Timeline: After "Uprising" but before "The Forsaken", based on those two movies, mostly.
Author's Note: It took me three days to piece this together, writing bits and pieces of it at work, but I did finish it at home and am super happy with it :-) I love this series and the relationship these two had (subtly). I hope I like it this much tomorrow :-P
Allison has been having dreams of John for weeks now.
They'd be easier to deal with if they were of her parents' death; of her brother; of the demon that had been trying to kill her. But, they aren't.
They all involve John.
He'd be in every corner of her dream, just watching her, smiling.
She would be running for her life, lost and afraid, and there he'd be, just waiting.
He never saved her, he never even tried; instead, he'd smile and continue to watch.
What else could she expect from him?
But, it's not what she expects, she realized one night, it's what she wants.
She wants him to help her, to save her, to want to do those things; but that will never happen, will it?
Those thoughts loomed inside her head for days and then the dreams got worse.
He would lead her away from trouble – away from the fear – and into something worse.
He would hold her to him, her cheek resting on his chest and, instead of a heartbeat, she would hear a rumbling sound; it told her of danger, warned her that a storm was coming and that she was about to get caught in the middle of it.
Whenever she tried to pull away, he would pin her against a wall – sometimes made of fire, sometimes of air, but they would both hurt the same.
He would take her face in his hands, studying her, looking inside of her soul, and she would wonder if he wanted to rip it out and consume her essence.
She always got her answer.
He wanted to consume her.
He'd kiss her and it would be unlike anything she has ever felt.
She has been kissed before – college, school, the nasty bully from the playground – but this was something entirely different. It would burn her from the tip of her toes to the root of her hair; a wave would wash over her, a whirlwind of emotions would trap her and she would wish for both death and life with one single breath.
It was the best kiss of her life...in the shape of a dream...from the devil himself.
When she opens her eyes that morning, she's breathing hard, and her eyes find a small patch of light in the room – coming from her balcony – and she feels bare, her bedsheets barely covering her feet.
She steadies her breath, ignores how her knees feel weak and how her lips feel raw – like they've recently been kissed and, in a way, they have.
"That's a problem."
She jumps at the sound of his voice and rushes to the window to pull her drapes open, letting the light come into the room completely. He's there, sitting on the back of the chair, his feet on the chair itself, and it defies the very laws of gravity, but he's doing it.
She doesn't care about that, though. Her mind is nowhere focused on that.
"Tell me about it," she responds tiredly, hands covering her chest, and she's thankful she decided to wear pajamas that were long-sleeved to bed, instead of her nightdress.
He smiles, making her stomach churn, "You're not surprised that I'm here?"
"Should I be?" she counters. She's almost used to him by now. He pops in, here and there, making sure she's still hiding the book and that she hasn't tried to kill herself...not that she would, but he doesn't seem to believe her.
"Why are you here?" she adds, wondering, maybe even daring to hope...
"Guardian angels know where you tread...I know where your mind treads. Your greatest fears...your deepest...desires." He moves to stand on the chair and stands off it as if it was simply one step away from the floor. "You can't desire me, Allison."
She swallows, "I don't."
He quirks a brow, "Lying. Another trait that belongs to me. It almost suits you."
"I don't want you," she repeats. "You don't want me, either."
He smiles, walking around the room, inspecting her drawings and some old pictures she's kept from her messed up childhood. "I don't believe we're quite that close, Allison, for you to presume to know what I want or do not want."
"...then what do you want?"
He stops, turning to her, his face completely clear of all emotion, "The end of the world, and of my sentence, as it were. But, for that, I require you monkeys to do as the prophecy dictates."
Her eyes narrow, "Is that all we are to you? Means to an end?"
He nods, unashamed, "Yes. And you do it very well."
"So that is what I am to you."
His lips curl up into a smile and she's reminded of Little Red Riding Hood and, more importantly, the wolf. He crosses the room towards her and it's just like in her dream. Her moves are automatic. She's retreating from his approach, but the wall meets her back and he's there, in front of her, personal space be damned.
"You are a fascinating little monkey," he touches her cheek with his nose as he speaks, moving his lips close to her ear. "You are the product of a delectable tragedy of betrayal and murder. Your family belongs to me. Your dear traitor of a brother belongs to me. You, Allison, do not."
That makes her heart skip a beat. His breath is tickling her cheek and she's trying to breathe steadily, but it's almost as if she's forgotten how.
"Why not?" she manages to speak, unsure why she even asked that, considering she probably doesn't want to know.
He pulls back his face, eyes gazing into hers, and he looks like he's thinking, but not about her question...no, he's thinking something else.
The action is almost immediate.
He pulls her face into a kiss and she's covering his hands with hers, before pulling him close and feeling like she's on fire. Her mind blanks and all she thinks is more. She forgets everything, everyone, even herself, and simply wants, wants and wants. Suddenly, hell isn't hell anymore. That's when she realizes her feelings are not her own. She's feeling his. And, eventually, she begins to feel warm and it burns, and she tastes smoke, pain and death.
He pushes her away, causing her to stagger and fall to the floor.
She's staring down, trying to collect herself from what just happened, and it takes her a moment to realize that she's actually crying.
She looks up, tears still streaming without her permission. He's crouched in front of her, his face calm, but there's a hint of sadness in his eyes – one he'll never admit to.
"You cannot desire me," he repeats, "because I am the Damned. You will burn with me and, if I take you like this, as you dream, there will be no ecstasy, only pain. Only the damned can withstand hell and call it pleasure."
She nods, looking away, "I understand."
He reaches to catch a tear with his finger before pressing a thumb over her lips. She opens her mouth, slightly, remembering the smoky taste of his tongue.
"What?" She blinks at him, confused.
"Why love me?"
She stares at him, mouth open, "I—I don't love you."
"Lying, Allison, you're not very good at it." He smiles, smug, "Contrary to popular belief, I do not walk around the earth trying to bring forth a spawn of my own." He scoffs, "I could not stand the competition, nor could a woman stand me. I have, however, kissed many monkeys – out of boredom, mostly. They usually go mad, run in fear or, my personal favorite, die. You, cry."
"I'm not trying to," she wipes her cheeks, but it won't stop. "It just happened." Because, really, she doesn't want him to think she's crying because of him – she might be crying for him.
"Because your heart knows what your mind will not accept." She hates him for saying that. "And they say I'm the root of all evil. That is a twisted torment, made by your God, don't forget that."
She isn't likely to.
"But you will forget this," he stands up, fixing the lapels of his black trench coat.
"What?" She looks up, moving to stand, still wiping a few tears here and there. "What do you mean?"
"You have a destiny, Allison, one you cannot be distracted from," he's serious, and he means it.
"You're not that important." But she's blushing and the idea of forgetting this kills her – even though it most certainly should not.
"Perhaps," he shrugs.
"...when," she asks, finally, knowing better than to fight him, not with this. Hell – pun intended – he's actually doing her a favor.
"It won't be long," he answers with little emotion, or concern. "Any parting words?"
"Yes," she says, finally. "You asked me why." She goes over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. "I don't know," she answers in earnest. "I know what you are. It scares me. It makes me wish I never met you, to wish I never knew everything, that if I could forget, I would forget everything. But...you've never hurt me, you've never lied to me, you've never told me to stop and, out of everything in my life, you're the only thing that's been constant. It's like I know you, even when I don't."
His expressions haven't changed in the least, as if her words are something he's heard before, something that means so very little and, who knows, it probably does.
At least she's stopped crying now.
She looks down, waiting for it to happen. But, instead, she sees his shoes on the floor, right in front of her and feels his lips touching her head.
"I will see you on the other side, where you belong."
Before she can ask him what that means, she's suddenly very tired and very sleepy.
She's lying in her bed, someone is pulling the sheets to cover her and she's not sure of who or what, because all she can think of is sleep. The light disappears from her room and everything is soft and warm and safe.
She doesn't dream of him anymore, after that.
And when she opens her eyes, later that day, she's forgotten the dreams, the kiss and the words, but the feeling still lingers.
The next time she asks him about what he wants, he lies. He pretends not to care. He pretends not to know.
After all, isn't he the greatest liar of them all?