Chapter 2. Author's note - I had massive amounts of writer's block, and I'm still hammering out plot nuances for this story. Bear with me, please! And comments are always lovely!

"What happened to me?" asked Aaron, laughing scornfully. "Really, you can't guess?"

At his harsh words, he saw Anne's eyes constrict with pain, and he knew he was hurting her. As much as she had hurt him, he had never wanted to cause her pain. As much as she had ruined his life, he had never wanted to retaliate, never wanted to strike back and inflict some of his agony on her.

Why? It was a question he'd always asked himself. Partly, he knew it was because he was a sentimental bastard - he loved that woman in a way that he knew was fucking lunacy - but it was also because he knew she was in pain, too.

When she'd betrayed him, he knew that it had hurt her. Anne was a good person, a kind and loving and wonderful person, and so he knew it caused her pain to see what she had done to him.

Only a cold, heartless bitch could have walked away from what had happened unscathed. And Anne was far from that.

"Oh," he heard her say. She took a step towards him. "Oh. Did...I do that to you?"

Aaron didn't say anything. He supposed she understood.

Her eyes widened and she put one hand on the side of his face. He knew that she was running her fingertips over the stubble that he now kept so long it was nearly a beard, but he desperately wanted to think the gesture was one of gentle desire.

"Aaron," she whimpered and he saw her eyes swim with tears as she drew back her hand and stepped away.

"How are you?" he asked desperately, his words pouring out his mouth. He was prepared to say anything, do anything, just to get her to stay.

"I'm fine," said Anne distractedly. She waved one hand airily. "I'm great, really. But Aaron, what the fuck happened to you?"

God, Aaron loved it when Anne said "fuck". There was a lovely incongruity about a beautiful woman swearing. He stared down at her, dizzy with desire and smiled.

"I'm a fucking mess," he responded, smiling.

His expression must have been frightening, because Anne's eyes widened even further. He really could not blame her; he probably looked like a madman, his entire appearance conveying deep-seated, all-consuming sorrow except for the deranged smile pasted across his face.

"I can see that," she said, smiling wanly and acerbically.

"You always knew me, Annie," he said, chuckling. Thee little nickname just slipped out and though he hadn't used it in three years, it felt familiar and sweet on his lips.

"I did," she said and reached up to stroke his hair.

Aaron closed his eyes and moaned a little at the gentle, innocent touch. Now, not only his passionate love for her returned with a vicious vengeance, but his raging desire for her. God, he wanted her.

With a soft groan, he fell into her arms, knocking her back a step. He began to cry, pressing his face against her neck and howling as her slender, delicate arms encircled him.

"Oh, God, Anne," he moaned. "Don't go, please don't! I've missed you so much!"

And she held him like that for quite some time, cradling him in a way he could not say was anything other than affectionate. He held him lovingly as he mumbled, incoherent with sorrow. And she continued to hold him, though he was sure his stubble stratched her neck, and his tears wet her coat, and people stopped and stared.

After a little while, however, she pushed him away. Aaron did not resist, allowing her to hold him at arm's length, meek as a child. He knew somewhere deep in the back of his mind that it must have looked exceedingly foolish, funny, even, to see such a weak-looking woman brace a man like Aaron.

He didn't bother pleading with her, didn't bother to beg her not to leave him, to leave Jack and take him back. Surely she could see those words in the anguish in his eyes.

To his surprise, she smiled gently. "Come on," she said, extending her hand. He took it, feeling warmth - a healthy warmth, not like the one he got from the booze, but one you felt sitting in front of a fire, one he had not felt for three years - spread from his palm all the way to his toes. "Let's get you home."

He followed her like a puppy, raising no objection to wherever she was taking him. He would have had the same reaction if he had thought she were taking him back to his home as he would if he though she were taking him out to a secluded highway to slash his throat and leave him for dead.

He didn't care, as long as Anne was with him.

And so he followed her to where her car was parked.

"You - your still own the Aston?" he asked, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand as he sniffled like a child.

She smiled brilliantly. "I do," she said. "I simply adore this car, Aaron. You didn't expect me to sell it, did you?"

"I guess not," he said. A rueful smile crept up over his face against his will.

"Get in," she instructed him. Despite the gaiety in her voice, Aaron could tell she was forcing a lightness into her tone. It both touched him and made him despair, hearing how she still tried to make him happy.

As she leaped in, he hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. He was afraid of what the nostalgia that came along with sitting next to Anne in the Aston - such a familiar, formerly-commonplace situation - would do to him. Would it dull his pain, like the alcohol did? Or would it intensify it the moment she left?

After a moment, his face curled into a snarl, anger rising in his chest at his own weakness.

You need to man the fuck up, Aaron, he growled internally. Get in the car.

And so, wrenching the door nearly off its hinges and threw himself down into the passenger seat.

He was so distracted by the astounded, slightly nervous expression on Anne's face to notice that he was immediately assailed by the familiar scent of the car, the familiar feeling of the seat, the familar sight of the car's impeccably beautiful dashboard, a sight almost as beautiful as the woman sitting next to him, gaping in shock.

"Aaron?" she said tentatively.

He grinned, worried that she was going to think he was directing his lunatic temper at her. However, he must have looked a little demented, as she flinched back a bit more.

"I love this fucking car," he said, his grin now feeling painfully awkward, stretching his mouth and cheeks in a way that hurt.

She smiled, too, but not in the mad way he was. Hers was a fluttery, wary one. "Are you living in the same place as you were when we got div- three years ago?" she asked, evidently skirting around any word she thought might hurt either of them.

"I do," he said, imitating her lofty tone and her haughty words from earlier. "I simply adore that house, Anne. You didn't expect me to sell it, did you?"

She laughed. Aaron listened in wonder as she trilled a laugh, that birdlike laugh that he adored. As it fell like music upon his ears, he wondered how he had survived so long in its absence.

Aaron watched as she, still smiling, put the car in drive and pulled away from the curve. With her eyes trained on the road, he could admire her profile, her lovely, gorgeous, elegant profile. She was beautiful. So beautiful it made him hurt to look at her. She was so beautiful she was almost ugly with it.

And he was so distracted by her and her loveliness that he didn't even have a chance to realize that they were leaving his Mercedes parked in the grocery store lot.

As he examined her every feature, from her sparkling eyes to her wild hair to her small, taut breasts, he was sure she noticed him watching her. He had learned from Anne in the early days of their love that women always knew it when a man was looking at them. But either out of vanity - Anne was, for all her good qualities, often a touch vain - or nervousness, she refused to even glance his way once.

It made him angry, that in the limited amount of time they had, that she would not even grace him with a glance.

So when she stopped the car outside his house and turned her face away to gaze out at the street, he gave a wordless growl.

Hearing the sound, she turned her head. Seeing the fear in her face - fear of him, though she must have known he would never hurt her! - only incensed Aaron and he leaned forward, grabbing her jaw roughly in one large hand.

"Look at me," he snarled as she stared at him, her eyes wide again. "Just once. Just look at me, for God's sake."

"You're hurting me. Let go," she said, her voice garbled by the hold he had on her jaw. "Aaron, you're hurting me!"

Some rational part shouted at him that his grip was too tight for such a delicate face, and he let go, only then aware of the force he was exerting on her jaw. The moment he let go, he saw five red marks spring to life on her cheeks, testaments to his brute strength.

And he was disgusted with himself to see her rub her face and eye him nervously.

"Anne, I'm so sorry, he said. "I didn't mean to-"

She cut him off by putting a hand over his mouth. He felt a bubbly, elated feeling rise in his chest as he saw her smile, a tiny quirk of her lips.

"I know, sweetheart," she said. He froze. It was an endearment he had never heard her use before towards him. Sorrow stabbed at his chest like an icy dagger - he wondered wryly why he'd made that comparison, as he'd never felt what that was like - and he gasped.

Seeing him look away, Anne frowned. "What is it?" she asked, her voice low and sweet.

"Anne," he said, hearing his own voice break and hating himself for his weakness. "Will you come in?"

She bit her lip, looking just as adorable doing it as he remembered. Her eyelashes fluttered charmingly as she seemed to debate that fact internally.

"I shouldn't," she said.

"I know. Please do," pleaded Aaron.

She smiled again and nodded. Aaron was shocked to hear her sighing, as though giving in to her desire to see him. But that was impossible. She had Jack now, perfect Jack, ladykiller Jack. What could she want with Aaron?

They walked in silence up the steps, no sound made other than the moan of the wind and the click-clack of their shoes.

Aaron dropped his keys twice as he tried to unlock the door. Eventually, Anne took them from him and with a steady hand pushed open the door. Aaron stumbled in, but he saw Anne hang back anxiously.

"What?" he mocked her. "Afraid of what you'll see? Afraid to see what you did?"

She nodded and he could tell she was stopping the hurt from showing on her face. Regretting his cruelty, Aaron sighed and grasped Anne's wrist, gently this time, and pulled her into the house.

Aaron turned away, kicked off his shoes, and ambled as elegantly as his slightly-intoxicated state would allow down the hall and into the living room.

"Would you care for a drink?" he asked. "As you can see, I'm a bit of an expert on alcohol." He chuckled bitterly and gestured to the profusion of bottles.

"I can see that," she said. Her voice was weak.

"I know you can. Take a fucking drink, Anne," he said.

She shook her head. As he helped himself to the bottle of scotch he'd opened earlier, he threw himself down on the chesterfield. But she did not sit, simply stood in the middle of the room, turning round and round, staring in what resembled mute horror.

"What?" he snorted acidly. "Surprised at something, sweetie?"

"It's the same," she whispered. She darted forward and ran one finger over the mantel above the fireplace. "Exactly the same. You haven't changed anything since I was here."

Aaron laughed loudly, braying like an ass with bitter humour. "Of course I haven't," he slurred.

"Everything's in the same place," she said, continuing on as though she hadn't heard him. "If I took away the bottles, it would be the same."

Aaron rolled his eyes scornfully. "Surprised?" he pressed.

She looked down at him and he saw both pity and sorrow in her eyes. "Yes," she said. "I thought - hoped, too - that you would have moved on."

"Nope. Told you, Anne, you're the only woman I'll ever love. I mean, I did fuck Marta once or twice-"

"You did what?" she hissed, a sharp drawing in of breath. It did Aaron's ego more good than he thought was possible to see her eyes narrow. Jealous of Marta, was she?

That's my girl, he thought.

"Yeah, I did," he said, affecting an air of nonchalance, though it broke his heart to mislead Anne.

She sighed. "And why aren't you with her now?" she asked. "She likes you, Aaron. She likes you a-"

"I know she does. But she knows I don't like her. Might have something to do with the fact I accidentally called her 'Anne' the last time," he said pointedly, hoping his words would not hurt Anne's feelings this time. He had no desire to be cruel to her, but snappishness came naturally to him.

"Oh God," she said.

Aaron grunted and lifted the scotch to take a sip. Quick as a flash, Anne snatched the bottle out of his hand.

"No," she cried. "Don't have any more of that!"

Aaron relinquished the bottle meekly, his snappishness vanishing as he threw himself at her.

"I'll do anything you say," he promised, his mood swinging wildly from anger to sadness as tears leaked out of his eyes. He hugged her tightly about the waist, burying his face in her belly so that he could breathe in the sweet smell of her skin. "Just stay with me for a little while."

"Okay," she said. She put the bottle down and hugged him. After a moment, she kissed the top of his head. He groaned when he realized it was a gesture of motherly affection and nothing more. "Why don't you go to bed?"

"Will you stay?" he pressed.

"Until you fall asleep," she promised.

"Okay," he said. Putting one arm around her shoulders, he allowed her to help him out of the room, up the stairs (which they took slowly, cramped together as they were) and into his bedroom. He heard her sharp intake of breath as she noticed that the room, like all the others, was exactly the same as she had left it.

Aaron was too desperately happy to have her there that he wasn't even embarrassed by the fact that, in the spot she used to sleep, her nightgown lay curled in a ball.

All he could focus on was her, how close she was as she tucked him fully dressed into bed. Seeing his desperation, she sat on the bed next to him.

"This is mine," she said softly, touching the nightgown with one tentative finger.

He didn't reply. He was too rapt by her shimmering eyes, dyed silver by the low light. He wanted to reach out and touch her so badly. She was so close, but still so very far away from him. They had once shared that bed, and now he couldn't even put one hand on her skin, under her shirt.

"Stay," he said to her.

"I will, until you're asleep," she vowed.

He nodded. To try to stave off sleep that threatened to engulf him like a suffocating blanket, he mumbled:

"How are you? Tell me everything."

Anne smiled and began to stroke his hair. The touch soothed him further and he sank closer to sleep. "There's not much to tell," replied, though what she didn't say was, Not much to tell that you'd like to hear.

"Are you married, now?" he asked sleepily.

"Yes," she laughed.

"To Jack?" he pressed with sorrow that drove itself between his ribs.

"Who else?" she asked. Her tone became as sorrowful as his as she continued. "Do you really think I would have cheated on you just to have a fling with him?"

They were silent for a moment. "So you're Anne Graeme, now?" mumbled Aaron sleepily.

"Yes," she said.

There was a long pause. Just before he slipped into blissful oblivion, Aaron felt Anne kiss his forehead. Drunk from both the booze and from her presence, he leaned up and before she could move, kissed her.

He was dimly aware of how ravishingly lovely her lips felt as he sank into sleep.