TRAIN [FIRST DRAFT]

Chapter 24: Our Secret - Part Two

Stefan let himself out the door, after wishing Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths an impossible good night. His hand fervently combed his hair as he strolled to his car; he was caught up in an uneasiness that could not be doused. He could not find a silver lining. He pulled out of the driveway and drove home.

Gavin had arrived at his – the tiny studio that it was – with Celeste. He was closing the front door behind him when she dropped in graceless tears onto the couch. Her arms fell onto the armrest and her face then hid in them. Gavin sat beside her. He leaned forward, but her face was not in view, so he slouched back again awkwardly. She was crying. What could he do? He ran from feelings, he ran when things got too emotional for him. Just as he had run from Aimee's side in the chopper, and just as he had left her standing outside of Buckley's office when they had gotten back. He just never knew the right thing to say or how to act.

"If you gave this information to GINM a week ago, you could've avoided telling her personally," he uttered, and he already felt idiotic.

"Can we not talk about it?" she spoke into the knitted sleeves of her cyan sweater.

He paused for a moment, but started again, "You could've told me."

"Why? So that you could tell her? Because I'm pretty sure that that wouldn't be to your benefit at all."

"Her?" he played dumb so that she would lift her head from its nook, and when she did so, he grinned at the sight of her.

"Oh, you poor idiot," she said numbly. "Aimee! You obviously like her... lov–."

"That has nothing to do with anything."

They paused.

"Yeah," she cocked her eyebrows, thought of something else. "Where were you while I was in that thing in GINM?"

"With Buckley, watching you from the control boards."

"Why'd you help me get out?" she wanted to make sure. "I mean, I didn't need help."

He sighed ashamedly, "I told Buckley I'd get that information out of you, since the 'me' in The Arena wasn't convincing enough."

"You think you are, by cooking me food and asking me pointless questions that you knew I wouldn't answer, and then scurrying off to GINM for hours?"

"I brought you back to Aimee's house, didn't I?" he felt like he was yelling, but he was not angry.

"And that worked! Hooray for you! Get the wine out so we can celebrate, you can tell Mitchel the news first thing in the morning," the sarcastic tone of pseudo joy coated each word she said.

"I have a feeling he'll find out, but I won't be the one to tell him."

"What, why wouldn't you?" she repositioned herself on the couch. Gavin only shrugged. "AIM never suited you, you know. I'm glad you left."

He gave her a puzzled half smile, "You don't know what I was like before."

She rolled her eyes, "Everyone at AIM is the same: they're naïve schmoozers, who will do anything, even get themselves killed, for a taste of luxury and immortality. You're nothing like them." Her last words were free of that usually impassive tone of hers, she meant them.

Abba and her bodyguards had sometimes visited Celeste in her later months as a runaway. Seeing her aunt terrified her at first, until she realised that Abba had no interest in divulging her location to Suzanne. Gavin had been one of those soldiers, on every odd visit. She had never spoken to him back then, but he had had a look in his eyes, one which she remembered vividly. They were the eyes of a lost soul searching for where he belonged.

"Was that a compliment? You're going soft, Jane!" he said in jest.

Abba used to refer to her as Jane, just to watch her body tense up each time as though it had been electrocuted by fear, but she did not tense up now, not when Gavin said it. He had always known her real name, even though she had not known his until the day that they had stood on opposite sides of Aimee's front door, yet to be introduced.

She smiled lightly as she brutishly punched his shoulder to prove his statement wrong. And when he settled from his laughter, he thanked her earnestly for that compliment. He stared at her with those mysterious eyes, and then tenderly wiped away the tears on her cheek with his thumb.

Celeste realised something in that minute: her six days in 'captivity' with Gavin had been peculiarly enjoyable. It had been a while since she was last truly happy, but she was with him. He was someone with whom she could have complete conversations, who made jokes and could get her to smile, really smile – not the badass façade she usually put on. He meant something to her – he was more than just a pretty face in Abba's dark shadow – he made her care, and she had been trying for so long to grow immune to that feeling.

"It's late," she muttered, before she could care too much.

He withdrew his hand. "Right. Get some sleep; I'll see you in the morning." He rose from the couch and walked to his bedroom door, and then stopped there. "Do you want the bed tonight?"

Those words somehow sounded like something else. "No, thank you," she murmured sheepishly.

"Okay," he said before he went in. "Goodnight, Jane!"

She really was bemused by how that name sounded so much better from his mouth. Better than 'Celeste'. She lay comfortably on the couch and was soon asleep.

Her true name was Jane Celeste Moineau. She had changed it for two reasons: firstly, she had run away from home – at the time, it was to search for Abba, who Suzanne had always told her not to acquaint herself with – and, secondly, she had been woven into the mercenary business one day when she'd been low on cash.

It had always been to her knowledge that Abba was in Lorient and she wanted to meet her, regardless of Suzanne's warnings. Celeste's only real reason for being so curious about Abba was that she felt cheated of a part of her life, a truth. Like the truth about her father – maybe Benjamin was who Suzanne had really been hiding. What had convinced her to call Celeste and pour out her confession a week ago was another mystery.

Celeste woke up nine-or-so hours later to the sound of Gavin closing the front door. Like every morning, he was headed to GINM, but it was the first morning since she moved in that she had not been woken for an interrogation. She sat up and glanced into the kitchen behind her, and then at the counter with a plate of eggs and toast and bacon on it. For the next few hours, she would be left to her own devices.