* * SEVEN * *

Layla is attempting to convince Guido to buy her tequila. Just a little bottle from the liquor store on the corner, where the drunks shop and aged men in decades-old hats browse pornographic magazines. He can keep the change, but she really needs the liquor. Why? Because she knows stuff.

Guido brushes past me, grumbling about the unfairness of his god having adorned women with breasts. The door closes, and I am alone again.

I am so very alone that it feels…

It is too much. Everything is made of nothingness. I cannot comprehend it, the enormity of this aloneness. The void threatens to swallow my very being. But it is not only I who am alone, and this is the worst part.

Rictor cannot be on his own. The last time this happened, after Mexico, he nearly- and Rahne and Jamie stopped him, but- He needs me! But he no longer wants me. He has left. He walked out the door in front of my very eyes. He left me. Again.

I am alone.

So is he.

Rictor will kill himself. I know this. I feel it in my uemeur. He has a gun. He will put it to his head, pull the trigger, and-

I cannot breathe.

I cannot breathe, I cannot think, and there is that Za-forsaken feeling again, the dead thing, laughing with its dead voice. Its skin peels from its body, blackened teeth grinning through cracked lips, and its stench suffocates me. I fall to my knees.

I push it away, reach for my weapon, but find myself defenseless. It laughs and draws its dead fingers across my cheek. Its touch is like maggots. My skin crawls, bile rising in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my head between my knees.

What's wrong, corazon, it hisses. Que ya no me quieres?

I gasp, but no breath fills my lungs. I press my hands over my ears. But I cannot escape my own mind. I have created this thing, nurtured this horror in my own heart. And now I must live with it.

I did not know myself before, but I do now. What I have become makes me ill: this creature and I, we are one and the same. It is all that I've not known, or misjudged, or not cared enough about to do right. It is neglect, it is guilt, it is sorrow; it is loss, emptiness, regret.

It is Rictor dead because I stood aside and watched him leave.

And it is all my fault.

I cannot breathe; I cannot think.

My fingers tear at my hair.

A hand is on my back, and a voice calls out. Theresa, but I cannot fathom the idea of Theresa. She is nothing, she is meaningless. What is Theresa?

I dig my fingernails into the floor and bang my forehead against the tiles.

More voices come, and another hand on my back. I do not know them. I do not know anything.

I am frightened.

This thing has a hold of me, this disgusting piece of my soul, and I cannot pull away. Its evil floods my lungs like drowning. I try to calm myself, try to breathe, try to stop these terrifying noises coming from my own throat. I cannot.

Another voice, a door slamming, but when I look up, the world is engulfed in darkness. Female voices, male voices, too-large hand on my shoulder. My head spins. The room tilts. Something being pressed to my face. A voice in my ear: Jamie.

He tells me to breathe, breathe normally, try to calm down. Concentrate on breathing normally. You're hyperventilating. Just breathe. Slow, even breaths.

I squeeze my eyes shut and obey because I have no other option. I am a slave once more, in a cage of my own making.

"Good… good," Jamie says. "Nice, calm breaths. There we go. Nice and even. Okay."

"An hour and a half ago, I watched him behead a man without so much as flinching," Monet is saying. "Why is he freaking out now?"

Longshot asks, "Is it because-"

"Ixnay on the icray," Layla says.

"He'll be fine," Theresa announces, pulling me up onto my knees. "It's just stress. Now Shatterstar, I want you to hold this over your mouth and nose, alright? Can you do that?"

Her hand places mine against my face, and I feel paper beneath my fingers. "Good," says Jamie. "Hold it right there until you're feeling better. That'll keep you from getting too much oxygen. Where the hell is Guido? I didn't send him out for a stroll!"

My vision begins to return, the world tipping back into place, and I bring both hands to the paper bag into which I've been breathing. For a moment, I think of something that is not breathe, breathe, breathe, and begin to feel overwhelmed again. Then someone pats my back.

"How ya holdin' up, kid?" Guido asks.

"Mmmpph," I bemoan. The paper bag crinkles in and out with my labored breaths.

"Yeah, sounds about right," he agrees.

"You look awful," confirms Longshot.

"What the fuck?" demands Rictor. "I was gone for ten minutes!"

And then I can no longer breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the bag to my face as though my life depends upon it. Perhaps it does. Please let this not be that creature again! Please let it be the real Rictor, my Rictor, unharmed, with his brains still firmly held within the blessed haven of his skull!

"He's having a panic attack," Jamie says. "This ever happened with him before?"

"What?" says Rictor. "No! Star's steady as a rock, you know that!"

"Except when it comes to you," Theresa notes.

I press my forehead against the floor, but the coolness of the tile offers no comfort.

"I was just going out for a drink!" Rictor insists. "Well, okay, a lot of drinks. I was getting into a cab when Guido told me Star was-"

"Say, you heard the one about the taxi driver and the nun?" Guido asks. "See, there's this nun-"

"Not now," says Jamie. "I beg of you."

A gentle hand presses against my neck. Rictor's hand. My Rictor.

I look up at his beautifully unshaven face, and my heart does strange things in my chest. He is the most magnificent thing I have ever seen in my life.

My paper bag goes crinkle, crinkle, crinkle.

Rictor kneels down beside me and strokes his fingers through my hair. It feels so good, I wish he would never stop. I could die this way. I wish I could tell him.

"What are you doing freaking out on us?" he asks. "You scaring everyone half to death just 'cause I left?"

Weakly, with a head that feels lighter than air and possibly full of cotton, I nod.

Rictor sighs and pulls me to him, arm around my back and fingers still stroking through my hair. I rest my cheek on his shoulder. He murmurs, "God, Star, you look like hell. I don't even know what to do with you anymore, corazon."

I moan and curl into a ball against him, as Rahne's baby does in her womb. I wish he could protect me from myself, the way Rahne protects her unborn child. Of all the awful things I've encountered in my life, it is myself that I fear the most.

No. It is only myself that I fear.

"So this nun," says Guido, "she's holding a newspaper all rolled up, and she starts hitting herself over the head with it. The taxi driver says-"

"Alright, crisis averted!" announces Layla. "Everyone back upstairs before your ice cream melts. You can have the rest of the tub, Guido. I've got it from here."

"If any of you ever gets me out of the shower again for something that is not a life-threatening emergency," Monet states, "I will strangle you with my bare hands."

"-and then the nun just starts rippin' the clothes right off her body, and she throws 'em out the window! Pretty soon, she's sittin' there stark naked in the back seat, and the taxi driver-"

"Come on, upstairs," Jamie tells him. "You heard the woman."

"Oh, and Ric," says Layla. Her voice comes from over my left shoulder. I realize my eyes have drifted shut. "I'm going to leave this tequila here for you. I had Guido buy it for me, but I really only needed the bag the clerk put it in so your boyfriend could not-hyperventilate on us. Stuff tastes like crap."

"You are creepy as hell," Rictor tells her. "But thanks."

"Consider it my contribution to the cause. Also," she adds, "I have a couple of things to say after Theresa goes upstairs."

" 'Sorry,' the nun says. 'Bad habit!' Haha, get it? Bad habit?" Guido's laughter drifts down to us. "Because, you know, nuns wear…"

"Fine, fine," says Theresa. "I think I need to smack Guido for that one, anyway. But I just want to say that as imperfect as Shatterstar may be, he has a good heart, Ric. He really cares about you, even when he's being thickheaded. Don't be too hard on him, alright?"

"Nicely stated," says Layla. "You are a credit to your lineage. You can go now."

Theresa sighs and squeezes my shoulder in a comforting manner. "Please try not to say anything stupid, okay?" she implores. I hope I don't let her down, but sometimes not saying anything stupid is so hard.

"Okay, now are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, Layla?" Rictor demands. His words are harsh, but his hands are still soft. "I know you know, and I want answers."

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," she says. "And if you think I'm joking, that only shows you how little you understand. The person we really need answers from is you. Well, it's actually just one answer- and it's not even a hard question! Just tell me this: is Shatterstar in love with you?"

Rictor makes an annoyed noise in his throat. I press my forehead against the warm column of his neck. "I'm not talking to you about that. It's private."

"Not really. I know stuff, remember?" she tells him.

"You can take your stuff," Rictor informs her, "and shove it up your-"

"You're a detective now," Layla says. "I want you to consider all the evidence- including the nearly invincible, genetically enhanced warrior who just had a mental breakdown in the entryway because you walked out on him- and give me your best professional analysis."

Rictor says nothing. His body stiffens and hand goes still. He rests his palm against the back of my head.

"Julio?" I ask. "What is she saying?" Speaking is difficult, and my voice sounds strange, as though I've been yelling for a very long time. It is also perhaps hard to understand, as I'm still breathing into my tequila bag.

"Shatterstar, you can put that down," Layla tells me. "You're fine now, the panic attack's over."

What she says is true. I feel unreasonably exhausted, lightheaded, and possibly too weak to stand, but this "attack" ceased when Rictor returned to me. The evil creature inside me has gone, or at least retreated to some dark corner. I feel no need to locate it. Let it lurk forever.

I set down the bag and wipe a hand across my face. It is wet with sweat, and bloody still from battle. I blink my newly-opened eyes, glance at the blonde shock of Layla's hair, and rest my head back against Rictor's shoulder.

"Do this now, Rictor," Layla orders. "The longer you take, the worse it'll be. And if you're not done by the time the ice cream's gone, you owe me twenty bucks for the booze." And then she leaves, her footsteps resounding in the silence of the hallway as she retreats up the stairs.

Rictor lets go of me, leaning his back against the wall and taking his tequila in hand. I feel lost, astray… empty without his touch. "Please don't leave," I beg of him.

"I'm not leaving," he says, taking a pull from the bottle. He swallows audibly. "I was never leaving. I was just going out to get plastered and… do things I'd regret with someone whose name I wouldn't remember in the morning. I wasn't quitting the team."

I reach out and press my fingertips to his knee. "Rictor," I plead, "I have been horrible to you. You are right to be angry. I have been the worst boyfriend in the entire dimension. In any dimension!"

"Star-"

"But I can change!" I hurry to finish pleading my case, head swimming. "Please don't leave me. Life means nothing without you! I- I will do better. I will learn to treat you the way you deserve. I swear it on my uemeur!"

Rictor sets down the tequila bottle. He concentrates very hard on its label. "Star, about what Layla said… I want you to understand something, okay? You're not the only one who gets confused by emotions. They confuse everybody. Even understanding ourselves is hard, and unless we're telepaths, we can't really know what someone else is feeling. Does that makes sense? So when I told you you didn't love me, I was… I don't know. I was upset. Maybe… I wasn't thinking right."

"What does that mean? You think I… Do I…" I try to contemplate his words, but I am tired, and my thoughts are fuzzy. "I love you?"

Rictor lifts the bottle to his lips. He swallows and runs the back of his hand across his eyes. They are wet. He gives me a crooked smile, raises one shoulder, and then lowers it. "Yeah," he says. "I guess so."

And finally it all make sense. Red-faced, Rictor wipes at his tears and takes another drink of tequila and says nothing. He does not look at me. But this is fine. I understand now. My life makes sense. A very human thing has happened to me: I am in love.

Unashamed, I rest my cheek against Rictor's thigh and sob.

I don't know how long we stay like this. I don't even know why I'm crying. But it's not a bad feeling; it is as though all the evil emotions are leaving with my tears, cleansing me. Rictor drinks tequila and strokes his fingers through my hair. He murmurs soft words in Spanish. When Theresa comes down and asks if everything is alright, he tells her Yeah.

When Rictor's drink is gone, he pats me on the back. "Come on, let's get you someplace more comfortable," he tells me.

I sit up, wiping my swollen eyes against my jacket, my fingers clinging to his shirt. His arm hooks under my legs, and he hoists me up against him.

"I can walk," I lie.

"Don't even start that crap with me," he says. This makes me happy. I thought Rictor was dead, and now he is being mouthy with me!

Rictor carries me easily enough, despite not being in the physical shape he was when we left X-Force. Only the length of my legs make the journey awkward, and he has to step sideways up the stairs. Also, I think he is a bit drunk. I loop my arms around his shoulders and press my cheek against his shoulder.

I think for a moment that he plans to deposit me on the couch, but he does not. He carries me to our bed and lays me on its unwashed sheets and curls up beside me. His body is warm against me, and the whole room smells like him, and I think again that I could die like this, in his arms, with no regrets.

"I love you," I tell him. It feels right.

"I want you to stop having sex with other people," he says.

"Okay," I tell him.

"Unless you ask first," he continues, as though he's not heard me. "Because I'm sure it's just a phase, and if I know about it, it's one thing, but if-"

"I said okay," I repeat. "Being with others has no value if I cannot share the experiences with you. My uemeur has no connection with these people, nor do I want it to."

"Not even with that… Aurora?" Rictor asks, making a face. "She's… pretty hot. And I bet she knows what she's doing, you know, in bed."

"She is quite skilled," I admit, "and possesses intriguing sex toys. But she is not you and never could be. Also, her twin is crazy. I will not see her again. I am willing to make this compromise in the name of love."

"Oh," he says, and doesn't look me in the eye.

"But you will need to compromise as well," I inform him, as this seems only fair. "I want you to stop interacting with Rahne. You need to return the highchair. You will not continue to be her fake babydaddy."

Rictor sighs. "Where did you hear that word? And no, I won't stop talking to Rahne, and I'm not taking any of her things back. Look, you don't get it. Maybe the baby's not mine, but I'm stepping up to the plate. She's got a lot of things weighing on her right now, and if I don't help, who's going to? There's this… There was this guy in ancient Greece. You remember the movie 300?"

"Entirely unrealistic, but highly theatrical and entertaining," I nod, pleased with the reference. "The wall of corpses was visually stunning."

"Yeah, so back then, there was this dude who walked around in the daytime with a lantern. People asked his crazy ass what he was doing, and he said, 'I'm looking for a man.' Like, a real man. Somebody who'd stand up for what he believed in and do what was right. Even back then, it was hard to find one."

"Then buy Rahne a lantern," I advise him. "But return the highchair."

Rictor sighs. "Look, I got the thing for twenty bucks at Goodwill. Rahne's my friend, and I'm not abandoning her. You're being really selfish, Star."

I shake my head, upset at his suggestion. I feel that I might cry again. "I am not, Rictor! If I am to commit entirely to you, then you must commit entirely to me. You are my boyfriend. By right, those happy fish are mine. Mine, Rictor!"

He stares at me. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

"You bought Rahne happy fish. On that highchair. Their color palate is pleasing to the eye!" I insist, fighting back the tears as I slide my hand into my pocket. "Yet you buy me nothing, and you reject my gifts."

He gapes at the bracelet I hold before him. "Where did you find that?" he asks, taking it from me with gentle fingers.

"Shower," I tell him, wiping my eyes. Now that my tear ducts have begun to leak, they seem unable to stop. I hope I have not broken them.

Rictor shakes his head. "I bent the clasp at the shooting range, and it wouldn't stay on. I thought it fell off on the way back or…" he shakes his head again and puts the bracelet in his pocket. "Look, we have a lot to work on, but I want things to work out, okay? I want us to work out. For a while, I wasn't sure if I did, but… now I am."

"Because I love you?" I ask.

He nods and looks about to cry as well. I press my palm to his cheek. He slides his lips across to kiss it. "Nobody's ever felt that way about me before," he says, voice rough. "And I want to explain what that means to me, but I'm really not sober right now, and it's pissing me off."

"Let's sleep," I tell him. "You can explain later."

"You stink," he says. "Your clothes, I mean. You're all bloody."

I know this but hadn't thought of it. "You should take them off," I tell him, as the very idea of undressing seems daunting.

"If that's a request for sex," Rictor says, "it's the lamest one I've ever heard."

"No sex. Too tired," I tell him, holding my eyes open by sheer force of will. The bed is so comfortable. But then I start to worry. "Though I could. If you need it, I could-"

"No, you couldn't," Rictor tells me. He is not angry. "Go to sleep. My sheets are filthy anyway. I hate doing laundry. Sex later."

"Sex later," I agree, adjusting my body more comfortably beside him. "And more talking."

"And more talking," he confirms. "And nobody leaving anyone again. Ever."

"And happy fish, Rictor. My happy fish…" I add, sleep settling in.

"And happy fish," he whispers, and kisses my cheek. My consciousness dims, but before exhaustion overtakes me, I could almost swear I hear him whisper that he loves me too.

If we have no case, Friday night is Movie Night. Of course we watch movies every other night as well, but Friday is special. Rictor and I have purchased a small television for our room, and we lie naked on his bed together eating nachos and chilidogs and other substances which sometimes resemble actual food. Rictor drinks beer and frequently touches my backside. I usually make it to the end of the movie before I am able to think of nothing but making passionate love to him, but we sometimes have to pause the film.

This is not my fault.

When I told Rictor that he had not fully accepted himself for who he was, he took my words to heart. He says he no longer cares if he "looks gay" as long as he finds his reflection in the mirror agreeable. Fuck everyone else, he says. He is going to be true to himself.

The first thing he did was cut his hair. He says it is called a "foe hawk." He had a full "mow hawk" in his youth but has attempted to destroy any evidence supporting this fact.

"I was going for a macho look, but it didn't really work out," he told me. "I looked fake, like I was trying too hard. I can't believe Tab fell for it." I nodded gravely and pretended I knew what he was saying. His hair looks nice regardless of the type of bird it is.

But the crux of the issue- my utter lack of restraint in his presence- is not his hair. Nor is it the scarlet and black tattoo he's had emblazoned across his forearm. It is his lip piercing.

He had the rod placed so that the ball sits directly in the middle of his bottom lip, shining up silver and enticing, and I often find myself watching his lips move instead of listening to his words. Imagining what those lips could be doing to me, I control myself with great difficulty.

Occasionally, I do not.

One Tuesday, Rictor and I were watching Alien vs. Predator in the living room, and Guido walked in on us. Rictor was faced with the arduous task of explaining away several stereotypes about gay sex, stressing that real couples do not hold to artificial titles or roles. Sex between men is a highly fluid, organic process. Though Rictor explained it more like, "There's lots of options, man. Only guys who are total prudes don't try 'em out. It's normal, I swear."

I believe this might have something to do with the fact that I had Rictor bent over the back of the couch and moaning my name.

I am still (to my relief) forbidden form speaking with Guido about sex, but if anyone presses the issue, I have promised to deny that Rictor is "the girl" with my dying breath. This seems self-evident, as he has no breasts but a distinctly pleasing verga, so it is hardly a difficult promise to make.

But tonight is Friday, and Guido will not interrupt our lovemaking with his uninformed conceptions of masculine sexual congress. We are alone in our room, and I am free to do as I please to my boyfriend's body. For now, I am content with my nachos and sauce of pseudo-cheese, and cuddling with Rictor and my Finding Nemo pillow.

True to his word, Rictor bought me my happy fish. It is fluffy and orange. Jamie tells me I cannot take it on missions.

"It's really ruining the whole noir feel, y'know?" he explained.

To compensate, Rictor has sewn happy fish patches into the pockets of my pants. That way, I can take them wherever I go, and no one will be the wiser.

"Don't tell anyone," he said when he first took needle and thread to them, "but I used to sew a lot when I was little. My cousins and me made clothes for their dolls. Eventually, one of my uncles caught me at it and said boys don't do that kind of stuff. But I really liked to stitch up those little ruffled dresses. There was one I made with this pink, shiny sort of… I told you not to tell anyone I said this, right? Don't tell anyone, Star. Okay?"

I agreed, though I told him the skill seemed a useful one, and I was glad he had learned in his youth. "Also, when we create something, be it an object, action, or even battle strategy, we put a part of ourselves into it," I explained to him. "And this way, I will always have you in my pants."

Rictor stared at me.

"For the times I cannot have you in my mouth," I clarified.

He went back to sewing, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

I grinned and I went back to doing pantsless sit-ups.

It was a happy time.

Rictor laughs at something in our movie, and I realize I have not been watching. Johnny Depp makes a believable pirate, but he is in no way comparable to the man I have beside me. Rictor's naked body is a sight to behold, especially that juncture of soft skin where his waist meets his hips, and he lounges about the bed with such casual grace. He munches on a nacho, licking away the imitation cheese. His tongue flicks across the metal ball on his lip, and I set Nemo aside.

"Pause it," I tell him.

"Huh?" he says.

In one fluid motion, I flip him onto his back and press my mouth to the smooth skin beneath his navel. He swears and reaches blindly for the remote. I slide a hand between his thighs.

Someone knocks on the door. "Guys?" says Jamie. "We're heading to the hospital. Rahne's having contractions."

"Wha-aaah shit, Star!" Rictor gasps. His fist in my hair pulls my mouth away. "What do you mean contractions? She's having the baby? Now?"

"I think that was the plan," Jamie tells him, "but if you want me to ask her to wait until after you two are finished…"

I presume this is a poor attempt at a joke and throw Rictor his pants. "Coming!" I yell to Jamie.

"Okay, not quite sure how to interpret that," Jamie replies.

But by then, we are both dressed, Johnny Depp is paused with his mouth open and hand on his hip, and Rictor is grabbing a bag of supplies he's packed for the hospital trip. A baby quilt and can of Pringles poke up from its depths.

I am excited. I have never held an infant before, much less seen one being born. Rahne wants Rictor in the room with her when it happens, and when I asked if I could join them, she said yes. This was after I apologized for being cruel to her and explained about Rictor and the fish, and how I mistakenly believed she was attempting to steal my boyfriend. It was an honest error: Rictor is such an appealing partner that I would fault someone in her position for not wanting to steal him.

"Not to burst your bubble, Shatterstar," she replied, "but I've been with him, and he's really not that great."

I resisted informing her of the utter ridiculousness of this statement, instead offering to teach her child swordsmanship when it reached a proper age.

"Considering that the baby's half wolf god, I don't think swords will be necessary," she told me, patting her gargantuan abdomen, "but that's sweet of you."

"So tell me again," I prompt Rictor as we follow Jamie down the stairs, "how big will the baby be when it comes out?"

"Eight or nine pounds, probably," Rictor tells me. "And Rahne will be able to take it home in a couple of days if it's healthy. And no, it won't break if you pick it up, as long as you're gentle and put your hand behind its head."

"Because babies' necks are weak, and they have soft spots on their skulls that I should not press my fingers into," I continue, as we have had this conversation numerous times. It is one of my favorites because Rictor likes it so much. He really wants this baby to come. He wishes it were his.

"Will I get to change its diapers?" I ask happily, already knowing the answer.

"Knock yourself out," Rictor repeats. I love this expression. It is so humorously bellicose: Knock yourself out!

"You are sure they won't keep it in an incubator for several months, feeding it chemically simulated milk and audio-enhanced video images of its future life?" I continue.

"Okay, if you two haven't already realized how screwed up this conversation is," Jamie interjects, "I'd like you to take this moment to reflect on it."

I smile because I have reflected on it very much. I even asked Theresa if my idea was a good one. She stared at me for some time without blinking and told me she'd have to think about it. When I asked again, she told me I was incredibly disturbing, and she wasn't sure how Rictor would feel about it. Was it even humane?

But I still like my idea. Incubators are not so bad. I don't even remember being in one. And Rictor wants a family so very much. He presumes I cannot give him this, but he is wrong.

I know a guy.

But I also know that relationships take time to build, and I would not want to push Rictor into something before he is ready. Or before I am ready.

That dead feeling- or collection of feelings, I suppose- still haunts me at times. Like when Rictor and I must part for a case, or when Monet sunbathes on the roof. And once during a commercial for Old Spice, though Longshot admitted that its cinematography gave him strange feelings of guilt as well. We felt better after visiting Walgreens and discovering that the product did not smell as we had imagined. I blame Mojo.

"Alright, everyone's here!" Jamie announces as we make our way off the stairs and into the entryway.

Rictor rushes to Rahne's side, asking her hurried questions about pregnancy that I don't understand. She tells him to shut up and get moving unless he wants to deliver the baby himself.

"Well, at least nobody's going to get shot this time," Theresa says. She looks upset-wistful, perhaps, though I am still no expert in judging these things- which is strange. I can't imagine why she would wish anyone injury.

Layla hugs her. "Don't worry, we're here for you," she says. It is only then that I remember that Theresa once gave birth but… lost the child.

This makes me sad as well. The world can be so unjust. Dying with honor is as important as living with it, but a newborn has no chance to do either. How could such an unfinished life have meaning? Rictor would be devastated if Rahne's baby met the same fate. The very concept is horrific.

Layla and Theresa are still hugging, and I wrap my arms around them both in fellow feeling. But they are very soft and smell nice, and my body is still thinking of Rictor naked, and I should probably not be doing this.

Theresa kisses my cheek in a thankfully chaste manner. Layla whispers in my ear, "Make sure you get Ric's gun away from him before we get to the hospital. But don't let him know you're doing it. Things will be better that way. Okay?"

I have no idea what this means, but agree nonetheless. I trust Layla, and Layla knows stuff.

Contemplating strategies of gun-removal, I follow the others out the door. If I sit beside Rictor on the way over… he will likely hold Rahne's hand in support until we reach our destination. In the mean time, she will make various noises of distress, and he will ignore me. His gun is hidden beneath his shirt; relieving him of it should pose no problem.

Would it be alright to feel him up in the process?

I do hope so.

END!

Notes: Thanks to everyone who's helped with, commented on, and read this fic! Happy fish for you all!