TW: mild violence.

— Chapter 88 —
The Beauty and His Monsters

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E L L I O T

I heard his motorcycle before I saw him.

His Baby roared like a lion through silent streets, its hefty tires no doubt ripping apart the asphalt. Huddled against the side of our park bench, I sat with my knees to my chest in waiting, wrapped tightly in the warmth of Noah's Stray Dogs jacket. And in my lap, hidden out of sight, rested his spotless gun.

That jacket was the only real crutch I'd had to keep me sane tonight—and I'd ruined it. I'd stained it with muck and grime and spoiled it.

Just like I ruined everything else.

I wish he didn't have to see me like this.

Squeezing myself together, I buried my head into my arms and exhaled in pain. Overgrown hair fell in tangled heaps over my neck and shoulders. Lapping the blood off my chapped lips, I buried my heels into the dirt and sniffled at the mercy of the freezing air.

He's going to hate the sight of me.

I bit back a dry sob.

Somewhere in the distance, the engine of Noah's motorcycle finally turned off. There was a jingle of keys, and the thud of a helmet hitting the ground.

He found me.

The scent of old cigarettes and vanilla cologne invaded my air until he finally stopped at my feet.

"I'm right here, Alley Cat."

His velvety words were a blanket over my frigid shoulders. Immediately, the tension in my veins subsided, and I peered up slightly to get a better look at him.

Despite my blurred vision, he looked as devastating as ever. Not because of his usual sharp angles or clean-cut black leather, but because his golden eyes—which were usually craned into some kind of protective snare—were now gazing at me with nothing but gentle tenderness.

His lips ticked upward slightly when he found my eyes, which were busy hiding in the safety of my fringe.

"Hey," Noah whispered so softly.

Peeling my face out of my arms, I turned up to face him, trying not to feel so wounded when his eyes narrowed towards the bruises on my skin. They must've been ugly; I could see their shadows reflected in his pupils.

He understood the sight immediately.

"You talked to your father."

But I didn't have the strength to nod my head, or wail, or voice my pain. Instead, I just blinked at him, with my chin tucked into my knees and my lips quivering from muted cries.

I talked to the monster who killed my mom.

A heavy sigh flowed outward.

"Han and James told me everything," he said, the silver piercing peeking out between his lips. "I'm... I'm so sorry, Elliot. I can't even begin to imagine what you must be feeling."

Trying to console me, his hand moved out to brush my cheek. But he stopped himself before he did—as if he were too afraid to even touch me, for fear that I'd break apart in his hands.

I wanted to scream.

Where were you?

Except, when I opened my mouth, no sound came out. I didn't have the strength to force out the words.

I'm sorry, came to mind next. I'm so sorry.

I'm sorry that I went with Han. I'm sorry that I sided with him. I'm sorry that I betrayed you.

Those expressions were just as useless.

Choking on my silence, I pulled in a wheezy breath and unfurled myself open, letting Noah see the gun in my lap. Noticing the way his eyes widened, I slowly moved the firearm into his grasp. Worry made me wonder how he'd react. I'd stolen the thing off him, after all. Such a lethal weapon had no business being in my inexperienced hands.

Strangely enough, he didn't berate me. He didn't scowl at me, or make me feel guilty for touching it.

Instead, he offered some reassurance. "It's okay."

I watched with a curious stare as he popped out the gun's magazine and pulled back on one of the mechanisms, exposing the empty chamber. The inside of the magazine was the same: wholly and completely empty.

"You see?" he murmured. "No bullets."

The gun was never loaded.

Heat rushed to my ears. That gun was Noah's spare. An empty dud, completely useless as anything other than a blunt object. I never could have shot Malcom with it, or killed him—not that I was even sure I wanted to.

I'm so useless.

"Someone's had a busy night, haven't they?" he uttered light-heartedly, after resting the gun to the side. "How did you get so covered in dirt?"

I flinched as he moved to touch my head.

"Stay still."

So I did. Timidly holding my breath, I waited patiently as he removed a twig from my unkempt hair. Straightening out the mess with gentle movements, he brushed his fingers through it, pushing a few unruly strands out of my face.

He chuckled softly. "You're missing an earring."

What?

My hands shot to my ears.

No. Dread injected itself into my bloodstream. No, no, please. Sure enough, Noah was right. My left earring was gone. No, no! Panic riddled my face, and I rushed to pat the ground around me in a desperate attempt to try and find it. It has to be here.

Noah immediately took back his words.

"Woah, woah," he quickly hushed. "It's okay."

My head shook. Those earrings were his birthday gift to me from New York, and I'd just lost one.

"No... no..."

Fractured whines managed to make it out of my torn throat. Tears welled in my eyes. What the hell was wrong with me?

Useless. So, so useless.

Noah wormed his way through my panic until he finally got to cup his hands around my face.

"Hey," he pleaded carefully. "Look at me. It's just a shitty piece of metal, alright? I can get you all the jewelry you could ever want, but I can't get more of you." His thumb rubbed my cheek in gentle circles. "I'm just happy you're safe, my Darling."

Safe, but not okay.

Fighting back tears, I struggled for a labored breath.

When I spoke, my voice was faint. It was a whisper in the passing breeze, sometimes jagged with sharp cracks and sometimes flat with empty air. Pathetic.

"I'm so sorry."

Noah rejected the words with a shake of his head. "No. Don't be. You have nothing to apologize for."

I do, I thought. I do, I do, I do.

When his arms wrapped around me, I didn't fight. I didn't reciprocate the gesture, but I didn't fight it, either. Nestled into his grasp, I let him brush my tangled tresses with his ringed fingers and buried my stinging face in the leather of his jacket sleeve.

What have I done?

"Too much has been taken from us," Noah murmured. I held tight onto every syllable of those words. "That won't happen again, Alley Cat. Soon, everyone is going to know what happens when people come for what's ours." He whispered into my hair, "We'll get what we're owed in blood."

Maybe one day, not that long ago, a cold threat of violence like that one would have terrified me.

It didn't anymore. That innocence had been destroyed.

Now, more than anything, I wanted Midas dead.

For everything he'd ever done to us. For abusing James. For abducting Han's grandmother, and holding her hostage. For murdering Noah's uncle in cold blood. For breaking into the apartment and destroying my only home. For poisoning my mother with Blitz, and almost killing Noah with it too, nearly six years later.

If Malcom was any indication, the police were a waste of time. I didn't want a man like Midas in a jail cell.

I needed him to bleed.

Taking Noah's promise to heart, I let him hold me in his caring arms for a short while, using the precious time to pull myself together.

"You've had a long day," he soon murmured. "Let's get you home, yeah?"

Very few words had ever sounded so good.

His fingers intermingled with mine as he pulled me slowly to my feet. I leaned into him for some strength on my unsteady legs. My ankles ached. One of them was dead, and the other I must have twisted somehow. Biting back a whimper of pain, I hobbled along with Noah, grateful for the supportive arm he'd wrapped around the small of my back.

I must look so weak.

We didn't make it far, though.

Up ahead, not more than a few yards away, James was standing in wait like a lost ghost.

No, I thought. I'm not ready.

Of course, what I wanted didn't matter. He was here—watching me, with his hopelessly dead eyes haunted by a mixture of sorrow and guilt. He must have followed Noah here. Fists tucked into the pockets of his flashy jacket, he made no moves to approach me, and hesitated to even speak. What could he say to me, anyway?

How long has he been standing there?

"Elliot."

My reflexes immediately went to grip something. This time, rather than pinching my own scratched-up palms, my fingernails buried themselves tight into Noah's hand.

I wanted to shout out a million things at that moment.

A million questions, a million remarks, a million colorful swears, and a million restrained cries. But I couldn't. I didn't have the power in my throat for any of that. All I could think about was my Mom, and James, and all the times they'd spoken to each other and all the times James had looked me in the eyes after her death and lied to me.

My lips contorted to form words. My throat burned with friction. After a great struggle, I forced out the only two syllables I could manage.

"You knew?"

James swallowed the weight of the question.

Please say no. Please tell me this is all wrong, I thought, a bad dream. Please tell me that I'm going to wake up soon. Please.

There was a collapse in his voice when he said,

"Not until it was too late."

For the fifth time tonight, my heart was shattered into a hundred pieces.

I stumbled forward on rickety ankles.

Prying myself out of Noah's safety, I let go of his hand to close the distance between myself and James. He extended his arms out to catch me, but I wasn't going to give anyone the satisfaction of watching me fall. I didn't need James's help. I didn't need him. The only person I needed was my Mom, and she was gone.

My palm smacked against his jaw.

I let him have it. James didn't shout or defend himself as I battered my fists against his stony chest, choosing to accept my onslaught in silence. I didn't think I was hurting him, anyway.

I didn't want to hurt him. I just wanted him to know my pain in the same way he knew my heart and my name. I needed him to understand how badly his actions had destroyed me, and I couldn't explain something like that to him in words.

How could you?

Heat spilled like acid down my cheeks.

Sobbing into the silent air, I fought off his meek attempts to calm my temper. He tried to hush my cries and hold my shoulders. I didn't let him succeed. Ripping wails from my neck, I hit him and hit him and cried into his chest when that wasn't enough.

Eventually, when my legs gave out and the world started to spin, the two of us ended up with our knees on the ground.

The world was fading.

The planet must have run out of air. For some reason, I wasn't breathing fast enough, or hard enough.

My thoughts were hazy, my balance haywire. A ringing sound began to shriek into my ears while exhaustion clawed at my limbs. I fought against it, weeping through the pain, the flat sides of my fists finding ground on James's shoulders and arms.

My tears dripped onto his skin. His face blurred into a mess of desaturated colors and fuzzy clouds. The ringing in my head contorted into blaring sirens.

And the last thing I remembered before passing out was Noah's voice calling my name.

===

I was being carried somewhere.

Blinking through bleary eyes, I caught brief flashes of the veranda outside our apartment. Noah was carrying me on his back. Hunched over to keep me secure, his strong arms were hooked around my thighs, while a set of keys chimed in his grasp. An unlit cigarette waited patiently between his puffy lips.

He was so warm.

Burnt vanilla and a bearable trace of cigarette smoke cushioned itself around him. He smelled so much like himself. A little sweet, a little dangerous, and a little bit imperfect—but oh-so hopelessly addictive. It was a devastating cocktail of scents specially designed to make me buttery and pliant. I'd never hated it more than at that moment.

The last thing I needed right now was to be smitten with him.

He'd hurt me, after all.

Against my better senses, however, I resigned to let myself submit to his embrace. As much as he claimed to treasure me, it wasn't often that I got to be carried by the new Chief of the Stray Dogs himself. I intended to savor the luxury.

My tender face rested against the back of his head. Black-brown tresses mingled with mine, his soft wisps of hair tickling my lashes and nose. I yawned gently. The back of his neck seemed to blush a little deeper with every slow breath out of my lips.

If he knew I was awake now, he didn't mention it.

He fiddled with the keys for a few seconds until the locks finally clicked and the door swung open. Noah kicked off his chunky sneakers before walking in.

Keeping my arms secure over his shoulders, Noah discarded the keys on a shelf somewhere and flicked on the lights, scorching my precious retinas. A shot of pain zapped the back of my head, and I went to bury my face in his dark hair.

"What the fuck happened in here?" I heard him murmur.

Crap. I forgot.

The apartment—I'd trashed it earlier tonight in my frantic search for Noah's Blitz. With guilt seeping into my thoughts, I peered up slightly to get a better look at the damage.

The whole place was a mess. Couch cushions were upturned in all directions. Drawers had been pulled wide open and the belongings inside had been tossed haphazardly out of the way. Books were splayed wide open on the floor. Most of the furniture had been shoved out of its usual places, and a lot of the things in the cupboards had been dragged out onto the kitchen island.

I opened my mouth to explain myself but jammed it shut again when I couldn't get out any coherent noises.

Tomorrow, I promised silently. I'll fix it tomorrow. First thing in the morning.

Noah just sighed, still oblivious to me being conscious.

Carving a path through the mess, we eventually made it into his bedroom. When he turned on the lights, I couldn't help but notice the disaster in here, too.

Needless to say, I was a god-awful roommate.

Pushing the covers out of the way, he slowly set me down on my side of his bed. Tattooed arms detached themselves from my thighs. Separating himself from my grasp, I tried not to feel so hollow when his warmth disappeared with him.

He stood up to leave the room.

My hand shot out to grab his sleeve.

Noah glanced down at me, slightly stunned, and removed the cigarette from his lips.

"I'm just going to grab some stuff from the first-aid kit," he informed me softly. "I'll be back in a minute."

Thirty seconds, I didn't say.

Swallowing my pride, I let Noah go and kicked off my shoes as he walked out of the room. Once he was out of sight, my common sense slammed into me like a tidal wave.

Oh my god. I had to remind myself, Noah hurt me. He yelled at me, and he hurt me, and he must not even care. Not really.

I wasn't some damaged puppy in need of constant supervision.

I don't need his help. I don't need anyone.

Kicking my shoes aside, I huffed in exasperation and took a grip on the front of my hair. It still burned from where my father had pulled on it.

I cursed out, What is the matter with me?

It was all so complicated. A few hours ago, I'd been so ready to confess my feelings for him, and now I couldn't even think of those three stupid words without feeling queasy in my stomach.

Love is a lie.

True love wasn't real. It's not real. I didn't deserve it.

I don't want it.

I didn't want Noah here, and yet I needed him around like I needed air to breathe. I wanted him at arm's length, but I also wanted him to hold me in his embrace for the rest of my life. I wanted him to hate me, and I wanted him to love me, and I wanted him to leave me the hell alone. I wanted this to be easy. I wanted to tell him how I really felt, but more than that, I wanted to wall myself up and never see him again.

I wanted it all to stop hurting.

This is all my fault, I thought. I put myself in this mess. I'm the one who should pull us both out.

Hearing Noah step into the room again, I immediately scrubbed my eyes dry and tilted my head away. Having shrugged off his jacket, he maneuvered around the bed and put the medical supplies down beside me.

"I got a bit of everything," he explained. "It should be enough, I hope. I'm not exactly an expert at this stuff." Shaking his head, he said to himself, "It's kind of funny. I'm uh... I'm usually the one who gets hurt."

He went to pick up a cotton pad, and I suddenly noticed the red splotches on his knuckles.

"Your h-hands," I rasped in a shallow breath.

Confused for a moment, Noah went to glance at them. The skin there was split and tinted scarlet, marred by fresh wounds. Tiny droplets of dried blood were splattered up the sides of his wrists.

He muttered flatly, "Yeah. I guess I'm usually the one who does the hurting, too."

He got in a fight with Han? I wondered, as if the answer to that question wasn't obvious already. Noah wouldn't have killed him, I was sure of that, but I also didn't doubt that Han was probably busy bleeding himself out somewhere in the crevices of Boston. Where is he now?

Silence encapsulated the room once more.

I watched patiently as Noah kneeled down and soaked one of the ivory pads with what looked like water. Moving a few hairs out of my face with his little finger, he slowly touched the pad to my forehead. I tried not to wince like a coward as a stinging pain immediately pricked my senses. Ouch.

"Is that meant to be your brave face?" Noah asked, making a smooth attempt at lightening the mood.

It worked. For about two seconds.

Restraining myself from a snide remark, I bit down on my metallic bottom lip as Noah continued to clean away the grime on my face. He leaned his free hand on my knee for support. It worked as a reminder that was right here. That—for now, at least—he wasn't going anywhere.

It didn't make me feel better about anything that'd happened between us tonight, though.

"You pushed me," I mumbled.

It was a personal reminder more than a factual statement.

Noah whispered, "I know."

He picked up a fresh square of cotton and soaked it in the liquid. I bit back a whimper when he touched it toward a deeper scratch at my jaw.

To distract me from the pain, I told him, "It hurt."

"I know."

My lip quivered. Forcing the friction in my voice pipe, I scrambled to speak, hopeless sounds coming from my throat in scratchy syllables and blunt vowels.

"You said you wouldn't."

"Hurt you?" he inferred. With a short nod, he conceded to the bittersweet memory. "I know."

Is that all you have to say?

I wanted to shout at him. He was driving me crazy, off the goddamn walls. It was like he wanted me to be frustrated with him. Did he want me to be angry? If so, it was working. I wanted to rip my hair out. Why do you have to make this so difficult?

Tossing away another used pad, Noah pushed the hair out of his face and picked up the same unlit cigarette he'd been nursing earlier.

I watched him trace it back and forth on his lower lip, exactly two times, before leaving it to sit at the corner of his mouth.

A sharp huff escaped me.

Fine.

While he went to mess with the medical supplies, I craned uncomfortably to reach my back pocket. Pulling out the old Serendipity lighter, it took two flicks for the sparks to finally produce a flame.

I scooted forward to light his cigarette for him, but Noah stopped me.

"It's my last one," he muttered, rosy lips bending awkwardly as he spoke. "I'm... trying to savor it."

"Why?"

He sighed and brushed out the back of his hair.

Avoiding my burning stare, he admitted, "I'm not sure I'll ever want another."

I frowned.

What's so special about this damn cigarette? I thought, perplexed. What does he mean he doesn't want another one? Noah and his cigarettes were like two plus two. They added up. They made sense. You never had one without the other. Surely he doesn't mean—

"You're quitting?" I quickly realized, my eyes wide.

Noah got to his feet and nodded sheepishly.

"Let's just say that once you smoke a full pack in four hours, and discover that you could've died because of a toxic drug in your system... a lot of shit gets put into perspective."

He'd stared away from me for the length of time it'd taken him to explain that. It seemed as if that very notion was too far-fetched for even him to be comfortable with.

And yet, his words had made something inside me feel a little bit better.

This is good, I thought, genuinely.

It was the only good news I heard tonight.

Noah scratched the side of his arm. "Besides... I've been thinking a lot about some of the stuff Jasper said." His nose scrunched up, his face twisting into a subtle cringe. "It's not like I'm on the fuckin' straight and narrow now or anything, but... I've promised some people that I'm going to take care of myself, so..."

If I wasn't so upset with him, I probably would have hugged the asshole. Or cried. Probably cried.

Yes, I thought. Please, yes.

"Anyway," he stated, "that's that."

Peeling open a band-aid, he stuck it gently onto a cut on my cheekbone. When I blinked, I remembered exactly which punch had split the skin open, and which of Malcom's rings had done the most damage.

It was the same process for the next two band-aids. The first went to the cut on my forehead, created by one of the hits from Malcom's bat. The other strip went to my jaw, on the opposite side. I'd gotten that cut from scraping my face on the tiny rocks in the dirt of Mom's grave. That one hurt the most.

Noah tilted my chin upward and picked up the wet square of cotton again. I had no choice but to look to the ceiling, exposing my neck to his full mercy.

His eyes darkened.

Sitting completely still, I tried my hardest not to shiver when his gentle fingers skimmed the skin at the crook of my neck. My hairs stood on end. Tracing my bruises, he was so frustratingly unaware of the million tingling sensations that his touches were currently responsible for.

"Did he choke you?" Noah uttered. "That bastard?"

Holding my breath, I let him read my silence like an open textbook.

His expression hardened.

Velvety fingers stroking upward, he carefully tilted my chin to the side. "There's bruises all over your neck," he grumbled. "And your voice..."

My lips parted to speak.

Noah immediately cut me short.

"Don't force it," he whispered, slowly weaving his hand up to caress my cheek. "I can tell it's hurting you."

The tenderness of his voice managed to start a fire somewhere in the icy depths of my heart. Letting him wipe the dirt off my neck, I was desperate to stop that flame from incinerating the rest of me. Biting the inside of my cheek, I forced myself to shift out of his grasp, urgently craving a break from the tension.

I couldn't decipher Noah's eyes well enough to tell if he'd been hurt by that gesture.

Several minutes passed before either of us spoke again.

"Alright," he announced, having cleaned up the last of the bruises on my neck. "That should be it, for now. I wanted to stitch up one of these cuts, but... I'm not going to pressure you into that." He gently clarified, "I know you don't like needles."

He took a step backward, freeing up the space between us. Fresh air rushed in, and I decided that I hated it.

Watching him in silence, I made no effort to move as he picked up the empty medical wrappers and threw them into the trash can. He fiddled with the pearl on his tongue before placing the cigarette to his lips again. Letting me settle into the bed, he waited until my head hit the pillow before enveloping me in the blankets.

After that, he walked to the door.

Stopping in the boundary, he remembered to ask, "Do you need anything else before I take off?"

Yes. No.

There were a million things I could have answered that question with, but I said nothing. I couldn't.

Noah complied with my silence. "Okay."

He flicked off the lights, and the door hinges creaked in preparation to shut. But before they could, I somehow managed to croak out,

"Don't go."

The door stilled.

My heart lurched into my mouth. After a long, painful moment, Noah's sigh reverberated through the room.

He murmured, "You don't want me here, Eli."

No, I don't.

But at the same time, I thought, I'm scared.

We couldn't just leave it like this. He and I couldn't live the rest of our lives this way, on opposite ends of the same apartment, saying a million things and not saying anything at all. It would kill me. That would hurt me so much more than if he were to hit me right now, fight me, and scream my ears raw.

I'm scared... that I might always want you.

For the dozenth time tonight, the familiar wetness of unspilled tears lined the edges of my watery eyelids.

"Please," I breathed.

With an audible click, the door closed shut.

He left, I thought. Of course he did.

I was just about to let my cries free, but then I heard the sound of footsteps in the room—and a heavy thud against the other end of the mattress.

Silent tears of relief dribbled down my cheeks and stained the pillow below.

Noah didn't say anything, but I didn't care. He'd stayed. He'd stayed, for me, and that was all that mattered. Now, sitting on the floor against the other side of the mattress, his presence was the only soothing comfort on an otherwise disastrous night.

"Only until you fall asleep," he mentioned.

Fat chance, I nearly replied. I don't think I'll ever be able to sleep again.

Settling into his bed, I inhaled the scent of vanilla that lingered on his sheets and lost power over the anxious thoughts in my head. In any case, I tried to focus on the fact that I was home. Back in the apartment—one of the very few places that'd ever made me content.

Noah spoke. "Can I ask you something?"

I bit my cheek. It wasn't like I could say no.

"What were you going to tell me?" he asked carefully. "Earlier tonight, on the pier—before Riven cut you off?"

Oh.

I didn't have to think hard to remember the exact moment he was asking about. It was the same moment I'd been trying so hard to forget. Part of me wanted to take that memory back—to destroy it and get rid of it, maybe even burn it out of my mind.

But I couldn't. So now, we both had to be stuck with questions about what could have been—never allowed to know the truth, never allowed to be given an answer. Because how could I put him through that, especially now? How could I bring myself to confess my love to someone that could turn around one day and hurt me, at any given time?

I cleared my throat and did my best to sound convincing.

"I don't r-remember."

Liar. Liar. Liar.

Thankfully, Noah didn't pick apart my answer. He didn't prod me for a better one, or dig deeper for the truth. He just exhaled a heavy breath, ending our conversation with what I knew was a heartfelt apology.

"I'm sorry, Alley Cat," he said. "For everything."

"I know. You always are."

=||A/N||=

im not ok