Grief is an ocean. Its will is to pound you beneath its waves, break your bones on its rocks. The water is cold. Numbing. Your limbs feel like stone. The ocean wants you to drown.

Eva had been broken by grief before. She had drifted in its waters, swallowed lungfuls of its brine, and choked as she went under. The rest of her life had simply been treading water.

But she felt stronger now. She had fought on in spite of herself, and now she knew exactly how to fight. She knew how to swim.

Mason was drowning. His sister had fallen to an unspeakable fate. The voices in the inn had echoed in chorus. Set her to rest. As if they expected Mason to move like lightning through his grief. As if none of them could see the waves crashing at his feet.

Eva could see. She could see the ocean pulling Mason under. But she wasn't going to let him drown. She was going to hold him up, she was going to swim for him, she was going to keep him afloat. For as long as it took. Until he could swim for himself again.

When they kick out your front door
How you gonna come?
With your hands on your head
Or on the trigger of your gun?

- "Guns of Brixton", The Clash


Eva's gun was in four pieces on her desk. She shoved a solvent soaked rag down the barrel at the end of a metal rod, the scent making her eyes water. Her chair creaked as she leaned out of it, setting the frame of her gun down long enough to pull the window open a crack. It was snowing outside, and Eva paused for a moment to look. It was so quiet.

The painting of Helen, Mason's sister, had cast her as Little Red Riding Hood. She was being eaten in the picture. Devoured. And in the fairy tale drawn by the Artist and his Muse, Eva knew that Mason was the Wolf.

Eva assumed he would feel responsible. Whether as the Wolf in question, or simply as a big brother who failed to protect his baby sister, she didn't know. Either way, Eva's head was clear enough to place blame exactly where it belonged. The Artist and his Muse.

It was a lesson she had learned from Tucker. Eva didn't believe in vengeance. She believed in the justice of the law. But was there any protection of law in RhyDin? It didn't matter. Tucker taught her that sometimes you were faced with a choice between you or them, and you couldn't hide from it. What he'd done for her, to protect her, had made her feel safe again. And sometimes she wished she could have been there with him, so she could have shared his burden. She wasn't afraid of it anymore. She didn't want to hide.

Mason would have to make a decision. Us or them? Eva knew how to answer that question now. So she sat back down in her chair, and continued cleaning her gun.

The bathroom light cast a dim yellow glow on Eva's bare skin as she stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror. She watched herself in the mirror's frame, taking in her own self-portrait. When had she gotten old? Her eyes were deeply lined, the skin beneath them fragile and bruised. Her breasts had begun to slope low in a mature feminine curve. Her body was hanging loose on the frame of her bones.

She wasn't getting enough sleep. But how could she? Between Mason's nightmares and her own nightmares, and now the waking nightmares of everyday, how could she sleep?

The Muse posing as Mason. The Muse controlling Mason's heart. The Muse taunting Mason in the form of his sister, Helen. And then last night, the gift the Muse had left behind for her. The severed head of a wolf in a wicker basket.

Eva knew she wasn't the only one affected. She could see the pallor of Eless' sweet face. She could see the unquestioning resolve in Rena's eyes. And she could see the one whose name she didn't yet know, the one who seemed to know all, and see all.

In the mirror, Eva could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She could see the small red mark of Mason's attentions on her collarbone. The Muse wanted to make a painting of her. But what was her story? Mason was Little Red Riding Hood's wolf. But who was she?

She wasn't Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella. No one ever heard of Snow White going to rehab. But fairy tales were full of stories of desperate women. Women willing to strike terrible bargains for the things they wanted most. The barren mother of Rapunzel. The miller's daughter in Rumpelstiltskin. And even from the bible, the childless Hannah. All willing to sacrifice their first child for their own lives, or for the gift of bearing children at all.

Eva had never struck such a bargain but her son had been taken all the same. And what had she received in return? She should have struck a better bargain.

So what was her story? What role did the Muse sadistically wish her to play? What pain did she wish to inflict? Eva looked at her reflection in the mirror, following the scar that sliced down her cheek, down to the scar that cut across her lower belly. She looked at the tattoo on her breast, and the tender bruise at her collar bone. And she exhaled.

Her body was the canvas. Eva was already playing the role.

At first, there was no pain. There was only shock. A blow that sent Eva sprawling to her hands and knees on the unforgiving cobblestones of a West End alley.

"Watch yourself, dove. It's slippery." The voice was gruff, oily with sarcasm. He overtook her in the darkness. Grinning.

Eva was dazed. Pain flared from the backs of her knees. How had she fallen? She looked up. He wasn't more than a shadow. Short for a man. Barely her height. Dirty. He reached down to help her up. But he didn't offer his hand. He offered a stick. A shillelagh.

Adrenalin poured into Eva's veins. She knew this man. The Irish. The Mick. This man had attacked Mason. Twice. This man belonged to the Muse.

Eva reached to take the offered shillelagh. And with her other hand she reached for her gun. Her attacker jerked the stick back and then twisted. A movement so fast she felt it before she saw it, the hard end of the shillelagh bashing her wrist, gun knocked aside. It skittered across the pavement disappearing among a stack of crates. His laugh echoed in the narrow alley as she fell to her hands and knees once more.

"Now, now dove. Let's not be forgetting ourselves."

He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her. Her boots scrabbled as she tried to move with him.

"She warned me the Wolf's bitch would have some bite."

"Get off me." Eva grappled at the hands in her hair. He dragged her into a courtyard overlooked by a dozen windows, more than half of them lit up.

He laughed again, shoving her onto the dirt of what had once been a garden. A square of light from one of the overlooking windows lit it up like a stage. He stood back from her, grinning, spinning his stick like a circus ringmaster.

Eva started to get up. She wanted to look at him. Eye to eye. He swung the stick. She only had time to turn. The blow connected with her side. A muffled whack. It kept her down. In the mud. Gasping as pain radiated.

"Och, you're a bit of disappointment, lass." He bent over, resting his shillelagh on his thighs and lowered his voice as if he meant to comfort her. "I'm going to gut him. I'm going to gut your Wolf and I'm going to enjoy doing it."

Rage. It pulsed in her veins. Mixed with adrenalin. She wanted to kill him. To kill him and her both. To kill the Muse.

Eva coughed and found her voice. "You haven't been able to do it yet. Guess you're not very good at your job. Falling a little short." The words were clipped by a blow, the stick catching her along the shoulder, and then swinging again. She tried to get her arm up, but it caught in the strap of her bag, and the blow connected directly with the side of her head.

Black stars burst in front of her eyes as she fell sideways. A breath ripped from her chest and then sucked in again.

"Watch your mouth, dove."

Eva turned, clawing the mud beneath her hands as she regained her sight and looked up at the windows. The Irish followed her eyes. She could see the silhouettes of people watching.

"You think one of thems going to help you? They ain't going to help you, dove. This here's the West End. Ain't nobody going to help you here."

He turned, throwing his arms out and shouted up at the windows. "Anybody want to come and save a little lass?" He laughed at the silence. "They ain't going to help you, dove. All thems gonna do is watch."

The Irish turned back. A handful of wet, icy mud caught him in the face. He stumbled forward. On the ground, Eva shifted her weight to her hands to free her leg, and aimed a hard kick for his knee. She felt it pop beneath her boot as he cried out and hit the dirt, flat on his back, swinging the shillelagh at her blindly. Eva grabbed at the stick, scrambling on top of him. Up close, she could smell the stench of paint on his breath. One of the Muse's paintings. That's what he was. A painting. Pinning him beneath her, she swung her fist, punching him in the face, again and again.

He tried to get on top of her, rolling her to hold her beneath him while they struggled for the stick. She reached up and grabbed his neck, pressing hard on his wind pipe. He hit her open handed, and then clawed at her hand. He couldn't breathe. His eyes widened, one hand pressing the stick across her chest, the other trying to pull her hand free at the wrist.

Eva watched the fear build in his eyes. And then suddenly it was gone. Instead, he smiled. His hand clamped down on her wrist. Before she realized what was happening, Eva could feel herself ripped from her own consciousness and thrust into another.

She could see her... the Muse... smiling a sensual invitation from across a smoky tavern... her hair was red, but her eyes were the devious emerald green Eva recognized... she felt drawn to her... knowing the Muse could be had... bedded... her flirtations... playing with the shillelagh seductively... then tearing it free... she felt a burst of pain... then black...

Eva gasped. She felt the throb of the Muse's blow to the back of her head. She was experiencing the memory through the eyes of the Irish. This was his story. This was the provenance of his painting.

She regained consciousness... paralyzed... needles being sunk into her skin... Eva could feel every torturous prick... this was the Irish's pain... his terror... she could see the Artist... feel his hands as she was posed... and then the Artist took the shillelagh... and he beat her...

A scream of pain wrenched from Eva's throat, her head dropping back in the dirt as she felt every whack of the shillelagh that the Artist rained upon the Irish. Explosions of pain had her writhing like she was being electrocuted. Still she held onto his neck. Holding onto it as much as she could hold onto the present. Slowly, the pain from the beating began to fade with the vision. The Irish couldn't breathe. He couldn't keep hold of her. He couldn't keep her beneath him. He released her wrist and jerked back, sucking in a breath.

Eva's vision cleared. She seized the opportunity. Both of her hands closed on the stick and she pulled in the opposite direction. He shouted as it came free into her hands. She scrabbled backwards as he came after her, and jabbed with the shillelagh. She caught him in the ribs, knocking the breath from him, and sending him sprawling. Eva got to her feet, and swung the shillelagh once more, keeping him down.

Her chest heaved as she looked down at him, twirling his stick the way he had moments before. She glanced back towards the alley, towards where she'd lost her gun.

"You can't kill me, dove." He turned and spat blood onto the mud. Then he dabbed a finger in it and held it up to her. "All I am is paint, lass. You see?"

Eva stared down at him, trying to clear her mind. Mason said he'd unloaded a clip into him, and yet here he was.

"Just give me back my shillelagh, and I'll tell her you've gone. I'll tell her you've both gone." The Irish reached for it.

Eva stood over him, trying to suck in breath. She could hear the false hope offered by his words. The Muse would never let them go. Never. And all she could feel was rage.

He must have seen the resolve in her eyes. He lay back on the dirt and laughed, cackling towards the sky. "The Wolf is just like me, dove. One day his touch will hurt. One day his touch will eat you alive."

She cut his words off with a swing of the stick. The very last of her energy sent the shillelagh pounding into his skull with a sickening crunch. The Irish fell back to the mud, unconscious or dead. For the time being.

There was no hesitation in Eva's next actions. His hands were tied behind his back with the verdant green scarf that Blue had given her, tightly knotted over his own shillelagh, immobilized. The strap of her shoulder bag had broken in the fight, and Eva used that around his elbows.

In the mud she dumped the contents of her bag. She'd been sneaking a permanent pen into work everyday, a pen she preferred over the archaic ink pens allowed by those she worked with. She searched her things until she found it, and pulled the cap free.

Bent over the Irish, she began a note, starting on his forehead:

TO THE MUSE:

She tore open his shirt, getting to his bare chest so she could continue her message. He smelled like paint, but his skin was flesh and the permanent ink sunk in with satisfying ease. Eva sprawled across his chest with harsh strokes:

THE WOLF IS MINE.

FROM,
THE DOCTOR

Eva leaned back as she finished defacing the Muse's painting. Standing in the square of light shed from the overlooking windows, she looked up and shouted. "Don't move him! You hear me!? He is not to be touched!"

The light turned out. Message received.

Eva gathered her things. Her rage ebbed. Pain left in its wake. Every movement brought pain. It was hard to breathe. She could smell her own blood, but she didn't know from where. She moved through it.

In the darkness of the alley, Eva bent to pick up her gun.

"Coke? Smoke?" The words whipped out at Eva, hissed from a darkened doorway. Her eyes flicked towards the sound. A shadowed figure moved forward, reeling in his lure. "Smack? Amp?" Eva's steps never faltered, continuing down the street. Her thoughts lingered.

The users called this stretch of Trumble Street "Whisper Row," naming it for the dealers that had staked out positions up and down the block from which to whisper their offers. Eva had been taking this route whenever she had the chance, whenever Mason couldn't meet her at the end of her workday and she was left to walk home alone. The location couldn't be better for dealers. Midway down Trumble, just before the corner of Shaw, behind barred and warded windows was Safe Haven Substance Abuse Rehabilitation Center. Addicts heading towards the Center for counseling, meetings, or long term check-in had to run a virtual gauntlet of temptation just to get through the gates.

Eva walked the Row willingly.

She had told herself that it was a test. To see how strong her resistance was. But that was a lie, and she knew it.

The constant ache in her chest was crushing her. Mason was so sick and she didn't know what to do. Even if she could find some way to kill the Muse, she was terrified it would kill him too. The Muse was inside of his body, holding his heart in her hand. How could Eva ever hope to protect him? To save him?

Mason was going to die. And all Eva could do was watch.

She lifted a hand as she walked, rubbing her chest where her heart ached, just the way she'd seen Mason do so many times. Was it so wrong to want the pain to go away?

Turning the street corner, Eva walked into the drifting sound of distant music. Her head lifted, the wind pressing the music towards her, then blowing it away again. Growing louder with every step, she could tell it was the sound of a symphony. The lush swell of the string section, the ominous rumble of tympani, the bright alarm of the brass. Street lights flickered on around her as she followed the sound, brow furrowed in curiosity as she looked for its source.

Towards the end of the block, she stopped. An old man was closing his music shop for the night, drawing the metal gate across the door frame, shutting the music up inside. Beyond the display of musical instruments in the caged glass windows, Eva could see an old fashioned gramophone spinning its record in circles, the speaker pointed towards the door from which the music was pouring.

The metal gate grated to a stop and the old man turned to look at her. His rheumy blue eyes crinkled with his smile and he beckoned, his hunched shoulders moving inside, his voice gravelly with age. "You like music?"

Eva hesitated at the door a moment before following the old man inside. "A little."

"This is Tchaikovsky, you know him?" His voice held the lilt of an accent, one Eva couldn't place. From a glass counter top, he picked up an album sleeve and handed it to her.

"Not really." Eva looked at the record cover in her hands. The orchestra was photographed in black and white, the conductor's baton frozen up high as if it were about to come slashing down. And above, the words: Francesca da Rimini, Op. 32. She set the album cover back on the counter.

"This is tragedy from Dante." He shuffled towards the record player and angled his head towards the speaker, as if he meant to drown himself in the sound. "The lovers, they are doomed."

Eva frowned, watching as he gestured for her to come closer to listen with him. She could hear fine from where she stood, but she came closer anyhow, tipping her head beside his.

"Do you hear? She is calling for him."

"She's the flute?"

"Yes, she is flute, he is clarinet."

Eva's hands balled into fists and rubbed at the thighs of her pants. "She's frightened."

"Yes."

"And he?"

"He? Maybe yes, maybe no." The old man raised his voice as the music grew louder, strings and brass soaring. "He care only for her."

Eva raised a brow and looked at the old man, skeptical. He couldn't possibly tell that from the music.

Catching her expression, the old man smiled. "Is way of love."

She nodded, and looked down at her hands. Mason was like that. They never spoke of it, but she could tell he was more worried about her than he was about himself. She tried to be deserving of that. She tried to go along like she thought he wanted. Life as usual. Deciding on a new apartment and signing the lease. Talking about paint colors. Picking out a new bed.

But what if she ended up in that apartment alone? Rattling around in more rooms than she could ever need, eating her cereal in the kitchen where he was supposed to be cooking. What if she ended up sleeping on that giant new mattress alone? It would swallow her whole.

All she wanted to do was cry. "How does it end?"

The old man touched the speaker and the volume eased down. "The lovers, they die. Their souls, they go to Dante's hell. It is tragedy."

Eva nodded and looked up at him, then out towards the door and the darkening night. Her chest tightened again, her heart aching. When would her life stop being a tragedy?

"Hey Romeo!" The duet of voices was not what Mason expected to hear as his boot nudged open the door and sunlight flooded in on him. His eyes squinted against the sun as he stepped out onto the rooftop and a hand lifted to shade his eyes. Stefen and David, neighbors from across the hall, were sunning themselves on the pair of lounge chairs they kept up on the roof. Mason started to chuckle as he carried the load of lumber balanced on his shoulder over to the back of the roof where he stored building supplies he collected for his "projects".

"Do I look like some teen in tights that climbs up to balconies?" Mason smirked at the pair as he headed over to them. It was hot and he was sweating after carrying the boards home, so he was more than happy to have a seat when Stefen sat up and patted the lounger beside him.

"No, that would be Stefen. But he'd be climbing Tybalt's balcony," David deadpanned as he sat up and poured a glass of iced tea and handed it to Mason.

Stefen tried to give David a glare but he started laughing instead. "He's right." He leveled his gaze on Mason then. "So... David and I have a bet going." Mason took a big drink of the cold tea and then glanced between them. They were both eying Mason now.

Mason pulled at the hem of his t-shirt and bent to wipe his sweaty face. "What kind of bet and stop looking at my abs, David." Mason smirked and winked at him when his shirt dropped and he took another big drink of tea.

Stefen and David exchanged looks. A small battle of wills with looks and nods as the weapons. Apparently David lost. "Stefen says they were because you had a fight. I said you are just a romantic. Which is it?"

Mason looked confused at them both. "What is what?"

Stefen rolled his eyes and gave Mason a 'duh' look. "The flowers, Romeo."

"What flowers?"



A knot tightened in the pit of Mason's stomach as he paced around the apartment. It had been growing since David and Stefen had told him about seeing someone delivering flowers. By the description it sounded like they had been delivered by Mira.

Pace.

Eva had gotten flowers. Flowers that he knew he hadn't sent. Mason's hand rubbed at his chest. There was no sign of flowers in the apartment. He stalked into the kitchen. Stefen said the delivery had been days ago. But still, he looked in the garbage for signs of flowers, a card, ribbons.

Pace.

His pacing brought him to the door of Eva's office. The hand on his chest moved to grip the door frame. His knuckles whitened as he glanced about the room. Confusion had long since been driven away by anger. His eyes stopped on the desk. That knot in his stomach flaring. No, he couldn't bring himself to go rifling through her desk.

Pace.

Mason paced along in front of the windows of the living room. Caged animal stalk from window to window. "Tucker." The name was growled out. It had to be him. Of course it was him. Mason had seen the looks and the guilty way Tucker cut his gaze away when Eva was around. He wasn't over her, that was clear as day to Mason. But Mason wasn't about to consider that his own jealousy and self-doubt could be coloring his thinking. It had to be Tucker.

Pace. Stop.

All the time they had spent breaking down barriers and sharing, and then she keeps this from him? Tucker had sent Eva flowers and she hid it all from him. That thought cut Mason deep.

Mason grabbed his keys from the counter and headed to the door. His mind was flooded with visions of Eva and Tucker and flowers. Eva smelling the flowers and smiling as she read the card. He stopped halfway there and turned back. He had to leave a note. The pen pressed so hard to the paper that it cut through in a few places.

WENT OUT.

Went out. Went out? Went out where? Eva stopped her pacing to look out the window. It was full dark. Full f*cking dark. Still no sign. Where the hell was Mason? He was never this late. Was there an emergency? Was he sick? Was he in trouble? Eva closed her eyes. She couldn't go there. She couldn't. He was probably just grocery shopping. That's where he was, he was grocery shopping.

Eva rubbed her hands on her thighs and looked across the apartment to the kitchen. Maybe she should just make him a nice meal. It was raining out. He always cooked for her. Maybe if she cooked something for him, he'd come home.

By the time Eva heard Mason's key in the lock, tomato soup was bubbling on the stove and three grilled cheese sandwiches were waiting to go into the skillet. Eva breathed a sigh of relief, and lowered the flame on the tomato soup to a simmer. At least he had come home to a warm meal. Eva looked towards the front door expectantly. "Hey..."

Mason stopped just inside to lock the door behind him. Between sweat and drizzle, he was soaked. "Hey."

Eva's smile instantly faded. "You okay, babe?"

Mason shoved his bruised and bloodied hands into his pockets. The knot in his stomach twisted as he heard then saw Eva. He forced a weak smile and nodded. "Yeah. Got rained on."

She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, and rounded the counter towards him, taking in his appearance with a little confusion.

"I better go change." He started to head to the bedroom and stopped as she stepped into his path.

"Okay, good, I made dinner." She nodded, leaning towards him for their usual hello kiss. Then she stopped. He reeked of sweat. "You been running?"

Mason glanced to the kitchen as he nodded about the running. "Went to the gym and did some running too." He looked back at Eva. Something was in his eyes. His voice dropped low. "Do you want to kiss me?"

Something was weird, but Eva didn't know what. A brow went up, but she nodded, her eyes holding on his trying to figure out what was going on. "Yeah... I pretty much always do..."

His eyes darted. Never meeting hers for long. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to know she really wanted him. Wanted to wipe that image of her smiling over the flowers and up at Tucker out of his mind. His eyes closed before he leaned down to be given a kiss.

Eva's kiss was soft and tender, one hand cupping his cheek gently. One of his hands drifted from his pocket and wavered at her side. He had almost placed it on her hip when the kiss broke. Instead his hand fell back to his side. Eva took a breath and sighed. The kiss felt one sided. She knew something was wrong. She could push him now, or wait. Maybe it would be wise to wait. That's what he usually did, wasn't it? He never pushed her, even when something was wrong. "Why don't you go take a quick shower, and then we can have something to eat, yeah?"

He nodded slowly, his voice quiet. "Yeah." He moved past Eva and headed into the bathroom.

Eva frowned, meandering back to the kitchen. She checked on the soup, and stirred, then started the first sandwich to grill. She kept glancing towards the bathroom as she moved to set the table, as if she could see through the walls into what was troubling Mason. She tried to run through the day. Had she said something in the morning that upset him? Maybe she'd said something in her sleep...? Eva sighed. Maybe if she made the dinner special somehow...

She checked the food on the stove, flipping the first sandwich, and then shouted out towards the bathroom. "I'm running up to the roof real quick!"

Eva grabbed her keys from the counter and trotted upstairs. She flipped the light switch on the roof, the little Christmas lights guiding her way. It was damp, and she picked her way around the deck to the little lavender plant. A few of the purple flowers broken off, a little bit of rosemary, some other light greenery, and then she headed back down, letting herself back into the apartment and locking the door. Eva made a small, modest bouquet of the little flowers and set it on the table as a centerpiece. Bending over to breathe in their fresh scent, she smiled. Mason would like them.

Eva stared at him a moment. The thought flickered. The flowers. She pushed it aside. It wasn't that. He couldn't know. It could be any number of other things. "About what?"

He tossed his napkin down on his plate and pushed back his chair to stand up. He headed straight for the table beside his armchair and the bourbon bottle. He had his back to Eva as he splashed a glass full and picked it up for a big drink. "Fine."

She sat at the table, staring at the wall. She felt sick. He was more than angry. Why hadn't she seen it? Maybe it was the flowers... maybe... it was the only thing she could think of. But why would he be upset at her about that? Because she hid it? She sat still for a long moment, her voice soft when finally she spoke. "I... I didn't want to upset you."

He took another drink before he turned. His eyes had never been reddened before at the strength of a drink, doubtful that was the reason for it this time. His voice was thick as he spoke. "Didn't want to upset me? Eva... what am I supposed to think? It was days ago... and you didn't tell me. How is that supposed to make me feel?" He took another drink to empty the glass. A muffled thump as he set it down hard on the bamboo table.

Eva was terrified. She didn't want to lose him this way. Every time she'd thought to herself that she might lose him it was because of the Muse, because he was sick. She was prepared for that. But not for this. She didn't want to lose him for a moment of bad judgment. Her voice was soft and shaky. It almost didn't make it all the way across to him. "I... I thought if I threw them away, it would be like it never happened."

Mason was trembling. Exhausted physically and his emotions were overwhelming him. He could feel the tightening in his chest. It was like the Muse was feeding off of this emotional wave like she had when he was raging. Feeding it, making it deeper. Mason dropped heavily into his chair. Body bent, elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. "Like it never happened... and I would be the unknowing simpleton when I went into the inn and he would be there behind the bar... knowing. Tell me... just tell me... are you going back to him? I need to hear you say it." Leaps and bounds, his mind had jumped from Tucker sending flowers to the worst case scenario... Eva was leaving him to go back with Tucker.

Woah, what? It took Eva a moment to process that. Finally, she turned her head to look for him. The fear momentarily replaced by confusion. Was he talking about Tucker? "Back to Tucker? Why... why would I do that? I mean, no, no of course not. What does he have anything to do with this?" She wasn't putting it together. She just sat at the table, body turned towards him, brows deeply furrowed in confusion.

"The flowers!" He hadn't seen her confused look. His hand went to his chest as he lifted his head and looked at her. "Tucker sent you flowers and you didn't trust me enough to tell me... or you didn't want me to know... why? Were you... ha... happy?" His voice broke on the last word. Fear. Naked fear was plain in his eyes.

Jesus she was an idiot. Reality slammed into her. She got up from the table. "Mason, it wasn't Tucker... I don't... I don't..." She held up a hand, and hurried into the other room. Yes, she'd wanted to spare him, but she knew now this was worse. She knew the way he was feeling was worse. At least they were together against the Muse. Right now, they were divided. She rifled in her desk for the book, and pulled out the card. Then she hurried back to the living room. "Just look, okay?" Crossing towards him, the small card extended.

Her words hadn't quite registered as she left the room and then returned. His eyes shot to the card in her hand. She had kept it. It was in her office all this time. His eyes moved from the card to her face and then to the card again before he took it from her and read it. A dark crimson rose for the mourner and a white lily for his casket. I believe that rose will look lovely in your trembling hand.

"They were from her." She backed away a step. The adrenaline from the realization already fading. She sank onto the couch, eyes on the floor. And then repeated herself. "It was stupid, I know. But I didn't want to upset you."

The card dropped from his hands, sliding back and forth through the air as it wafted down to the rug. A growl started deep inside of him and ripped out of his mouth as he shot up out of the chair. "I'm a f*cking idiot!" He all but ran towards the bedroom to get dressed and get his gun.

Eva flinched at his words, looking up and watching him hurry out of the room. Was he still upset with her? Or just himself? She didn't know what he was doing. Her hands rubbed at her thighs, and after a moment, she got up to follow, biting back her fear that he was in there packing a bag. "Mason?"

When Eva got to the door Mason was barely balanced on one leg trying to get his other into a clean pair of jeans with his gun clutched in one hand, muttering angrily. "Send flowers...that f*cking bitch..."

Eva watched him a moment, sliding her arms around herself, leaned in the doorway, effectively blocking it, though she didn't look like she'd done it on purpose. "Mason, where are you going?"

He went off kilter and stumbled sideways towards the bed before he got his second leg in. The jeans hanging low and open on his waist as he turned around. He was furious. The veins in his neck standing out, jaw clenched beneath his beard but those yellow gold eyes of his looked tarnished. Asking him a logical question threw him off. "I don't know."

She stood at the perimeter of his fury, letting it buffet against her as she remained in place. For the first time since getting the flowers, she stopped concentrating on her own expression and just let the natural one take its course - fear, exhaustion, sadness. "Are you angry with me?"

He was reaching for his bare chest and froze when her words hit. That look on her face. God...how could he have thought... "F*ck..." His shoulders dropped and his head bowed as he moved towards Eva. Thankfully he reached with his gunless hand. Still it was tentative as if he wasn't sure she would welcome his touch.

She shifted, straightening from the doorway, but she didn't take his hand. She'd just spent the last half hour scared out of her mind. She needed more than his hand. She stepped towards him, moving into his body. "Mason..." The apology in the soft pleading tone of his name.

His breath caught when she didn't take his hand. It came out as a sigh of relief as she moved closer to him. His arms circled her and pulled her closer still. Head still bowed, his lips at her ear for a whisper. "I'm so sorry, Eli... please... please forgive me... I thought... I thought I was losing you. I'm so sorry.... so.... sorry."