A/N: And here it is! After, like, three months! God, this chapter was like pulling teeth out of my own skull. Seriously.

Thank you to all of you who have stayed with me (and Adrian and Dean). I could write a big long list of your pennames, but I know you know who you are.

When I came to, I knew I could open my eyes…but I didn’t want to. I really, really didn’t want to.

I was afraid of what I’d see.

First of all, underneath me, I could feel I was lying on something hard and cold. That wasn’t a very good sign (I could have been in a, uh, morgue), and I was pretty sure my elbows were stuck to whatever surface I was lying on. And I was so cold, I thought my legs were going to fall off — if I even had legs anymore. I couldn’t feel my body, so for all I knew, I could have just been a head. It was like I was in an ice box or something. And that made me think…

Frick. Had I been abducted by aliens?

Just for a split second — a tiny, tiny second — panic streaked through my head to my toes — I could tell my legs were indeed attached now — as I thought of myself in a revealingly backless hospital gown, lying on a cold metal slab while lime-green aliens sliced me open and took their pick of my various internal organs. People always talked about getting sent to the “Mothership” in Underwood, considering we lived by so many farms, and thus corn fields…

Then I remembered that the chances of lime-green aliens abducting me — I mean, of all people, ME — were, like, zero to one. And I also remembered that I hadn’t been anywhere near a corn field before I’d passed out — if that’s what I had, uh, done; I couldn’t really be sure at the moment. I had, in fact, been at Clearwater High School, getting trapped, grabbed, chased, and thrown (into many hard, sharp surfaces) by a select few Romanian vampires...

And with a gasp, my eyes snapped open as I remembered the rest of the story.

The room actually did look like a morgue — well, my representation of one, anyway. There was a lot of bright light…a lot of metal…a lot of white…a lot of sharp tools, lying on a moveable cart just next to my head…

Seeing that was enough to make me jerk up…

…And consequently fall back down on the cold slab underneath me with a very noticeable thud.

I groaned, pinching my eyes shut and gritting my teeth to suppress the scream that desperately wanted to echo around the empty room. Why did it feel like my side was caving in? And why did my head feel like it was spinning around, and around, and around…?

But before I could even begin to comprehend the things I had seen — like, say, why the hell I was wearing a guy’s blue button-up shirt and khakis — I felt his presence.

I knew it was him. Maybe it was because I could smell him — he had a specific smell, not like any cologne, but one that just reeked clean — or maybe because I had gotten so used to the way his footsteps sounded — but I knew.

I knew it was him who rushed through the door at the other end of the room, the kind that you pushed to open. And I also knew it was him who came beside my metal slab and brushed his cool fingertips through my hair…

“Adrian,” he whispered, and it sounded like he hadn’t breathed that word in my ear just that once. Had it been him I had heard in the blackness my mind fell into?

Had he been the one I had heard in my dreams?

But instead of voicing my questions, I remained perfectly still, making sure my eyes looked peacefully shut, and breathing evenly through my nose and out the tiny crack of an opening in my mouth…

“I know you can hear me,” he whispered, now pushing the few strands of black hair out of my eyes; I flinched at his touch, and cursed inwardly for it. “But if you want me to speak to you this way…”

I was so tempted to open my eyes — just one eye, just one little peek — at that moment, just to see why he had trailed off in such a suggestive way. But I didn’t have to wait in suspense for long; his teasing voice caught my full attention not two seconds later.

“You are so silly when it comes to these things,” he said, laughing, and I felt his cool breath fan over my face in soft waves. “I rescue you from the evil clutches of a sadistic vampire, and you ignore me…”

And he laughed again — lightheartedly, good-humoredly, calmly….

While Godzilla was wreaking havoc — crushing cars, pulling down power lines, eating people — inside my mush of a brain.

HE HAD RESCUED ME! RESCUED! HA! HA! For the love of…Gosh DANG it…Damn it to HELL —

Ooh, this was funny.

I mean, seriously? He rescued me? I’m made out to be the damsel in distress — the helpless girl who has to rely on a guy to save her? Does this mean I’m akin to the Princess, locked up in a tower, waiting for her Handsome Prince of questionable sexual orientation to gallop on over to her humble abode, surrounded by red-hot lava, skeletons of previously fallen lusters (Chris), and blood-thirty pterodactyls (Mom)?

If so, I only have one well thought out, complex, insightful response:

You’ve got to be shitting me.

ME? ME? I’m the little wimp who can’t even protect myself? I’m too fragile and helpless to save my own ass? Instead, it must be saved (and carried) by my Hero? In fact, if that’s the case, maybe I should kiss hisass while I’m at it — and by “it” I mean, professing my devotion to him, my Savior, my Hercules…

(Ooooh yeah. Excuse me as I rip out my own kidney before that happens.)

Because I was going to tear (shred, slice, chop) my various internal organs — if they were still there, that is, and the Aliens hadn’t taken them; then again, cool-as-a-cucumber Dean, my Savior, probably would have told me that by now — if I was going to be made out as the damsel in distress in this effed up situation.

True, I am not always mentally or physically strong — no one is. But I had to draw the line at “being rescued.” Or, for that matter, “being a damsel in distress,” even though Dean (my HERO!) hadn’t exactly said those exact words…

It was still implied. I was weak. He was strong. I should fall deeply in love with him. He should graciously welcome me in his chiseled arms, into his large, sculpted, smooth, pale chest…

NO! Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!I will NOTswoon over Dean’s nicely muscled torso. I will not. Even though I did say, right before I passed out, that he was ho —

Oh God. I didn’t. No…Please…Tell me I didn’t…

He thinks I’m in love with him. Oh God. He thinks I’m “warm for his form.” He thinks I crave his body, lust for thy lips to be on thine own…

That is why he is teasing me. Why he is laughing. Why he is brushing his fingertips through my hair…

Why he whispered my name as I lay in semi-unconsciousness.

Ooooh crap. My oh my. My OH my…

He has to be mocking me, right? He doesn’t actually, you know…?

Oh, man. I can’t even think it in my own mind, let alone ASK him if he really…if he…if he REALLY…

Okay. I can’t ask him if he…really likes me. (There, I said it.)

God, how juvenile is that? How juvenile am I? I can’t even think in my own private head if he LIKES me or not. Not if he loves me, or thinks I’m “hawt” or something. Just “like.”

How would I even ask him?

Um…so…I was just wondering if you, you know, just LIKE me…Or if you, uh, like LIKE me…?

Can you even imagine his response? (He would, of course, say my name first, because that’s what he always does when he’s being serious.)

Adrian, he would say with an exasperated sigh, why are you asking me this? Of course I like you. I’ve been IN love with you — and wanting your SEXY body — since I first met you in the park that day, and proceeded to save your life because YOU ARE THE DAMSEL IN DISTRESS AND I AM YOUR SAVIOR, YOUR HERO, YOUR EVERYTHING...!

And as I started to think more about it — how him having some crush on me was crazy, how he was made out to be the Hero, how I was labeled the Weak Girl Who Couldn’t Save Her Own Ass (aka Damsel in Distress) — the more agitated I got.

So enraged that I, teeth grinding and jaw tight, opened my eyes...

And glared at Dean with as much anger burning in them as I could.

Immediately, his hand froze mid-stroke of its rhythmic brushing through my hair; his eyebrows furrowed together, wrinkling his otherwise smooth forehead…

But when I looked into his amber eyes, I saw no alarm. He was still humoring me, still teasing, still joking…

I narrowed my eyes further, trying to get across I really wasn’t messing around anymore.

And then I opened my mouth.

“I hope you don’t think this means I owe you or anything,” I said steadily, coldly — and a bit raspy. How long had I been in this morgue, anyway? “Because I don’t. And if you think I do, you’re wrong.”

Well, that changed the amusement in his eyes. Because those “amber jewels” suddenly became very cool, very…

Sad?

But I wasn’t taking his emotions into consideration.

I lifted myself up slowly (painfully) on my frozen elbows, grinding my teeth when I felt that familiar stabbing pain in my side, and quickly closed my eyes when the room started spinning again. Ha! I thought. I’ll show him who’s the Damsel in Distress! I can totally take care of myself… even if I am in an unfamiliar place. With an undetermined side wound. Wearing men’s clothing…

And that’s when I stopped mid-getting up.

Wouldn’t you? I mean, I didn’t even know where I was. How was I going to get out of there if I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE EXIT WAS?! For all I knew, once I got out those swinging doors, there was a maze of hallways. And even if I did get through it all, what if, at the end, the door that leads outside is locked?

What the hell would I do then? Run around this morgue, finding dead person after dead person? Find some “clues” — by dusting for fingerprinting, or searching through old mail, or rummaging through garbage — just to see who owns/how to get out of this freaking place? Like some Nancy Drew wannabe?

Ha. Uh, no.

So that’s why, when I opened my eyes, I looked straight at Dean’s confused, sad little face, and asked (okay, snapped at) him, pretty bluntly:

“Where the hell am I?”

Not my most creative inquiry, but hey. It got the general point across.

His cool hand was still frozen in my hair, cupping the back of my head, as he regarded me with a bemused expression. Really. His head was slightly tilted to the side, and his mouth was opened so that only a little cool air blew across my cheeks…

I jerked away from him, and his hand — but, of course, not without a little pain. I instantly winced at the motion, but I tried to compose my face again into that stern, pissed off mask I’d been wearing.

He didn’t even move a muscle. Frozen.

“I asked you where the hell I am!” I shrieked, panting from the exertion and panic that was beginning to set in. What had I been thinking before? He doesn’t LIKE like me at all — he’s taken me to a freaking vampire den to examine me. See why I’m so tough, so different from the others…

That didn’t explain why I was wearing men’s clothing…that smelled, reeked even, of clean…

I yanked two fistfuls of the striped blue shirt that almost came to my knees over my chest and stomach, trying to cover up some of myself, even though he’d probably seen enough…

“Adrian,” he sighed, watching me with round, falsely sad amber eyes as I inched away from him. “Please don’t…”

What had he done to me? What would entail me to wear his shirt? And his shorts, which were more like pants on me? How much had he seen…?

“Where am I, Dean?” My voice was painfully quiet in comparison to earlier. All of that internal anger had burned out of me. Now I was getting tired, scared of being in an unknown place…

“You are in Fargo, Minnesota,” he said emotionlessly. He still hadn’t moved. Still frozen. “You are less than twenty minutes out of Underwood. Perhaps less. I took you here because I thought Charles could help you…” His blank face suddenly rippled with emotion — just for an instant, a second — before he looked away from me. “You were bleeding so much, and so badly…”

Whoa. Wait. Charles? Who was Charles? Another male vampire here? And Dean thought he could help me? Help me how…?

“I thought you were going to die,” Dean was saying, staring right into my eyes without blinking. I thought they looked tender, sincere — but that could have been him misleading me again. “I didn’t have any other options, Adrian. I couldn’t take you into a normal hospital, looking the way you did, and the way I did….What would I have said to all of those nurses when my wounds miraculously healed less than five minutes after I’d entered the building? I had to take you to someone I could trust, someone who knew about me…and you.”

WHAT?! My heart, scared to silence before, now went into overdrive. No one knew about what I did. No one living, at least. Usually all of the vampires that knew about me met their doom shortly after; Dean was the only exception to that. I never even told my own freaking mother and father, okay? That should tell you something.

But who was he talking about? Was it this Charles guy? What made him so special? Was he Dean’s accomplice, like I’d thought all along? His dear friend that he confided all of his Stupid Slayer Girl stories to when they chatted over (bloody) drinks…?

Then, as I gazed more intently around the room — and Dean ceased talking to let me do so—I noticed metallic grids hanging on the wall that I hadn’t seen before because of the bright light, housing various wooden weapons…

Stakes. Rows and rows of them.

That’s when I looked at Dean, really, truly looked at him, for the first time since I’d woken up.

What was he doing in a place that literally qualified as a vampire slaughter house? Who in his right mind would be sitting in a room like this and not stare at those weapons that could easily result in his demise? I mean, for me, it was like the equivalent of guns, or knives lining the walls — a fact that, if provoked by the right person, would keep me on edge and/or send me sprinting out of the room.

But if the fight was in my favor…

I couldn’t let some good ass-kicking go to waste, now could I?

Honestly.

“Charles is trustworthy,” Dean said firmly, suddenly, gazing with me at the diverse assortment of stakes mounted on the walls — ones that made mine look like a brittle toothpick. “He once worked as a doctor in the local hospital. He knows what medication you need to heal.”

That stopped my browsing quick enough. “Medication?” I couldn’t even remember the last time I had taken medicine. At all.

(Unlike most of the female population, I had never felt the need to pop seven pills in my mouth for every minor ache or pain because it was SO UNCOMFORTABLE that I couldn’t function (i.e., walk, talk, chew my own food).)

His face became hard. Stiff. “You broke a few ribs. And Charles had to stitch up one or two places…”

I had the feeling he was being a bit vague. From the last few memories I could remember in the bathroom, a pretty freaking large amount of blood had been sliding over those pearly white tiles — and out of my head. I’m sure this Charles dude would’ve had to stitch that bad boy up in slightly more than one or two places.

But the truth was I really didn’t want to know the dirty details. Well, except one.

“And I ended up in your pants how?” I could tell this whole getup was his. I mean, the wrinkled collar (I’m sure at one point in time it was ironed) of the freaking shirt rubbed against my cheek, annoyingly tickling my nose if I moved — and thus sending a rocket of aroma right up my nostrils.

And it smelled so much him.

Even though he was still mostly turned away from me, I saw him roll his eyes at my two-sided question. Like I’d secretly hoped he would.

“Well?” I prodded after a few seconds of silence, because it didn’t look like he was going to answer me.

“You were more than a little morbid, Adrian,” he sighed. And he turned to look at me, encasing that amber sadness that he always wore behind his glistening eyes. Controlling it. “You were very…bloody. Very tattered and…and gruesome. Something from a horror movie…”

I almost laughed at the scary movie reference. Hadn’t I said the same thing? When I thought I had been caught by Lior?

“Anyway,” he said, looking at his pale, slender fingers on the metal table, “Charles asked me if I had something for you to wear, after he dressed your side wounds, and I grabbed the first thing I saw. Which is what you are wearing now.”

“Ahm,” I mumbled. Because what else was I going to say? Yeah, well, thanks for having some random guy I’ve never met dress me up in your guy clothes?

“He is a doctor, Adrian,” Dean murmured, still gazing at his unmoving fingers. “It is not like he…he…he wanted —”

“I understand,” I interrupted quickly, before he entered the Awkward Zone. The Zone I shouldn’t be discussing with a nineteen-or-something-year-old vampire. Alone. In a morgue-like setting…

“How are you feeling?” he asked, suddenly staring up at me with intent eyes.

It made me squirm.

“I’d feel better if I wasn’t blinded by this bright light” — he immediately twisted it in the other direction — “or freezing on this metal slab…”

“You’re cold?” The little catch in his voice made me squirm even more. He stared at me, waiting.

What was this? This protection thing he was trying to achieve? Was there something THAT wrong with me, that I needed him to do my bidding? Ensure my comfort?

Maybe it was guilt. Ooh, I bet that was it. He hadn’t saved me in enough time to keep me whole — unbroken. The Hercules who saved a janky Megara.

Ha. How funny.