In the Wee Small Hours

By Vampwrtr

Copyright 1999

LaCroix sat quite still, surrounded only by the darkness of the room, and

the loneliness of his heart. He hadn't moved in hours. He simply sat at

his desk, perfectly straight, unmoving, staring into the nothingness of the

outside world through a window. The wind howled against the glass. The

bare branches of a nearby tree threatened to scratch the pane, but he

didn't notice.

The antique clock on the nearby mantle ticked loudly, in the dead silence

of the room. The only source of light was emanating from the moon, which

shimmered through the window in front of him. His icy eyes reflecting the

dreariness of his soul, instead of the pale glow of the moonlight.

If one were to ask him exactly when he had become so obdurate, he couldn't

have answered. As far as his memory stretched, he knew his heart to be as

cold as his icy blue eyes. Most of the time, LaCroix was able to shove it

all down; there was always something to do, someone with whom to occupy his

time and his mind. It was only in these moments, when silence gripped his

soul, and the last hours of the night overtook his wisdom, that he found

himself wallowing in self pity. It disgusted him.

He stared at a leaf which fell off the tree outside the window. It blew

aimlessly, at the mercy of the wind, until it was gone from his view. He

sighed. The leaf reminded him of the lost mortals in the night; the ones

that wandered arbitrarily; the ones who were at the mercy of his kind. He

looked down at his desk and shook his head. No more. He could allow

himself no more plaintive musings. It was a most dangerous thing to an

immortal.

What tonic did the wee small hours of the morning possess, that it could

cause even a being as callous as he, to turn meditative and gloomy

regarding matters of the heart? A rueful smile suddenly appeared upon his

face: No such thing as a lonely heart learning its lesson. He knew the

truth; the heart was merely an empty vessel, crying out for contentment,

but meeting instead with only bitterness and pain. Perhaps he needed to

remind himself, that his prison of loneliness was for his own survival, as

well as for those around him.

Still, he missed her. He would never have admitted it to another living

soul, but, he missed her terribly. LaCroix' eyes threatened to mist over

as his mind staggered back into the still fresh tracks of memory. It was

more like a fresh wound.

He remembered with perfect clarity the look in her eyes as she told them.

It was at that moment, that he knew. He knew it wasn't about her

independence, nor about discovering herself. No, it had been a test.

Nicholas had performed perfectly, just as Janette knew he would. He had

begged her to stay. And she had known that Nicholas would plead with her;

it wasn't from Nicholas whom she had longed to hear it.

She had turned to LaCroix, her eyes staring into his, silently waiting.

Waiting to hear him say anything indicating that he wanted, indeed, that he

needed her to stay. His dead eyes had simply stared back into her

beautiful blue ones, not allowing for so much as a drop of emotion to

spill. It was with that stoicism, that he had inflicted the final blow.

When he had said nothing, Janette had turned to Nicholas, kissed him

lovingly, and then left without so much as another glance in her father's

direction.

As he had watched her walk out of the apartment, bag in hand, his heart had

broken into a million pieces; though no observer would ever have known.

His facade of indifference had continued to serve him well. He had simply

turned to Nick, and made some comment regarding the amount of extra space

he would now have in the apartment. That was the last time they had spoken

of her. It was more than two months ago.

LaCroix looked at the phone on the desk in front of him, unconsciously

willing it to ring. But it remained silent, like the night. Whatever did

he think he would say if she did call? He certainly would not, could not,

admit that he missed her. He shook his head. What a waste of time. He

knew better. His very immortality depended upon his ability to remain

detached; there could be no exception. Still, some small part of him felt

vulnerable to her. And how he hated her for it.

Frost had begun to form on the outside of the window pane. He had not

bothered to turn the heat on. He had no use for it. The first few snow

flakes began to fall. He watched them for awhile, spiraling in a flurry to

the ground. LaCroix sat motionless for almost an hour, watching the snow

continue to fall outside, like a silent army descending upon the

unsuspecting masses in the night. The temperature in the apartment had

dropped at least ten degrees, but he hadn't noticed it.

There was nothing he could do; he knew that. It wasn't in his nature to

acknowledge anything that could even remotely be described as an emotion,

much less demonstrate it candidly. Why Janette had so openly challenged

him in this manner, he could not fathom. Surely she had suspected how he

would react. It was not as if she did not know him intimately.

His face took on a sad countenance. He didn't want to think of it; but his

mind wandered into a dark corner he had thought long buried. He slammed

his eyes shut against it, willing his mind to go another way. It was a

battle he could not win. He could recall the feel of her skin, the smell

of her hair, the passion of her blood. He found himself momentarily

overwhelmed by the memory of Janette's love. And oh, how she had loved

him. LaCroix swallowed hard, as he opened his eyes. He knew, that Janette

had never expected him to voice his love for her; nor had she really

expected him to show it. No, she had merely expected him to accept her

love for him. But he couldn't accept it; not then, not now. In the end he

knew, it was this, that had driven her away.

And now Nicholas was once again making himself scarce, angry with his

father's failings. LaCroix could sense both of his children pushing him

away. How could he really blame them? They had made the choice to get

away away from the indifference of a being so controlled by his fear of

love, that he couldn't bring himself to experience an honest emotion if his

very life depended upon it.

The pain of it gripped LaCroix. His heart felt so empty, he thought it

would shatter right there, on his desk. A void so black, even he could not

face it. It terrified him. LaCroix could feel his heart in his throat.

Loneliness. His oldest enemy, his darkest friend. He closed his eyes,

trying to regain control of his crashing emotions. Wasn't it easier to be

alone? Easier, and oh so much harder.

His eyes were moist with unshed tears of pain. So engrossed in his own

self pity was he, that he didn't notice when the door to the apartment

quietly opened. He didn't hear the footsteps gliding across the wood

floor, nor the light sound of a suitcase being set down in the entryway.

Were it not for his practiced facade of indifference, when he felt the hand

gently caress his shoulder, he would have started. He recognised the

touch. His eyes closed, as he inhaled a sharp intake of air. She had come

back to him. Relief filled him, yet he said not a word.

Janette could sense little from him, save for something she could only

describe as a kind of release. She frowned as she touched him; he felt

very cold, even for one of their kind. Then she realised it was due to the

general lack of heat in the room.

"LaCroix, why is there no heat?"

His voice was fairly even, but there was a slight thickness to it as he

spoke, "I hadn't noticed that it was cold."

Janette gently stroked his face, "You feel like ice."

He said nothing. He couldn't bring himself to voice the emotions he was

feeling. Instead, he just sat there, allowing Janette to gently caress his

shoulders. She wasn't really surprised by his lack of reaction; she knew

he would say nothing. Janette leaned in and placed a loving kiss on his

head. Still he said nothing.

As she started to walk away, she felt his hand suddenly grab ahold of her.

She looked down at him sharply; and his eyes finally met hers. In that

brief moment, he allowed her to look into his soul with utter clarity. The

icy blue orbs that could be so glacial, were shiny with barely contained

tears, the love in them unabashedly showing. It stopped Janette cold.

"LaCroix...."

He shook his head slightly, his eyes pleading silently with her. He

couldn't beare for her to say anything. He stood, as he took both of her

hands in his. He leaned down and kissed her very softly on the lips. She

allowed him to linger there, lovingly accepting the affection she could

feel from him. When she sensed him pulling away, she put her arms around

his waist and drew him back toward her.

LaCroix allowed himself to be embraced, and responded by pulling her closer

into him. The clock on the mantle chimed. While the rest of the world

remained fast asleep, the night belonged to them. She closed her eyes in

contentment, and he cradled her head into his chest. Words had become

unnecessary, in the wee small hours of the morning.

FIN