… something else.

"How well-trained you have your little puppy," Christophe remarked, in that tone of voice he used when he was trying to fill his quota for how many asshole comments he had to make in a day.

"Oh, stuff it," I muttered, and faced him again.

He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug, looking as perfect as ever, like nothing could touch him, nothing could hurt him, nothing could affect him.

But then I remembered—not that I could ever forget—his voice, back in the boathouse, when he'd asked, Will you trust me? So intense, so desperate.

I'd made him like that.

I swallowed—tried to swallow the thought. It wasn't doing me any good, only making me hot and cold and—yeah, it was not a good thought.

Christ, Dru, get a hold of yourself.

When Christophe spoke, I snapped back to the current situation. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

A long moment, and then— "You're going to leave again," I said, wearily, heavily, "when we get to the Schola. You're going to just up and disappear again, aren't you." It wasn't a question, it was an accusation, a clumsy front to hide my desperation, and hurt, and loneliness.

You're going to leave me again.

He went very silent, very still, before, slowly, as if not to startle me, he stepped in closer, close close close, ducked his head close to my face, that apple pie-scent enveloping me.

"The things I do," he said, haltingly, carefully, "the things I tell you, the things I don't tell you… the times I leave you, the times I am with you… it is all in your best interest, little bird. I am trying to protect you in the best way I can."

I held my breath, not daring to speak.

He tilted his head, still exquisitely close. "You must trust me, Dru. Do you trust me?"

There it was again, that damned question.

I took a step back. My mind didn't work when I was that close to him. I forced a laugh, a pathetic, brittle little sound. "Do I trust you?" I shook my head. "I don't trust you to be open with me. I don't trust you to stay with me."

And if you can't trust a person with that, what can you trust them with?

I crossed my arms, kicked the floor. Only after a few moments did I hazard a glance at his face. He was standing there, eyes locked on me, expression smoothed-over.

That was the first time he ever looked breakable to me.

I breathed out in a funny, short little gasp. "But," I said, "I trust you not to hurt me." I shrugged helplessly.

Jesus, what a place for a heart-to-heart.

"I trust you with my life, Christophe," I told him. "But I can't… you haven't shown me that I can trust you with anything else."

He smiled then, sad and fond and accepting at the same time, and reached out to brush my hair away from my shoulder, leaning in so that his lips brushed the shell of my ear, so close that I could feel his words:

"In time, kochana. In time."

On which I would just have to trust him, I guess.

A little moment in Betrayals near the end, after they stop at the pizza place but before they pick up Ash. It's a fluffy, shameless little scene I've created, but I like it. :D The title is from the song "Wonderwall" by Oasis. Some of the lyrics: I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now/There are many things that I would like to say to you but I don't know how... because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me. I felt it fit Christophe/Dru very well.

Oh, how I love this pairing. I have a few concerns, however - one being how much older Christophe is, and the other being that I think that sometimes when he looks at Dru, all he sees is her mother. Which is Not Cool, and pretty awkward to boot. Ah well, I guess we'll see, won't we?

Disclaimer: I do not own Strange Angels.