Two months had passed since that first night with Heather, and they were the calmest and the most peaceful two months he had ever spent. Not once had they argued, never did they fight, and Jor had added a new word to his vocabularly; the word gentle.

Heather was different. This he had deduced after a great deal of contemplation; Jor was not particularly gifted when it came to understanding other people, especially other people who were nothing like him. She was a novelty, in a sense, something new that he had never encountered before, and it was fascinating. She was the perfect pet for him, the perfect damsel in distress, and he was free to play the protector as much as he wanted. He thought that being a guardian suited him rather well, and for once he was able to fight the battles of the woman he kept.

That was what he'd always thought he'd wanted, and laying in bed at night with Heather in his arms, he thought he was satisfied.

But as with all things, Jor could not be content without violence.

He had, for lack of a better description, been on his best behavior since meeting Heather. No drinking, no fighting, no trouble. At times he had felt the need for some trouble, but Heather seemed to disapprove of such things, and in an uncharacteristic fit of consideration for her feelings, he simply hadn't indulged. She would be displeased if he was less than gentlemanly, and for some reason her disappointment was harder to take than angry words and taunts and fists.

Jor leaned closer to the mirror and smiled at himself, his teeth white against the tan of his skin and his emerald eyes like those of a tethered animal. He was beginning to rebel against good behavior without consciously knowing it, his temper starting to fray around the edges without him once realizing it, and there was fire in those eyes, fire that hadn't been seen for a long, long time.

A long, long time ago, when Wick had had that same fire.

He was turning his head from side to side, watching himself, thinking of many things and wondering where he and Heather would go tonight, when a voice from behind startled him, and Jor spun around suddenly to face a very skeptical frown.

"What the hell is that?"

Jor raised his chin in an imperious manner and looked down his nose at Lei, who only raised her eyebrows at him. "What does it look like? It's a goatee."

Lei stepped forward and poked him roughly in the chin, squinting her eyes and pretending to look very closely at his face. He took this as a joke, unconsciously straightening and puffing out his chest a little, but Lei gave his nose a tweak and laughed. It was a rather derisive laugh, in Jor's opinion, and he frowned. "What?"

"Are you growing pubes on your face?"

"LEI!" Outraged, Jor pushed her away and turned back to the mirror. It looked fine to him, if a bit sparse, but he thought it was pretty damn recognizable. She was just teasing him, and he didn't appreciate it. "It's a fucking goatee, for Chrissake! You're just being a bitch."

Lei's face appeared over his shoulder and it was her turn to examine their reflections. "Yes, Jorry, I am being a bitch... but you have chin pubes."

"It's a goatee, Lei."

"Where?"

"Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!" He growled in disgust and picked up his razor. "Fine. Because Miss Lorelei Bentham doesn't like it, I'm just going to shave it off." He started splashing water around with more force than necessary, angrily swiping at his face with the razor, and Lei watched in silence until finally she couldn't take it any more. "Oh, Jorjor, don't do that. You're bleeding."

Jor scowled. "So? It's about time someone bled, so why not me?" He watched it drip from chin and turn the water pink, and gave a furious smile. What did it matter? It had been so long since he'd felt this angry, but it felt good, and Lei and his goatee were just a convenient reason to let himself fume.

Having been privy to enough of Jor's temper tantrums, Lei recognized his outburst for what it was and wisely left the room. She lounged around and waited for a good fifteen minutes until he emerged from the bathroom and stomped about his living quarters before approaching him. He accepted her hug somewhat ingraciously, but Lei patted his cheeks and gave him a winning smile, and Jor actually managed a faint smile in return.

"You look much better. I don't like my men with facial hair."

"You don't like your men at all."

"Not true," she protested coyly. "I like you. In fact, I like you so much that I think after boffing Heather tonight, you should come out with me and boys. We haven't been to Scotch's forever, and we miss you an awful lot, see? Don't you want to come?"

Jor considered this offer seriously for the first time in months. He didn't have to stay all night with Heather, and it had been a long time since he'd seen his friends outside of work. There was only so much proper deportment one man could take, and Lei's invitation was suddenly so tempting that it pained him. Surely one night out couldn't hurt. Surely Heather would understand. Even if she didn't, surely he could get her to forgive him.

Her next words were the final push. "C'mon. You can't stay tied to the apronstrings forever."

"I'm not," he said more vehemently than either of them expected, and after a surprised pause Lei jumped at him in excitement and gave him another hug. "Really?! We'll be there at nine, will you show up this time? Please?"

"I'll do my best. I mean it this time, Lei. Really."

She pouted a little, but took what she could get. "Okay. But if you can't make it, you'd better have a fucking good excuse, you hear? Like, buggers attacking the base kind of good."

Jor tried to smile. "I hear."

"Good! Now, aren't you late? It's already after six." Lei checked his watch for him and then pointed to the door. "Better get going. And you'd better be there tonight!"

He nodded and headed out into the hallway, the temptation of a night of trouble bothering him more than he cared to admit. He'd ask. The very least he could do was ask Heather, and if she didn't want him to go, then... well, he didn't want to think about that. He was a grown man, and he could do what he liked. Right?

He turned his head from side to side, yanking down his collar again, as if he looked one more time there would be something there. Nothing. His throat was the same smooth, tan skin it had always been, and it infuriated him.

There should have been something.

Jor would have taken anything; kicks, punches, bruises, bites. He'd left his mark and he couldn't figure out why he had none of his own. He'd tried. He provoked, he prodded, he was intentionally cruel and callous and spiteful, but nothing he did worked, and she wouldn't hurt him like she was supposed to.

It wasn't right. Nothing was right. He stared at his reflection and hated the sight, hated looking into eyes that weren't pale, icy blue, hated seeing a face that wasn't hers. To destroy the picture he punched his fist into the mirror, satisfied by the shatter of glass and the pain in his fist, but it wasn't enough, and he knew it.

Jor looked down at his hands. Crimson traced the lines of his skin, ran between his fingers, and touched the gold band that had once born the blood of his wife.

Today was their wedding anniversary. They had been married one year.

No one knew, and he wanted it that way, wanted to be alone in his hatred. It was no longer hatred for Wick; he'd grown past that, recognized their errors, his errors, and he hated himself. He shouldn't have left. Even if she'd despised him, divorced him, and left him, he should have stayed. Instead he'd run like a coward, and it had gotten him nowhere. Elisabeta, Heather, Lorelei, Military Enforcement... nowhere. It was nowhere without Wick.

So here he was. Standing alone in his bathroom, in a tiny quarters assigned to him on a small I.F. outpost. He had a partner that thought he was just rowdy, a girlfriend who thought he was gentle and kind, and friends who took his sarcasm for jokes. Everywhere he knew people, and no people knew him.

They didn't understand. He'd sent someone to Charybdis, just out of spite. He'd watched as his commander had almost been killed. He'd been through Command School, through battles and betrayal, and he'd found Wick. His love. His wife.

And then he'd almost killed her, and he'd left her.

He was nothing. He belonged here, with nothing.

It was in this thundercloud of depression and self-hatred that Jor secluded himself, purposely thinking of better times to pay penance with torture, and he slumped on the floor and pressed his palms against his eyes.

I have to know.

He was exhausted, and dirty, and bloody, and worn. Broken bits of his furniture were scattered on the ground around him, testament to his loss of control and the resulting tantrum he'd partaken in. Anything that could be broken was, anything that could be thrown had been, and he kicked blindly at a fragment of desk near his booted foot and growled.

Even destruction hadn't helped.

He wanted to see no one and yet he needed to see someone, just a face he knew. Wick. Lei. Heather. Anyone. Someone to soothe his fury, to tell him it was alright... or failing that, someone to condemn him, so that he could at least reconcile himself to a life of misery. He wanted someone to understand without having to explain himself, without having to reveal what a monster he was, but it was a contradictory desire, and he slammed his fist against the floor just as someone rang the bell to his room.

...Wick?

Jor was up in an instant, attempting to straighten himself out as he stormed across the room. He opened the door with an impatient gesture, but they were brown eyes, not blue, and brown hair, not black, and he closed his eyes briefly before staring down at her.

There was still the desire he'd always felt when he saw her, but it disgusted him now, his want, because it made him feel unworthy. He was unfaithful, first to Wick and now to Heather, and it was more anger at himself than at anyone else that gave him such an edge to his voice.

"You should go home, Heather," he said in a forbidding tone, and she looked up at him.

He's just like his room. Broken inside.

"Nothing," he said darkly, but the bitterness overflowed and his shoulders slumped. "It's only the day that I was married."

When he looked down at his hands, he felt defeated, rather than furious, and he tried to regain that anger. He picked up the nearest broken piece of furniture that came to hand and threw it viciously against the wall, before turning around to face Heather again. She looked scared, but stood her ground, and suddenly Jor was desperate for condemnation. She could tell him how horrible he was, and then at least it would be better than seeing the worry in her eyes.

"You know why we separated? Because I almost killed her." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "She told me she'd been with another soldier, before we were married, and I... I couldn't stand it. I couldn't look at her and not imagine someone else touching her. I had... I had to make her mine again."

He loved his wife, and Heather wouldn't have changed that if she could.

She didn't have the words to answer him, but she slipped her arms around him and hugged him as reassuringly as she could. She wasn't afraid anymore. He wasn't angry at her; he was angry at himself. He wouldn't hurt her like he'd hurt his wife, because he didn't love her, but she loved him. She could see it now, when she knew it wasn't to be. She loved him, and she held him because she knew she couldn't tell him so.

She held him, and Jor sank to the floor, taking her with him. She stroked his hair while he buried his face against her shoulder and shook, clinging to her, his eyes burning as his voice turned thick and he let his reserve fall.

He told her everything.

He told her about Dante, about Nathan, about Charybdis and Command School and the Creche twins and the engineering bay, and everything about Wick, from their first kiss to Asmodeus' attack to the day that he asked her to marry him. He relived their fights and their arguments and the day that he finally loved her so much that it broke him, and Heather held him while Jor cried for the first time since Wick had promised him in the infirmary that she would let him protect her.

"I love you, Moira Callenstrom. I always have, and I always will."

When he woke he found that his tears had dried down his cheeks, and he rubbed at him roughly, rolled over to find warmth in his arms and another tearstained face nestled into his pillow.

Jor gently brushed the hair away from her forehead and kissed her lightly. He was sorry, sorry for having thought he could replace Wick and sorry for having tried to force Heather into her place, and seeing the mark on her throat made him more tender than he'd been in a long time. He was careful not to disturb her as he slid from the bed, and after covering her with his blanket, he looked around.

Everything was destroyed. He gave up on his losses and settled instead for cleaning, being as quiet as possible as he straightened everything he had broken and set the room neat again. Then he took a shower, washed the tears and blood from himself and, afterwards, stared at his reflection in the mirror one last time and resolved himself to his fate.

I've broken enough. I couldn't break her again, to go back now, even if it was to beg for forgiveness. She will never forgive me, because I will never forgive myself.

Heather stirred this time when he sat down on the bunk beside her and ran his fingers over her cheek, and he smiled sadly at her. Then he gathered her in his arms and stroked her hair, as she'd done to him the night before.

"I'm sorry for everything," he whispered, and pressed his cheek against hers. "You're still precious to me, but I can't hurt you. You know what that means." Jor sighed. "I'm sorry, Heather, but... thank you."

He kissed her one last time, and left.