To Love/Hate the Spotlight

No Ones POV:

"Please tell me she's like a sister or-- a uh--- cousin or something?"

He reluctantly tore himself away from his intense staring to glance at Rosie in the corner of the employees' locker room. The frizzy-haired girl was borderline panicked, bouncing in place, wringing her hands, and fixing dizzy eyes on the unconscious girl laid out on the bench all with shining, hysterical hate.

In one way he could understand Rosie's state: She had been quite literally crushing on him ever since he started working here and after weeks of stoicism, for him to leap over a counter to catch some girl and carry her back here with no less than nervousness and excitement written on his face could be considered a shock. But in another way Becky wasn't just "some girl," and Rosie had no claim over him. He had never given her any indication he was interested in her. Her presence now was unasked for and just plain distracting from what was important.

Becky's hair was a little longer, glossy brown brushing against snow pale skin stretched over a sharp clavicle. His finger hovered over the two silver lines leading up to twin puncture scars; his tongue tracing the fangs in his mouth to keep from licking those familiar marks in territorial satiation. Her exposed neck showing off more of his marks; he grinned at the implications. Despite the dark smudges under her eyes, it was the same heart-shaped face -fucking gorgeous- with the same blood bitten lips -too tempting- and cute, little nose.

She looked better than his memories.

"Well?"

Too far gone in his reverent gazing he didn't hear Rosie. He wanted those lightly veined eyelids attached to those mile long lashes to recede, to look in those eyes and maybe know where he stood, but at the same time he was terrified. Feinting upon sight of him couldn't be good. Wonder if she left again? He didn't think he could take it.

"J-aaaaaay," the small girl whined. "Who is she?"

Not taking his eyes off the angelic sight before him, he carefully reached over and brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. "... Everything," he breathed, content.

"What?!" Rosie sputtered. "You said you didn't have a girlfriend. Where's this bitch been then?"

His nostrils flared as his hands curled into fists, moving to his sides.

"Get out," he ordered in a deadly quiet voice.

Rosie moved closer, oblivious to his mounting anger. Her hand lightly brushed his tense shoulder. "But--"

"I said GET OUT!" he snarled, whirling around to glare daggers at the blonde. His bared teeth glinted menacingly under the fluorescent lights.

With a squeak, Rosie was scrambling out the door and was gone. He didn't care if she told everyone he had exploded at her. Most likely his co-workers would high-five him or pat him on the back; Patrick, his manager who told him he could use this room for now- would shake his hand. None of them could stand the buzzing, clownish gnat. He couldn't either, but it wasn't the reason he shouted: No one calls Becky a bitch or anything negative for that matter. She was wonderful. A dark, little angel as far as he was concerned.

He stood facing the door for a moment to get himself back under control. His fingers carefully unfurling with each deep breath. He had to calm down, because the impulse to rip out other people's throats was not considered sane, but it was what sounded right and natural right at this moment. Eventually his shoulders and spine loss their rigidness,but immediately froze again once he turned around and saw heavy-lidded brown eyes watching him.

For a dragging minute the two could only stare at each other. He didn't know what to say; his mouth having gone dry. Slowly, as if she were a frightened animal that would bolt at any moment, he settled on the edge of the wooden bench she was laid out on and merely stared.

A swell of recognition surfaced in her dark eyes. She moved slowly and gracefully as if this were a dream he had had a thousand times before. She sat up -legs straddling both sides of the bench- and leaned forward, stealing the air straight from his lungs at her unexpected closeness. Dilated pupils roved over his sharp features. His breath hitched at the happy smile that lazily curved her lips, the hint of fangs shining through.

"Mmm..." She dipped her head close and gently nuzzled the crook of his neck like a cat. "Missed you," she mumbled, not sounding completely awake.

His face broke out into a wide grin. The surprise pleasant. Warmth blossoming in his chest when just this morning his chest had felt freshly carved out, cold and raw. He shivered when a hot, kittenish lick grazed his skin. Before he could lift his arms to hold her close -and never, ever let her go- she tore away abruptly. Back ramrod straight. She shook her head, eyes clearing and sparking with realization. She blinked, a small frown on those previously smiling lips, and it was like she was looking at him for the first time. A pause of visible shock, then she jerked back and fell off the bench entirely.

My POV:

"Are you okay?: Gerard's worried face peered over the edge.

For a few seconds I could only stare from my spot on the ground, the dizziness receding to be replaced by the aches from the fall. I don't know what happened: One moment it was all black, the next it was all shadow and white skin and sweet-smelling cinnamon on my tongue.

It was wonderful, but then my memory rushed back and the last I remember seeing was the face hovering over me now. What was I doing so close?

"Becky?" I snapped my attention back onto the familiar but at the same time not so face and felt a funny squirming in my gut. "D'you need me to get anything: Ice, aspirin, water? Shit, I forgot your water out there." He winced, smacking himself in the forehead with annoyance. "Stupid-stupid--"

"It's fine," I spoke up, sending shock waves through my skull. After a deep breath, I climbed back onto the bench, ignoring his offered hand as I did so. I kept the most distance between us -perched on the end- and focused intently on the floor.

The reality of being here -in, I guess, a locker room of sorts- with him was barely sinking in. Shooting sidelong glances, he looked different: Still tall and skinny from years of hospital food; but the traces of baby fat had melted away into a narrow, pleasingly angular face; his resemblance to The Original was striking, but I could see the subtle difference that was solely Gerard.

"You changed your hair," I pointed out absently, lost in my observations. I belatedly realized it was a dumb thing to say given the situation.

"Yeah." He swept a flop of black hair back, having let it grown out and grazing his defined jaw. "I figured short and spikey didn't suit me much," he added with a rueful quirk of his lips.

I nodded weakly, turning back to the tile floor. I didn't think he'd bring up that night so soon or at all. "Short and spikey" was the way he had worn it in effort to look like Billie Joe. Hard to believe it was coming up to a year ago.

The rape that wasn't.

I didn't want to think about it.

His stare was burning into the side of my head, and I knew instinctively his thoughts were on that night also. The guilt and fear and confusion washed over me again. Was it just yesterday that I learned this? I could only imagine what he thought of it all: To finally get what you wanted only for it to be taken away and labeled something ugly, then for me to act like it never happened and leave...

But I wasn't here for that, was I?

Steeling my resolve, I looked up to meet his eyes full on, not in the mood for pleasantries. "So how would my mother know to tell me to come here where you work coincidentally?"

"... what a crazy, random happenstance[1]." He grinned, but it soon fell away noticing I was serious. "I-- uh.... I wanted to see you, to show you I was better for the most part but I didn't know where you were... and I remembered where you lived---"

"Why would you involve her in all this?"

"I needed to see you--"

"And how did you even get her to talk to you?" I mean, how do you talk around the fact you were the boy -as far as she knew- kidnapped and assaulted your daughter?

His expression pinched. "It--- it wasn't easy... I lied at first, said I was an old friend from high school and more or less snarled at a photo of you with... him, the teacher."

A sneer that shouldn't have caused warmth to flood my insides jarred apart his thin lips. His abhorrence for Billie Joe still that clear-cut and bright.

"When I told the truth -because I didn't know what else to do- she yelled a lot and threatened to call 911 if I didn't leave. I started to panic then and said a lot---" He took a sharp breath and let it out harshly through his nostrils. His hard, hazel eyes reflecting a honey color focused on my stomach, my very un-pregnant stomach. "... where is he?"

That small voice made my throat close up and sting as if I'd been gulping sub-zero air.

Unlike my mom, I couldn't play dumb with him. Our lives at one time so voluntarily intertwined. I wouldn't lie, but it didn't mean my cowardice wasn't going to hinder me.

"Could we---" It hurt to speak. My shaking hands tucking between my knees. Shame suffusing every inch of skin; I could feel it itch and burn. "Could we talk about this somewhere else?"

Just then an efficient knock-knock sounded and a heavily-freckled face filled the slim opening. Bespectacled eyes flitted over me and settled on Gerard. "Jason--" A small frown riddled my forehead at the use of the unfamiliar name. "You need to get back to work. Is your friend all right now?"

Gerard's head whirled around to me, his face lined with anxiety. He obviously didn't want to leave me or this conversation. The pained expression on my face only wound him tighter. A worn fang peeking out to worry his bottom lip. At the sight, unwanted affection added itself to the tumultuous mix of emotions writhing in my chest.

"I-- damn it, yeah, Patrick. Give me a sec."

The man, Patrick, nodded and left.

Raking fingers through his hair in agitation, Gerard fixed his shining gaze on me with apparent longing. "I have to go back to work. Will you stay?"

"Stay?"

"I get off at eleven. We can talk then." At my hesitance, he insisted with a, "Please?"

I found myself nodding like a damn bobble head. I had no way of leaving without making the long trek on foot, and besides I felt like I owed him anything he wanted in light of things. His blinding smile told me I did the right thing.

For once.

He looked for a moment as if he were about to lunge forward and hug me -vibrating with new found energy as he was- but restrained himself in time. I told myself the sinking in my stomach was nausea and not disappointment.

It wasn't.