Okay, hi! I'm Kit!

And I'm Violet!

This is the Silas/OC that I've been writing for a while, and Vi convinced me to post it!

You might recognize us from our Hellboy fics or from Angels & Demons stuff we've posted lately.

A good load of this is already written, and it might seem slow at first, but then it really speeds up!

Please review!

Warnings: The usual, which generally means swearing

Disclaimers: We own nothing but the plot and Saige...and various other OC's that pop in and out.


(Hello, new and old readers. It's been a long while, and I'm sure you all hate us by now. But real life was not exactly a stroll in the park and now we're back. We'll be rewriting most of our stories, and this is one of them. I know it might be a bit weird to read the new and the old chapters together, but we'll try to update weekly. Maybe another two or three months and I promise we'll see this story to a good end.)



Silas skirted a corner, shoving through passerby and darting across the street.

You killed the Bishop. You killed the man that saved you. You killed the only man that ever cared.

The hood of a car caught him the side and he was thrown to the ground. Scrabbling upright, a church looming over the other buildings caught his eye. He lurched toward it, wincing as his shoulder screamed in pain, but quickly backed away as a policeman stepped out from the shadow of the alley, shouting for him to stop. Silas turned and ran back across the street; people shouting in protest as cars barely missed him.

Disoriented, the monk hurried toward a gate that opened out onto the sidewalk, rushing through them and into the safety of the trees. Risking a glance behind him, the monk confirmed that no one was following, and slowed—just in time for his sandal to catch in the dirt and sending him crashing to the ground.

Saige sprinted through the park gates, angry shouts in her wake. Glimpses of a police uniform chased her through the slats in the gate before the cop rounded the corner, closing in on her. Swerving, she pounded across the small bridge separating the sidewalk from the stream, ripples in the fast-moving stream and abandoned swings rattling in her wake. Saige gained ground slowly, her heart pounding in her ears, and with a tremendous leap she cleared a small row of manicured shrubs and dove into the undergrowth. Catching herself on her wrists and knees—fuck, that would hurt in the morning!—she rolled farther into the wooded part of the park, trees covering her trail.

Red dots sparkled in front of her eyes as she pressed herself into the dirt, roots digging into her stomach and legs. The cop stormed past her hiding spot, and she allowed herself a deep breath. Saige belly-crawled forward, coming to a jerking halt as her foot caught something and refused to budge. Craning her neck and glancing back slowly, Saige shot backwards, landing on her rear and putting as much distance between her and the man who lay sprawled in the dirt a few feet from her. His ankle was bent gruesomely backwards, and bloody silt pooled under him, staining his habit a deep burgundy.

"You've got to be joking." Digging her hands under him, Saige rolled him over, taking in a surprising amount of damage—blood dribbled weakly from his collarbone, ribs and arm. It was a wonder he was still breathing. Pushing him up into a sitting position, she crouched and wound her arm under his, pressing into his side to lift him. His weight made her stumble, off-balance, as she dragged him out an obscure entrance of the park.

Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, and Saige groaned. There would be no way to get this man down the street unnoticed.

With a resolute frown, she pulled him onto the sidewalk, flung up her free arm and shouted, "Taxi!"

City noise woke Silas—people yelling, car horns, and far-off construction that never seemed to end. Dragging his eyes open, he was greeted by a high ceiling; was this Heaven? Hauling himself upright and gasping at the ragged pain that tore through his shoulder, he decided that in fact, this was anything but Heaven. A survey of his surrounding revealed a modest room—a squat bureau opposite his bed, a window over looking a ratty liquor store and door that led out into an equally blank hallway.

Silas swung his feet over the edge of the bed to stand and almost collapsed as his ankle gave way in a flash of pain. His hand shot out to catch himself against the wall and the monk took a deep breath before pushing himself up, hobbling along against the wall.

The first door he passed was open, revealing an untouched bathroom—the toothbrush was still in its casing. The next two were on his right; thick, solid wood with heavy locks. Pushing against one, it didn't budge, and Silas gave up and moved down the hallway.

In a few feet, the hallway opened into the living room. On Silas's right was a sectional couch flush against the wall, a TV and several large bookcases. A marble counter in front of him separated the kitchen from the living room, and to his left—the door.

As quick as his injuries would allow, Silas lunged for the door.

"You really shouldn't be moving around yet, especially not on that ankle."

Silas spun around; crying out as his ankle twisted the wrong way and dropped him to he knees. A young woman—how had he not seen her?—rose from the couch and slung his arm over her shoulder, steering him to the couch and taking a seat in the armchair at a right angle to him. She gestured to a couple of pills and a glass of water on the coffee table. "You're going to want to take these."

The albino eyed the pills with suspicion. "No." Glaring at her, he demanded, "Where am I?"

Unperturbed, she countered, "Take the pills and I'll tell you." When he didn't budge, she sighed. "If I really wanted you dead, did you think I would've brought you here?"

Silas reached for the pills, but froze again. With Bishop Aringarosa gone, no one could protect him. Silas snatched his hand away, and she frowned. "I'm not Opus Dei."

Silas had to concede there—she didn't look Opus Dei. Café-au-lait skin clashed with shocking red hair and icy blue eyes, and loose, functional clothes betrayed more skin that Silas was used to. A gold cross glinted around her neck, but the shine of steel caught his eye above it. The monk's gaze traveled farther up her neck and he jerked back into the couch cushions, horrified.

Tight around her neck was a cilice—the skin around it stretched and pale. Racking his mind for a logical explanation, Silas drew a blank—if she wore it too long, it would kill her. The young woman cleared her throat, startling the monk, and he snapped his eyes back to her face. She gestured at the pills, and Silas shook his head, his lips tight. Her eyes steely, she reached for them both, placed them in her cupped hands and shook them. Silas arched an eyebrow as she dropped them back on the coffee table. "If they're laced," she said, "your guess is as good as mine."

Silas scowled. "You first."

A shrug, and then she picked up a pill, popped it in her mouth and washed it down with half of the glass of water. Now she looked expectantly at him until he did the same. Silas concentrated hard, searching for the effects of poison, but found none. "I told you I wasn't Opus Dei."

The monk's eyes narrowed. "How did you know I was hiding from Opus Dei?"

"I saw the scars on your back when I was cleaning the bullet wounds. Corporal mortification, I'm guessing. The habit might've tipped me off, as well." She stood and crossed over to the kitchen, pulling a frying pan from a drawer. Looking back at him, she smiled, "My name is Saige." Gesturing to the fridge, "Is there anything in particular you want to eat?"

Silas shrugged and Saige turned away, fishing eggs out of the fridge and cracking them over a frying pan. While the eggs sizzled, she told him, "As I was saying, I would appreciate it if you didn't move around so much. You twisted your ankle as you were running, and you were shot three times. One shot ricocheted off your ribs, and the second went clean through your arm. The third, however, I had to remove, so I wouldn't jostle about if I were you. You've been asleep for three days." She turned to the cupboard. "Today is Friday—so no meat, correct? Would you prefer toast instead?"

Wary, Silas nodded, watching her carefully until she finally brought over two plates of eggs and toast, as well as two cups of tea. When Silas didn't pick up a plate, she gave him a look. "You watched me the entire time. Unless I raised a chicken, fed it poison and then scrambled the poison-ridden eggs for you, you have no reason not to eat." Hesitantly, Silas forked a few eggs and put them in his mouth, chewing slowly.

As he ate, Saige pointed down the hall. "The room you woke up in is yours, and so is the bathroom right next to it. There is everything you need in there—spare clothes and toiletries. If I were you, I would go take a shower." She looked over his injuries. "Would you like me to help you get there?"

Silas polished off his eggs—he hadn't realized how hungry he was—and shook his head. "I'll go myself."

An hour later, the shower turned off, and Saige listened as the monk slowly hobbled into his room. She admired his caution. Moving to collect the dirty dishes, a small splatter of blood caught her eye. "That's not good."

The monk was knocked out cold on the bed, his skin still glistening with water. Saige was grateful he had pulled up the covers—for his sake as much as hers.

On the bureau, his cilice glinted in the setting sun from the window, its barbs a brilliant red. A glance at the man confirmed her was really asleep and Saige picked up the cilice, plugged the sink and filled it with hydrogen peroxide and dropped it in. Bubbles hissed to the surface as the chemical scoured away the blood, and when the bubbles finally stopped rising, she pulled the cilice out and hung it on the door hook.

Then she went back into the living room, picked up her book, and sat down to wait.


Come on!

Kit & Violet