Author's note: I want to thank all of you for bearing with me as I uploaded a bunch of chapters that should have been up sooner. Hope you enjoy the read!

When Paris awoke the very next morning, every glorious aspect of mortal life was gone. The surface of her skin burned vehemently and any energy that she had hoped to have gained over the course of the night had been drained from her body. The heavy covers were barely warm enough for her, as she felt as cold as ice. Every breath that she took was ragged and interrupted frequently by a series of painful coughs that tore against the parched surfaces of her throat and mouth. An acidic taste lingered in her mouth; a taste that faintly reminded her of the soup she ate the night before.

Trying to get up did her no good, and she found herself completely confined to her bed, regardless of her desire to get up and possibly get something to eat to settle the churning in her stomach. Her eyes settled on the ceiling above her for a moment before she groaned, rolled over, and curled up on the side of the bed that wasn't pushed up against the wall. The silence of the condo pressed down on her, making the mortal angel rather uncomfortable. Never before in her entire life had she felt so miserable; not even when the titanium blade of a demon soldier pierced her through.

It occurred to her then that no matter how hungry she was, her stomach was in no mood to take anything. It churned and tensed, and threatened to hurl anything deposited in it right back up. Paris curled up in a smaller ball and tried to shake the overwhelmingly nauseating feeling from her. She was already feeling terrible enough without a rebellious stomach, not to mention the thin layer of sweat that covered her overheated body. The mortal angel let out a desperate sigh as she flipped onto her other side and closed her eyes tightly to block out the dim, but blinding light. To make matters worse, a faint throbbing had developed where her temples were, and any thoughts she had were lost to this deafening throb.

Paris felt her stomach tighten, and the acidic taste of soup rose in the back of her throat, which clenched soon after. Slowly, she rolled over and, swinging both of her legs over the edge of the bed, gradually sat up. A streak of pain flashed up her neck, and her hand immediately went to the marks that Armand had left. She touched them gingerly and then winced. She cursed the demon as she sat there, struggling with herself. She had to pause and wait for her stomach to settle enough before she could attempt to make it to the bathroom. Nothing she did, however, seemed to do her much good. The mortal angel felt that if she didn't pass out first when she stood up, then she would surely puke all over the place.

She took a few steadying breaths before standing up shakily. Like she had predicted, it didn't work out nearly as well as she had hoped. Black dotes danced over her vision, and she instead found herself kneeling on the floor, once again trying to ease the knotting in her stomach. Paris clutched the pale yellow carpeting, trying to ground herself. Her head was spinning rapidly, combined with a growing throbbing sensation over her temples. The ache that was growing in her neck as well didn't help much with her condition. Again, she cursed the son of the devil.

Her stomach knotted.

Paris clutched the carpet before shuddering and half gagging. Tears formed at the edge of her eyes as she felt her throat and stomach clench again. Even though Paris was not familiar with the sensation she was experiencing, she knew it wasn't good. Something that made her feel that terrible couldn't be good.

As fast as she could, she crawled into the bathroom, which, luckily for her, was also carpeted. She knelt next to the toilet with her head resting on the cool porcelain edge. Her stomach knotted, but this time, she didn't try to control it. Her throat tightened painfully before she jerked forward, spewing the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. She repeated this process several times until there was nothing left in her stomach to be expelled. Even when she was done, however, she didn't move. All she did was closed the toilet lit and flushed the toilet before lying her head on the top of the toilet seat.

She didn't have the strength to crawl back to bed. Paris simply closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift in and out of sleep right next to the toilet. At the very least, if she felt like she was going to be ill again, the toilet would be right there for her, and she wouldn't have to crawl from room to room.

Paris slept dreamlessly at first. Despite her hope to gain some rest during her sleep, however, she was allowed none. Whether or not it was due to the fact she was becoming more ill by the moment, or if her mind was reopened to its usual nightmares, Paris wasn't sure. The only thing she was certain of was the fact that her nightmares wouldn't end simply because she had become mortal. In fact, those wretched nightmares of hers returned with renewed strength; they were more lucid then before. What had once been a faint image of her past battles, the deaths of those she cared about, and her own run in with death only a week and a half ago, had become perfectly real.

The feeling of sweat gathering in her palms as she gripped her sword tightly in her hand and the leather straps of her armor cutting into her shoulders was too real. The shrill calls of the Horde were deafening, and each call drilled into her raw nerves. Blood was everywhere on the ground, and the shorn feathers of her comrades were scattered on the ground in horrifying excess. There were only three of them left by the time Armand was leading his small legion down the hill in front of her. She curled her fingers tighter around the hilt of her blade and lurched forward to kill him, to deal the final blow, but something in her prevented her from landing that blow. The darkness in his eyes receded and she saw something within his miserable orbs that caught her by surprise. His irises became uncannily human; their color was as deep and incomprehensible as a vermillion rose in full bloom. Their depths trembled, like blood pooled on the ground does when a mounted soldier passes by his comrade. The raw emotions forced her to fall to her knees and drop the blade she had been wielding.

And then it was only her and him. The angels who had been at her side, cheering on for her to land that killing blow were gone and the demons who had stood quietly behind Armand were also no where to be seen. When she looked up at the high demon, who was kneeling in front of her, she saw something terrifying reflecting in his depths. Instead of having beautiful, white wings of an angel, they were pitch black, like the normal hue of his eyes and like the inside of Hell. Darkness had consumed her and even her own eyes appeared darker then when she had last seen them.

Armand removed his black, leather glove and reached forward to touch her face. His long, pale fingertips caressed her cheek, wiping away the tears that were gracing her stricken face. Paris expected to feel the burning sensation of his flesh spreading across her cheek in another futile attempt to destroy her from the outside in, but there was no pain. Abruptly, his gossamer lips met hers, and the heat of fire scorched her face, but even that couldn't bring her to pull away. Her shock consumed her.

She cried out and lurched forward with her hand pressed against her chest in a futile attempt to ease the rapid beating of her racing heart. Then she glanced up and jerked backwards in surprise. Armand stood just a foot or two away from her, and he looked just as startled to see her as she was to see him. He was motionless, but his eyes were focused on her. Tilting his head at her, he took another step towards her.

"What the hell are you doing, Paris?" He asked.

Paris looked from him to the toilet and scowled, "What is that supposed to mean? Can't I leave my bedroom, or am I some prisoner now?"

His eyes glittered with faint amusement from her snippy remark as he looked around and then chuckled to himself, "This is the bathroom, Paris."

She looked around as well, but seem to share his amusement. Her stomach was still knotted, and at any moment she felt as though she was going to vomit again. Paris didn't want his pity, though. She didn't want to appear so weak in front of the demon. The last thing she intended to do was let him know that she was feeling so wretched.

"Yes… I'm aware of that, Armand," Paris replied nonchalantly, as though his statement held no meaning to her.

Then she felt her throat clench painfully. Her stomach flip-flopped as though trying to expel contents that it didn't quite possess. Paris sat quietly on the floor, her eyes slightly wide, as she tried to compose herself. I'm not going to vomit in front of him! She told herself resolutely. I'm not going to let him think he can baby me. I don't need him.

Armand's brow furrowed and he leaned forward, "Paris?"

Instead of answering him, she threw open the toilet lid and clutched the carpeting as she leaned over the toilet. Her throat tightened, and her stomach contracted, but nothing came out except a horrible gagging sound. Paris muttered something inaudible in between each dry heave, but even Armand couldn't catch what she said despite his excellent hearing. Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks as she let go of the floor and held onto the toilet instead. Finally, Paris' stomach managed to force something up her throat and into the toilet, but it was only a discolored liquid. The mortal angel stared into the toilet bowl angrily as the spit dribbled over her lip and hit the water below.

Armand scowled, "For the love of…" but his words cut off there as he muttered a curse or two while he knelt by the sink and dug through the cabinet underneath it. He saw several bottles of medicine, but none of them looked as though they would be of any use.

"What… what are you doing?" She asked as she laid her head on the edge of the toilet again. She could vaguely make out the demon sorting through bottles.

"Mm, death, death, oh, and more death," he scowled as he glanced at the expiration dates on the Robitussin, Pepto-Bismol, and Dayquil. Each bottle was at least ten years old. It was plainly obvious that he hadn't had a mortal living with him in more then a decade. The mere fact that he had had mortals living with him at all was more surprising. Especially to Paris, who eyed him curiously as he dug deeper into the cabinet in hopes of finding a remedy to her illness.

When he found nothing, Armand simply stood up and shook his head in annoyance. Paris kept her eyes on him, following every one of his movements. When he still hadn't answered her question, she mustered up a soft growl, "I asked what you were doing."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, still kneeling on the carpet and sorting through the medicine bottles. His facial expression betrayed his amusement, and he just shook his head a bit as he laughed, "Looking for something to give you to make you better. Ah, or do you still have difficulties believing my kind are capable of such benevolence?"

"I don't want your help," She snapped as she slowly sat up. Staring at him straight on, she said defiantly, "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don't need you to do it for me."

He held up his hands in defeat, "Have it your way, Paris. I'm not one to stand in between an angel and her pride."

Paris' eyes narrowed at him, and she seethed at his comment. However, she said nothing in response as she sat there, contemplating her next move. Armand seemed to be waiting for her to do something, though she wondered what. Paris wondered if he was actually waiting for her to get up and leave the sanctuary of the bathroom. Paris sighed a little bit and then made an attempt to stand.

Armand watched her as she struggled to stand up; all the while, he was trying to mask his smug expression. She had to use the toilet to brace herself on as she climbed to her feet. Paris stood tall, and composed herself so that she held as much of her angelic dignity as high as she could. Then she noticed again how short Armand's gray t-shirt was and, grabbing the edges, pushed it down even further as she started to walk past the demon. She scooted past him and took one step into the hallway before black dots danced across her vision. Paris fell; her body hit the floor with a soft thud.

He sighed.

For a moment, he contemplated leaving her right where she was, especially after she tried to brush off his help as though she didn't need it. Armand scoffed. If angels were notorious for at least one thing, it was their unrelenting pride. Paris was no exception. He had to wonder what made her so amicable the night before when she had gladly accepted his assistance. Then again, it wasn't as though she had had much of a choice. If she hadn't allowed him to heal the wound on her shoulder, then it would have killed her, there was no question about that.

His intentions, however, required that Paris was alive and well. So without further hesitance, Armand stepped out into the hallway and lifted the unconscious mortal angel into his arms. Her head flopped back limply, and he could see very clearly the mark that he had left. Even his attempt at healing hadn't completely closed the wound, as both of the puncture marks were covered by scabs and the area around them was slightly bruised. Armand wasn't nearly as worried about that as he was about finding her lying next to the toilet and her dry heaving into it. Paris wouldn't admit that there was anything wrong with her, but his experience with mortals led him to believe otherwise.

All he could really do was carry her into the yellow bedroom and lay her down on top of the bed. He pulled the thick comforter down to the end of the bed and only covered her with a thin sheet. Paris looked so serene as she slept. Armand couldn't help but stand over her and watch her for a moment or two. Her face was completely relaxed instead of being covered with the hard mask of a warrior. Sometimes Armand wondered about whether or not she would eventually come to her senses or if she would return to God's service and try and take his head once more.

So many speak highly of you, Paris, he thought as he stood over her, watching her slowly draw in her breaths and exhale. She reminded him of a mortal that had once been close to his heart. I can only hope you are all that they say you are.

With that, he left her to her sleep, which was, at best, dreamless. Occasionally, nightmares would flicker through her mind, dancing like impish shadows at the very corners of her thoughts, but for the most part, she enjoyed a sleep that was immersed in sweet oblivion. Paris couldn't have asked for much more.

Armand, meanwhile, retreated into the living room, content to lounge around and do absolutely nothing for the rest of the day. He picked up the remote control on the arm of his couch and used it to turn the television on. Immediately, the news came up. Nothing of particular interest struck Armand, so he flipped the channel once or twice. He no sooner became absorbed in one of his favorite shows then someone started knocking on the door. The demon glared over the kitchen counters several feet in front of him and at the door that was tucked away in a short hall. He glanced longingly at the television before turning it off and sauntering over to the front door.

He opened it to find one of his neighbors, a stout, older woman by the name of Ms. Bartül. Her hair was dark, but graying, and tied back into a tight bun on the top of her head. She had a face that was small and rounded, displaying a sort of gentleness that her intense, dark brown eyes countered. A few wrinkles were starting to gather around the corners of her sharp eyes and at the edges of her small, but firm mouth. She wore a two piece, black business suit and a pair of short high-heels to match. This woman stared at Armand intently, curiously, without even realizing that he wasn't the mortal that he passed himself off to be.

She looked him over and then asked in her mild German accent, getting straight to the point, "Did you hear that sound, Mr. Hammond? Sounded like a TV fell over."

Or some dead-weight fell over, he thought to himself, knowing that the sound his neighbor had heard was actually from when Paris passed out. Ms. Bartül had probably already spoken to the other neighbors about the sound before finally getting to his door.

"Ah, sorry," He apologized, "My… cousin isn't feeling very well. She passed out and hit the floor, actually."

Ms. Bartül cocked her head at him, as though sensing a lie. Her eyes flicked over him and then she gave an accepting nod. Though, when Armand thought she was going to turn around and leave, the older woman actually ensued with a conversation.

"I did not realize you had family staying here. You're quite the recluse you know," she commented idly. "Is there anything I can do?"

Armand shook his head. While he wasn't trying to get rid of the mortal, he didn't particularly care to continue speaking with her. He hadn't quite formulated a perfect set of lies to make Paris' visit seem normal, which also meant that anything he said might be contradicted by the angel herself if she happened to wake while he was chit-chatting with his neighbor.

"No, actually, I was just going to the store to buy some medicine," He said, then regretted it. The woman's eyebrows perked up and she smiled.

"Just wait a moment, darling," she said as she turned and started to scurry back to her condo down the hall. "I have something that she can use."

Armand sighed, watching her vanish down the hall and into her own home. He didn't bother closing his door and retreating back into the seclusion of his home. Ms. Bartül was rather quick for her age. Much like himself, it seemed, she was ageless. In fact, it didn't take her but thee or four minutes to find what she wanted and appear in the hallway again, her short, black high-heels making a soft thud sound against the thin, white carpeting as she hurried up to him, a bottle of Robitussin in her small hand.

"This should do just fine for her," she said, handing it to Armand.

He shook his head, "That's not necessary, Ms. Bartül. I could have gone to the store, you know that."

She looked a bit disgruntled and stared at Armand condescendingly. Her small hands went to her hips and she scoffed, "And leave that poor girl here all alone? Oh no. You should know better Richard Hammond, especially after raising Jade for all those years."

What little colored there was in Armand's face to begin with, drained. Ms. Bartül noticed the sudden change in expression, and she suddenly softened. She reached out and took his large hands in hers. Gripping his hands, she said, "I'm sorry, darling."

Armand shrugged it off, trying to mask his pain from her. He squeezed her hands in recognition of the apology before saying, "It's alright, Ms. Bartül. Time simply cannot heal some wounds."

She nodded in agreement before saying, "Ah, yes. All the more of a reason to make sure your cousin gets well, mm?"

He smiled and nodded, but he actually felt numb to the entire situation. Being reminded very painfully of things that were far in the past had completely taken his mind off of Paris, who was no doubt getting sicker by the moment. Armand had tried to put certain parts of his past as far behind him as he could, though with little success. Part of him couldn't bear to move out of South Haven, and another part of him desperately needed the change of scenery.

Ms. Bartül took note of his distant attitude, and looping one of her arms around one of his, said, "I'm sorry for bringing it up. Let me at least make you some hot tea to make up for it. It could probably do your cousin some good to when she wakes up."

Not bothering to argue with her, he allowed the older woman to practically escort him into his own home before sitting down at the round, glass table behind his couch. The area around the kitchen and the door would have been too crowded if he'd tried to put a table and chairs there as well. So Armand sat quietly at the table behind his couch and watched as Ms. Bartül hurried around his kitchen, still familiar with its layout despite how rarely she visited him anymore. She knew exactly where the kettle was, along with the tea packets. After she set the water to boil, she walked over to where Armand was sitting and sat across from him. One leg crossed over the other and she folded her hands in her lap.

"So why is your cousin visiting suddenly? If I recall correctly, you haven't had much company lately," she said, being nosy and concerned all at the same time. Strangely, it didn't bother Armand all too much. He knew this mortal rather well, and so speaking with her about such idle things wasn't terribly uncommon, except for recently; recently referring to the past five to ten years.

"Her parents kicked her out, and so she is staying with me for a few months while she works things out for herself," He said, modernizing the truth.

Ms. Bartül nodded and replied, "That's such a shame. Families should not just break apart like that. You're very good for taking her in, Richard."

"Ah, I wouldn't say that, necessarily," He said, thinking about how bad it was that he had taken her in. In general, he would do little to help her in the way that she probably would need help. If anything, he would lead her further and further off her righteous path until she saw things from how the world really was. Some called it enlightenment. Angels would call it corruption.

She laughed, "Why not?"

He tilted his head, listening to sounds that his guest could not hear because of her mortality. Paris was moving quietly out of bed and down the hallway leading to the living room and kitchen area. The mortal angel paused tentatively at the edge of the hallway, leaning into the living room to get a better sense of things. Her eyes met Armand's immediately, and there was a brief flicker of annoyance. Then curiosity followed when she noticed the mortal guest sitting in front of him. Ms. Bartül noticed Armand's change in attention, and she glanced over her should at Paris.

"Ah, hello there, darling," she said, smiling a little bit.

Paris said nothing; she cast a questioning look at Armand who stared back at her before saying quietly, "Ms. Bartül, this is my cousin…"

"Does she have a name?" the older woman teased as she got up and walked over to the girl. Paris pulled the edges of Armand's long t-shirt down towards her knees as Ms. Bartül approached and looked her over. The woman just chuckled and looked back at Armand, "I can see the resemblance. She's very tall like you, you know." Then her attention turned back towards Paris, who looked groggier then anything else at the moment. Her emerald eyes met the intense gaze of the woman inspecting her.

"My name is Pa…" she trailed off before pausing and looking over at Armand, who frowned and shook his head in disapproval.

"Pa…?" the other woman pressed gently.

Paris stuttered a bit and then answered soundly, "Paige…"

The woman clapped her hands together in delight, a motion that both surprised and startled Paris at the same time. She visibly flinched, to which Armand could only raise his eyebrows inquisitively. Paris seemed rather uneasy around his guest, who was relatively curious about her. The only thing that stopped Ms. Bartül from asking more questions was the shrill whistle that came from the kettle; this also caused Paris to jump. Ms. Bartül eyed the mortal angel strangely before hurrying over to the kettle and preparing three glasses.

Armand motioned for Paris to have a seat next to him. She looked from him to the older woman before slowly making her way across the living room and taking a seat at the glass table. The mortal angel shot him a look that demanded answers about his friendly behavior. To those looks, Armand could only sigh softly in frustration and shake his head. He didn't dare engage Paris in an argument as he knew that she would probably slip and say something she wasn't supposed to. At the very least, he wanted to maintain his mortal façade in front of his neighbor.

"Sugar, Ms. Paige?" Ms. Bartül asked as she put sugar in her own cup and a small amount of sugar in Armand's.

Paris glanced at Armand, who shrugged, and then replied, "Sure… I'll have a little sugar."

The older woman chuckled a bit as she put a teaspoon of sugar into Paris' tea before carrying the three glasses over to the table and setting them down. Ms Bartül took a long sip from her cup, as did Armand. Paris, however, just eyed the glass hesitantly. Though she didn't feel nearly as ill as she had before, her stomach still protested the very idea of ingesting any sort of sustenance. All she did for a few moments was watch the steam rise from the surface of the dark liquid indecisively.

Ms. Bartül's aged brow furrowed a bit, "What's wrong? Don't you like tea?"

"That's not the problem," Paris stated, "I'm just not sure whether or not my stomach can handle it."

After a few moments, however, Paris decided to take her chances. She lifted the cup to her lips and took a short sip. Her stomach churned a little bit, but didn't knot in complete protest. So, she smiled a little bit at Ms. Bartül before lifting the glass to her lips again and taking another, but longer sip. The other woman seemed content with this reaction and smiled back at Paris. Armand said nothing. He kept the glass in his hands and took intermittent sips of the green tea as he watched how the two women reacted to each other.

After a lengthy silence, Ms. Bartül inquired, "So, Paige… where are you from? Richard told me that your parents kicked you out. I'm very sorry for that, darling."

When the older woman lifted her cup to her lips and closed her eyes, Paris took the opportunity to hurl a fierce glare in Armand's direction. The son of the devil didn't seem to take much notice of it, because he too drank his tea. Paris had the brief impulse to reach across the table and throttle him.

However, she remained as civil as she could, "I'm from Britain."

Again, the woman's brow furrowed and she tilted her head at the girl sitting across from her. She said, "Britain? You accent doesn't sound anything like theirs."

Before Paris could respond, Armand interjected, "Her family hasn't lived there very long. Only seven or eight years, I think."

The woman nodded, "Mmm, that makes sense. That's still far away. You and Richard must be very close for you to decide to come all this way just to try and start your life over."

Paris was in the middle of drinking her tea when Ms. Bartül made that statement, which was rather unfortunate. The mortal angel's eyes widen before she spit the mouthful of tea she had been in the process of swallowing back into the cup. She started coughing uncontrollably. Armand winced and rubbed his temples. The other woman didn't seem to understand what was going on, mostly because she had no clue that Armand was actually a demon and Paris was actually an angel. The mere suggestion that they were very close was a huge overstatement.

When Paris stopped choking on her tea, she muttered, "Close? Oh… well. Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I thought I heard something else."

"What else could you have heard?" Ms. Bartül chuckled.

Paris was at a loss for words. She grinned innocently and shrugged, "I, uh, I don't know. I haven't been quite myself lately. You'll have to excuse me."

Armand finally entered the conversation by pulling out the Robitussin bottle that he had tucked into his pocket and said, "You should thank, Ms. Bartül, Paige. She brought over some medicine that you could use."

Paris, picking up on the implication, shot Armand a seething glare. Of course I should thank her! It's not like you would have bothered with it anyways, seeing as how you didn't already have it. Isn't that right, Armand? She taunted him with her thoughts, but he showed no sign of picking up on what was going through her mind. Paris almost scowled, but caught herself. She still had a bit of a façade to keep up while Armand's neighbor was sitting across from her.

"Thank you, I appreciate it," She said, smiling in Ms. Bartül's direction. Then she glared in Armand's direction before continuing, "A… Richard… knows that I get sick very easily. I'm surprised that he didn't already have medicine in the first place."

Armand caught her implication as well, but didn't react to it. He kept his thoughts and emotions to himself throughout the entire exchange.

"Of course! Richard can be rather inconsiderate at times, but I'm sure you'll be fine now. If you need anything, anything at all, just tell me. I'm only down the hall," She said, smiling kindly at Paris before finishing her tea.

Finally, she said, "Well, thank you, Richard, for having me. And Paige, I hope that you feel better. Things will look up I'm sure!"

They both nodded in agreement as she stood up. She walked over to Armand and gave him a gentle hug, which he returned, before scurrying out of the condo. Behind her, she left an unsettling silence that had fallen over the two like a veil over a mourner's face. Paris was in an utter state of shock, and Armand was just silent as always. When he stood up and took his empty cup, as well as the one Ms. Bartül left, Paris gawked at him the entire time it took him to take the dishes to the kitchen sink.

Then she half shouted, "What the hell was that?"

He chuckled to himself, and shaking his head, proceeded to wash the dishes in the sink. His lack of reaction jarred Paris further.

"What the hell was that, Armand?" she demanded, almost standing, but then thought twice about doing so. Having something to drink was pushing it a little bit, and she didn't want to exert herself too much by standing up quickly.

"What? Is it so difficult for your tiny mind to comprehend the fact that I'm not the malevolent man-beast that God makes me out to be? I haven't killed you yet, so can't you really say you're in utter disbelief, Paris," He scoffed.

"Yet? Yet…," Paris laughed as she tilted her tea cup to the side and glanced at it, realizing just then that it was empty. "Oh, Armand, you make yourself sound so charming."

"Mm, I try," He chuckled to himself as he put the other two cups away. Drying his hands on one of the kitchen towels, he said, "Honestly, I think you give my reputation too much consideration. After all, I could very well have left you to slumber in the hallway after you passed out."

The comment jolted Paris slightly. She vaguely remember not making it to the bed, though she hadn't considered for a moment that Armand had picked her up and placed her there. Her angelic mentality wouldn't allow herself to consider such a thing. More or less, when he made that comment, she wondered what he had seen and thought exactly. Paris almost growled. Armand heard the faint sound that left her lips and turned to look at her over the kitchen counters. Leaning on one of them, he tilted his head at her, smiling still.

"Tell me what's on your mind," Armand cooed persuasively.

Paris wasn't buying it.

She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back in the chair before scowling, "Do you really think I'm going to fall for your little act like that mortal?"

Armand remained amused as smiled broadly at her, flashing his long canines at her, "Ah, my little act," he said, emphasizing the last two words. "Of course, you'd know all about this, right my little angel? You obviously know me so well. You know which is the mask, and which is the flesh. Tell me, Paris… which is which?"

"The monster is the flesh, the gentleman is the mask," she stated coldly, staring at him with dead certainty. Armand just closed his eyes, and chuckled a little bit. He said, "Of course, Paris. Now, my turn."

When he opened his eyes and found her face, his gaze burned through her as he leaned forward, just slightly over the counter and replied viciously, "And your flesh is that you're a scared little girl that has bitten off more then she can chew. Without the guidance of her forbidden love, she's absolutely lost. The mask is the emotionless warrior that she's been prancing around as, striking fear into the hearts of those who are weaker then her so that those who are stronger will think twice about attacking. Am I wrong, Paris?"

His answer came in the form of the small, glass cup that she hurled across the room at him. Armand was so shocked that instead of just catching the cup like he could have, he ducked behind the kitchen counter. The glass whizzed over the top of his head and shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces against the refrigerator behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, completely bewildered, at the shattered fragments of the cup. The demon was much more startled, however, that she had actually dared to attempt to inflict physical harm on him considering that he was a divinity and she was a spineless squishy thing that he could crush without so much as straining. Very few purposely sought to anger him; Paris was one of the few, which was ironic considering that even as an angel, she didn't have the strength or cunning to take him down alone. As a mortal, even, she dared to provoke his temper.

As he slowly stood up, he saw Paris standing up behind the table, her eyes set ablaze. She shouted, her voice trembling from her rage, "You… you… If you ever dare to say such things again—"

Armand cut her off courtly, his tone dripping with venom, "You'll what, Paris? Kill me? You're mortal. You can't do a damn thing to me. Sorry, princess, but you're stuck here, with me, whether you like it or not."

Paris was visibly trembling. She didn't have anything to say in response to his statement. After all, the mortal angel couldn't argue with him on that point. All it did was increase the tension between them, as well as rekindle the vehement hatred Paris had for the son of Lucifer. Those words that he had spoke, while they hadn't been unprovoked, hurt her by far deeper then hers had hurt him. Armand realized this all too late as he noticed her eyes growing red as tears started to gather at the edges of her eyes. He sighed, despite himself and despite his anger at her for assuming his true nature. However, all he could do was stand there and watch as she half stalked to the yellow bedroom and closed the door firmly behind her.

Armand was left to deal with the mess on the floor, which he started to clean up reluctantly. It was Paris' mess, technically, but he knew he'd be hard pressed to force the mortal angel to clean it up without exerting some effort as well. Aside from that, the demon also wanted some peace and quiet. Ms. Bartül's visit had disturbed things a bit more then he had anticipated; after all, some of the truth's he had modernized hadn't quite slipped past Paris as he thought they might have.

Paris, meanwhile, confined herself to the yellow room. The mortal angel was curled up beneath the bed's thick comforter, sniffling quietly so that Armand couldn't hear. She had been slightly aggravated when she had spoken harshly to him, but she hadn't anticipated the vehement response she had received. All it had done was made her feel sick again. Her stomach flip-flopped anxiously, but Paris couldn't find the strength in her limbs to crawl to the bathroom. The only thing that she could do was struggle to compose herself and maintain a strong will over her unsettled stomach until she drifted off into a rather disturbed and restless sleep.