Saving: Protecting: One Direction *UNDER MASSIVE EDITING*

ELEVEN

ELEVEN

LIAM

Harry and I had crossed a line.

We had crossed a gigantic, neon yellow line that was screaming bloody murder for us to stop, but we didn't listen. In retrospect, all we wanted was some fun. We'd snuck away from security countless times before and never got into trouble. What should have been any different now? She wouldn't even notice we were gone.

We had completely underestimated the drive of an FBI agent.

Harry and I were subdued as we walked behind Jack, watching her purple hair swinging back and forth in an agitated manor, her hands clutching roughly at ours, shoulders tense. Guilt was starting to spread through my body like the clouds on the horizon of a rising storm. We had been completely selfish, thinking only about our fun, never worrying how much trouble it would cause for Jack.

How long had she run through the dark streets of London, not knowing where she was going or what she'd encounter next? How many times did our foolishness nearly lead her into danger's outstretched fingertips? We have to apologize, I thought over and over, every thought being consumed by those four words.

But I couldn't do it. Every time I tried to open my mouth and tell Jack just how sorry we were, I couldn't choke the words out. Having her hand securely clutching mine, in a way that a mother holds her young child's hand, made the sick feeling in my stomach churn. By the time we had walked back to the house, the most progress I'd made was when I'd swore when tripping over a crack. (Yet again, Jack had to save me from something that was completely my fault. She'd reached out with strong arms to catch me before I'd hit the ground. Of course, that'd only made me feel ten times worse.)

When we finally got back to the house, I was too ashamed look at the other three guys. I couldn't bare to see the disappointment on their faces. Jack walked us to our rooms, watching until our doors were safely shut before she left. Even then, it was a few seconds before the sound of her footsteps retreated to her own room. For a long moment, I stood there in the familiar darkness of my own room. Only when the crushing guilt make my legs go weak did I sit down on my bed, shoving my head into my hands.

What kind of terrible, twisted, demented, person am I? Before the fame, I'd never really had to worry about the consequences of my actions. If I messed up, put my life in danger, did something that could be deemed as even slightly naughty, it only affected me. Maybe my family too, but most of the time, what I did only hurt me.

But that's the thing: now, with so many people working for us, helping us, working with us, everything we did affected them too. Every bad thing we did reflected poorly on them. It wasn't a responsible way to repay the ones that moved mountains for us. Especially Jack. She didn't have to be here. She chose to do this, to help us. And this was how we repaid her? By making her run around the freezing London night in shorts and a t-shirt?

For a while, I just sat there, worry about everything from how I could do something like that without thinking, to what my mom would say if she ever found out.

Jack had told us not to leave our rooms-well threatened would be a better word--but this would just have to be an exception. Finding the courage to do what needed done, I got shakily to my feet. It was a funeral march down the hall to Jack's closed door. Music played softly from behind her door. Surprised as I was that she was still up, I was even more surprised at the familiar melody. Timidly, I knocked just above the door knob. The door was pulled open within seconds. "Liam?" Jack asked, looking confused, and rubbing her eyes.

For a moment, I couldn't answer. I didn't know what to say, how to say it, how to begin to say what needed to be spoken. "Liam?" She asked again when I didn't say anything, and I watched as concern shown in her eyes. "I--I just came to apologize," the words stumbled out of my mouth. She didn't say anything, but stepped back to let me in her room. As it had been earlier, everything was neatly in place, organized to the extreme. Her laptop sat open on her bed, playing the music I had recognized. She went over and flopped onto her bed, gesturing for me to sit down next to her.