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kathierif_ficTitle: Obsess and Possess
Authors: Kathie
Pairing: Mac Taylor/Danny Messer
Fandom: CSI: NY
Rating: FRM
Word Count: 2713 words
Disclaimer: Nothing portrayed in this fic is mine. I'm just playing with the
really cool toys and I promise not to break them. Too much.
Warnings: Slash (more or less implied), Torture
Spoilers: What you see is what you see
Summary: Mac finds himself kidnapped by someone he saved...
Author's Note: Written for Fruitbat, who wanted tortured Mac for her birthday. Feedback greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading.
***
Mac woke slowly, with the metallic taste of blood heavy on his tongue. His head hurt in that special, pounding way usually associated with heavy drinking (his memory was fuzzy, but he was sure that he didn't do any heavy drinking since the first weeks after Claire's death) or being hit over the head repeatedly.
He tried to move and found that he couldn't. Metal scraped over metal when he tried to free himself, and then the sharp bite off cuffs around his already numbing wrists stopped every movement quickly.
He swallowed thickly against the almost overwhelming nausea and tried to remember what had happened the night before.
He had met Rose Whitley, the woman from the coffee shop, for a drink. They had talked, she had bought him that drink - and all the time, Mac had fidgeted and had made up excuses in his head to go home. He did his best to keep her entertained, to let it be a nice evening for her, but he knew from the beginning that this was just a drink, nothing more. He had told her
that, gently, and she seemed to understand. He had left shortly after that, heading home.
So, whatever happened to him must have happened between saying good-bye to Rose and arriving at home, but Mac simply couldn't remember.
Mac blinked, but it was almost too dark to see. "Hello?" he asked tentatively. His voice was rough and scratchy. Idly he wondered how long he'd been here, in the hands of who knew what kind of people.
"You're awake. Good," a cold, female voice close by said. A light switch was flipped, and the biting sting of light hit Mac's eyes.
He needed a moment to get used to the harsh light and to blink the tears of pain from his eyes, but then he lifted his head as much as he could, and looked around. He was in a small, bare room without windows. The only piece of furniture was the cot he was on.
A quick inventory of his own body showed that his arms were cuffed over his head, his legs spread wide. Bruises in different colors adorned his naked body.
He ran his tongue over dry, chapped lips, tasting more blood and feeling the sting of a split lip.
The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it took him a moment before his memory caught up.
"Rose?" he croaked.
"You remember me. Good, slave," she stepped closer to the cot, so he could see her, and stared dismissively at him.
"What are you doing? Untie me!" he demanded, but she only laughed. "You're mine, slave. You only speak when I tell you so, or you will be punished."
He tried to pull out of the cuffs, but they held and didn't give an inch, and the slow tickle of something wet down his arms made him realize that he must have already tried to get out, without success.
His muscles and his raw wrists ached and hurt so much he groaned involuntarily.
"Struggle all you want," Rose informed him. "You can't escape. You're mine. But don't worry. I take good care of you."
He stopped his weak and feeble struggling, breathing in short gasps and feeling the lifting and sinking of his chest in his bruised ribs. He just hoped that they weren't broken, and deliberately made himself relax as much as he could.
"Why?" he asked.
She stared at him. "Men are like dogs. They need to be trained properly and they need to be punished when they don't behave. You behaved badly, slave, and that's unacceptable. You will see the errors in your ways soon, and when I'm through with you, you'll see how generous I am, giving you a second chance. I do that because I really like you, you know."
Mac swallowed again. "You know that my friends will come and find me, don't you?"
She kneeled down next to the cot. "You don't have friends, slave. You've been here for three days, and nobody misses you. You are all alone. You have nobody but me," she said in a gentle voice. "I know you are confused, but I promise that you'll feel better soon."
"Rose..."
"Enough! You are to address me as Madam. That's three times you disobeyed the rules now. Do it again, and you will be punished." Her lips brushed against his temple, and she added in a low murmur: "Trust me, slave. I take good care of you."
Trust. The word was like ash in Mac's mouth as he repeated it soundlessly. He didn't trust her, she had kidnapped him from his life and had taken his basic freedom.
His sense of time was all messed up, but there was no reason for her to lie to him about the three days. He was sure that his CSIs would look for him, but maybe they didn't look as hard as they could. Being here for three days meant that he was missing for at least 72 hours. That meant that there probably wasn't enough evidence to follow - Rose obviously had been careful, and he had told nobody where exactly he was going. If there was no evidence to follow, they probably never would find him, even if they were looking, and he didn't allow himself not to believe firmly that they would give up on him.
He knew that the probability of finding the victims of kidnappings alive after 48 hours was very slim. Rose didn't want money, that much seemed clear, and she didn't seem to want to release him. She wanted him, wanted to own him like a pet.
Mac swallowed again. His mouth was dry like a desert. He had to survive in order to escape, and he had to escape to let them know he survived. Since he could barely move, he had to wait for his chance.
The strain on his shoulders and the cold numbness of his hands distracted him momentarily, but he had to come to a decision. He had to play along to gain her trust, and to get rid of the cuffs, even if something in his chest constricted and shied away from that thought. He wasn't sure he could submit so freely to someone he didn't trust, even if the price was his freedom or even his survival.
Sharp, well-manicured nails ran along his chest and pulled his attention back to the situation at hand. He couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through him, rattling the chains and putting more weight on his abused wrists and shoulders. Lifting his head again, he saw the red lines over his chest, and he shuddered again.
Rose seemed to guess at his train of thought. "They aren't looking for you anymore. They have their own lives. They don't love you like I do. They don't want you anymore," she said kindly, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep these thoughts out. He couldn't allow himself to think like that.
They would find him.
Mac didn't know how long he spent in the tiny, gray room, with only enough food to keep him barely alive. The cuffs didn't come off, no matter how much he pretended to have given up. He felt tired and weak all the time, and it wasn't just the lack of food. He suspected - when he could make the effort to think - that she had drugged the water she gave him.
The only movement he got was when she allowed him to go to the bathroom, and even then, the cuffs didn't come off. It gave him, however the possibility to inspect his wrists - they were bloody, raw and bruised, and his mind flashed back to one of Stella's cases, where the victim of a kidnapping and murder had gnawed his own hand off to free himself.
Once he figured out that she drugged him, he tried to stop eating the little food she allowed him. As soon as she noticed it, she punished him for his disobedience. The welts and marks on his back, his thighs, his chest and his stomach were faded by the last time he had been allowed to go to the bathroom, but the criss-cross pattern hadn't disappeared completely. He felt them with every breath he took, a burn and an uncomfortable stretch of abused skin over sharp bones that were more pronounced with the lack of food.
No matter how drugged he was, he couldn't stop his mind completely, and he thought he had figured some things out about Madam.
For once, she didn't seem interested sexually in him. She never tried to rape him; she only used his nakedness to humiliate him. All she wanted was his attention, his complete attention, and she wanted to control him, body and mind. She got jealous very easily, and when she was angry, she punished him for the most innocent look he did or didn't give her.
He still didn't know how she had managed to drag his unconscious body here, wherever this "here" was, but the pain in his shoulders was not only from the unnatural position they were forced in most of the time.
He stopped believing in rescue slowly, gradually. The time went by, and her constant assurance that she was there, that she was his only friend, the only one here with him, started to gnaw at his thoughts and bled slowly into his drugged consciousness. He didn't remember the exact moment when he started to give in and stopped asking her to let him go, or stopped asking questions altogether. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles, first a constant reminder of his helplessness and abduction, turned into some sort of dark comfort, a stability he could trust on.
Sometimes, when he fell asleep, he dreamed about his former life. It seemed years ago since he had seen his friends, and millennia since Claire - she was the only form of freedom he still had, and the only form of freedom he fought hard to keep. He prayed feverishly that his nightmares wouldn't become too bad, because Madam could probably pick up on it, and he feared to lose the memories of his wife to the sharp bite of the whip in his unprotected skin. His memories of Claire had their own painful sting, and he used them to focus himself. He didn't want to know which of the two pains would erase the other one - he needed the pain that thinking about Claire brought, to go on in his daily life. Only there was no daily life anymore, and he didn't need the additional pain.
A hand on his chest, stroking softly, in preparation of the next blow, and a second hand on his throat, threatening to strangle him, woke him from uneasy slumber and another feverish dream about Claire. The lights were on, hurting his eyes. The roaring of his own blood in his ears prevented him from hearing anything, not even his own panicked gasping - she had found out about Claire, he was sure about it, and now she wanted revenge, and she was going to kill him, nobody would ever find his body, nobody would remember him, and there was so much he still wanted to do with his life, and he didn't want to die just yet, he just didn't want to die - and it took an eternity until his drugged, tired brain registered that the texture of the fingers on his chest was rough and calloused, so very unlike Madam's, Rose's, and that the hand on his throat wasn't trying to suffocate him, but was trying to find his racing pulse. He heard someone scream, someone hyperventilated, and it took another eternity to realize that the scream came from outside his little world, and that the sound of too quick
breathing came from him.
The hand on his chest, careful of the marks the whip had left in Mac's flesh, touched him, and a voice from his past murmured: "I've got you, Mac, it's gonna be okay, you're safe now, Mac."
He blinked furiously, and the blurry figure used its sleeve to wipe away the dirt and the tears from his eyes, and he smiled, and Mac could only stare at him. It took some seconds before he remembered, really remembered, and the man's name came back to his mind.
"You're a dream, right?" he managed to say in between huge gulps of air that never seemed to reach his lungs. "Say that you're a dream."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Mac - I'm not a dream."
"Not - a dream?" He couldn't believe it. "You're real? Danny?"
Danny nodded and touched his arm carefully. His hand was cool against Mac's overheated flesh, heavy and comforting, and Mac felt the pricking of fresh tears behind his lids.
"Her?" he asked, and Danny shook his head. "Don't worry, Mac. Let us take care of it. Let me take care of you."
It were almost the same words Rose had used, but this time Mac knew that they were meant seriously, that he was safe, and he took a shaky breath.
"Yes," he simply said. "Yes."
Danny nodded. "We'll get you out of here, I promise. Just a few more minutes, okay?"
Mac swallowed against the lump in his throat. "What took you so long?" he asked hoarsely.
Danny brushed a hand over his leg and squeezed briefly. "They wanted to take your case from us...you should have seen Stella...Mac, that woman is dangerous...she scared a few people with her dedication to find you."
He looked up and snapped his fingers impatiently. An officer put a key in his outstretched hand, and Danny unlocked the cuffs around Mac's ankles first, then those around his wrists.
He felt strangely naked without the cuffs. Helplessly he looked at Danny. Danny smiled tenderly. "We found her card...it fell down, under the desk...nobody bothered to check there, nobody noticed it until we found it....it lead us to that bar, and then we found your wedding ring...she must have thrown it away...her fingerprints were on it," he explained.
"Danny did it," another voice put in. "He found you, Mac."
Stella entered the room, a stormy, determined expression on her face. "Hold on, paramedics are on their way."
She left again, without commenting on his nakedness or the sorry state he was in, and when she was shocked about the wounds and the hollow look of his face, and the heartbreaking hope in his otherwise expressionless eyes, she didn't show it. A short while later she was back, with a blanket and a bottle of water she gave Danny.
Mac struggled to sit upright, but he felt dizzy and relieved and in pain and euphoric and depressive all at the same time, and he almost fell back down.
Danny unscrewed the bottle and wrapped Mac in the blanket. "I'm just so glad to have you back," he murmured and moved to sit next to him.
Mac drank a few sips when Danny held the bottle to his lips. "I thought you wouldn't come," he confessed. He was too tired to hide his feelings any longer. "I thought you've forgotten all about me."
Danny shook his head. "This were the worst three weeks of my life, Mac," he confessed. "We all missed you. I think nobody in the lab has slept for more than a few hours...I bet a few criminals got away with whatever they did, because we were all focused on finding you."
Mac slumped against him. "Really?"
Danny wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close. "Of course," he murmured against Mac's temple. "We missed you." He swallowed. "I missed you."
Mac didn't answer. He still couldn't believe it - he was sure he would wake up every second now, and Rose would stare at him.
"I don't get it," he murmured after a long while. "Why?"
Danny pulled him closer. He already could hear the paramedics picking their way to them. "I don't know for sure," he answered. "She wanted you, and she didn't get that you weren't interested. She didn't know that you're mine. And I..." he tipped Mac's head up with his fingertips to look deep into his eyes. "I love you, and I'll never let you go."
The End.
Authors: Kathie
Pairing: Mac Taylor/Danny Messer
Fandom: CSI: NY
Rating: FRM
Word Count: 2713 words
Disclaimer: Nothing portrayed in this fic is mine. I'm just playing with the
really cool toys and I promise not to break them. Too much.
Warnings: Slash (more or less implied), Torture
Spoilers: What you see is what you see
Summary: Mac finds himself kidnapped by someone he saved...
Author's Note: Written for Fruitbat, who wanted tortured Mac for her birthday. Feedback greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading.
***
Mac woke slowly, with the metallic taste of blood heavy on his tongue. His head hurt in that special, pounding way usually associated with heavy drinking (his memory was fuzzy, but he was sure that he didn't do any heavy drinking since the first weeks after Claire's death) or being hit over the head repeatedly.
He tried to move and found that he couldn't. Metal scraped over metal when he tried to free himself, and then the sharp bite off cuffs around his already numbing wrists stopped every movement quickly.
He swallowed thickly against the almost overwhelming nausea and tried to remember what had happened the night before.
He had met Rose Whitley, the woman from the coffee shop, for a drink. They had talked, she had bought him that drink - and all the time, Mac had fidgeted and had made up excuses in his head to go home. He did his best to keep her entertained, to let it be a nice evening for her, but he knew from the beginning that this was just a drink, nothing more. He had told her
that, gently, and she seemed to understand. He had left shortly after that, heading home.
So, whatever happened to him must have happened between saying good-bye to Rose and arriving at home, but Mac simply couldn't remember.
Mac blinked, but it was almost too dark to see. "Hello?" he asked tentatively. His voice was rough and scratchy. Idly he wondered how long he'd been here, in the hands of who knew what kind of people.
"You're awake. Good," a cold, female voice close by said. A light switch was flipped, and the biting sting of light hit Mac's eyes.
He needed a moment to get used to the harsh light and to blink the tears of pain from his eyes, but then he lifted his head as much as he could, and looked around. He was in a small, bare room without windows. The only piece of furniture was the cot he was on.
A quick inventory of his own body showed that his arms were cuffed over his head, his legs spread wide. Bruises in different colors adorned his naked body.
He ran his tongue over dry, chapped lips, tasting more blood and feeling the sting of a split lip.
The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it took him a moment before his memory caught up.
"Rose?" he croaked.
"You remember me. Good, slave," she stepped closer to the cot, so he could see her, and stared dismissively at him.
"What are you doing? Untie me!" he demanded, but she only laughed. "You're mine, slave. You only speak when I tell you so, or you will be punished."
He tried to pull out of the cuffs, but they held and didn't give an inch, and the slow tickle of something wet down his arms made him realize that he must have already tried to get out, without success.
His muscles and his raw wrists ached and hurt so much he groaned involuntarily.
"Struggle all you want," Rose informed him. "You can't escape. You're mine. But don't worry. I take good care of you."
He stopped his weak and feeble struggling, breathing in short gasps and feeling the lifting and sinking of his chest in his bruised ribs. He just hoped that they weren't broken, and deliberately made himself relax as much as he could.
"Why?" he asked.
She stared at him. "Men are like dogs. They need to be trained properly and they need to be punished when they don't behave. You behaved badly, slave, and that's unacceptable. You will see the errors in your ways soon, and when I'm through with you, you'll see how generous I am, giving you a second chance. I do that because I really like you, you know."
Mac swallowed again. "You know that my friends will come and find me, don't you?"
She kneeled down next to the cot. "You don't have friends, slave. You've been here for three days, and nobody misses you. You are all alone. You have nobody but me," she said in a gentle voice. "I know you are confused, but I promise that you'll feel better soon."
"Rose..."
"Enough! You are to address me as Madam. That's three times you disobeyed the rules now. Do it again, and you will be punished." Her lips brushed against his temple, and she added in a low murmur: "Trust me, slave. I take good care of you."
Trust. The word was like ash in Mac's mouth as he repeated it soundlessly. He didn't trust her, she had kidnapped him from his life and had taken his basic freedom.
His sense of time was all messed up, but there was no reason for her to lie to him about the three days. He was sure that his CSIs would look for him, but maybe they didn't look as hard as they could. Being here for three days meant that he was missing for at least 72 hours. That meant that there probably wasn't enough evidence to follow - Rose obviously had been careful, and he had told nobody where exactly he was going. If there was no evidence to follow, they probably never would find him, even if they were looking, and he didn't allow himself not to believe firmly that they would give up on him.
He knew that the probability of finding the victims of kidnappings alive after 48 hours was very slim. Rose didn't want money, that much seemed clear, and she didn't seem to want to release him. She wanted him, wanted to own him like a pet.
Mac swallowed again. His mouth was dry like a desert. He had to survive in order to escape, and he had to escape to let them know he survived. Since he could barely move, he had to wait for his chance.
The strain on his shoulders and the cold numbness of his hands distracted him momentarily, but he had to come to a decision. He had to play along to gain her trust, and to get rid of the cuffs, even if something in his chest constricted and shied away from that thought. He wasn't sure he could submit so freely to someone he didn't trust, even if the price was his freedom or even his survival.
Sharp, well-manicured nails ran along his chest and pulled his attention back to the situation at hand. He couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through him, rattling the chains and putting more weight on his abused wrists and shoulders. Lifting his head again, he saw the red lines over his chest, and he shuddered again.
Rose seemed to guess at his train of thought. "They aren't looking for you anymore. They have their own lives. They don't love you like I do. They don't want you anymore," she said kindly, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep these thoughts out. He couldn't allow himself to think like that.
They would find him.
Mac didn't know how long he spent in the tiny, gray room, with only enough food to keep him barely alive. The cuffs didn't come off, no matter how much he pretended to have given up. He felt tired and weak all the time, and it wasn't just the lack of food. He suspected - when he could make the effort to think - that she had drugged the water she gave him.
The only movement he got was when she allowed him to go to the bathroom, and even then, the cuffs didn't come off. It gave him, however the possibility to inspect his wrists - they were bloody, raw and bruised, and his mind flashed back to one of Stella's cases, where the victim of a kidnapping and murder had gnawed his own hand off to free himself.
Once he figured out that she drugged him, he tried to stop eating the little food she allowed him. As soon as she noticed it, she punished him for his disobedience. The welts and marks on his back, his thighs, his chest and his stomach were faded by the last time he had been allowed to go to the bathroom, but the criss-cross pattern hadn't disappeared completely. He felt them with every breath he took, a burn and an uncomfortable stretch of abused skin over sharp bones that were more pronounced with the lack of food.
No matter how drugged he was, he couldn't stop his mind completely, and he thought he had figured some things out about Madam.
For once, she didn't seem interested sexually in him. She never tried to rape him; she only used his nakedness to humiliate him. All she wanted was his attention, his complete attention, and she wanted to control him, body and mind. She got jealous very easily, and when she was angry, she punished him for the most innocent look he did or didn't give her.
He still didn't know how she had managed to drag his unconscious body here, wherever this "here" was, but the pain in his shoulders was not only from the unnatural position they were forced in most of the time.
He stopped believing in rescue slowly, gradually. The time went by, and her constant assurance that she was there, that she was his only friend, the only one here with him, started to gnaw at his thoughts and bled slowly into his drugged consciousness. He didn't remember the exact moment when he started to give in and stopped asking her to let him go, or stopped asking questions altogether. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles, first a constant reminder of his helplessness and abduction, turned into some sort of dark comfort, a stability he could trust on.
Sometimes, when he fell asleep, he dreamed about his former life. It seemed years ago since he had seen his friends, and millennia since Claire - she was the only form of freedom he still had, and the only form of freedom he fought hard to keep. He prayed feverishly that his nightmares wouldn't become too bad, because Madam could probably pick up on it, and he feared to lose the memories of his wife to the sharp bite of the whip in his unprotected skin. His memories of Claire had their own painful sting, and he used them to focus himself. He didn't want to know which of the two pains would erase the other one - he needed the pain that thinking about Claire brought, to go on in his daily life. Only there was no daily life anymore, and he didn't need the additional pain.
A hand on his chest, stroking softly, in preparation of the next blow, and a second hand on his throat, threatening to strangle him, woke him from uneasy slumber and another feverish dream about Claire. The lights were on, hurting his eyes. The roaring of his own blood in his ears prevented him from hearing anything, not even his own panicked gasping - she had found out about Claire, he was sure about it, and now she wanted revenge, and she was going to kill him, nobody would ever find his body, nobody would remember him, and there was so much he still wanted to do with his life, and he didn't want to die just yet, he just didn't want to die - and it took an eternity until his drugged, tired brain registered that the texture of the fingers on his chest was rough and calloused, so very unlike Madam's, Rose's, and that the hand on his throat wasn't trying to suffocate him, but was trying to find his racing pulse. He heard someone scream, someone hyperventilated, and it took another eternity to realize that the scream came from outside his little world, and that the sound of too quick
breathing came from him.
The hand on his chest, careful of the marks the whip had left in Mac's flesh, touched him, and a voice from his past murmured: "I've got you, Mac, it's gonna be okay, you're safe now, Mac."
He blinked furiously, and the blurry figure used its sleeve to wipe away the dirt and the tears from his eyes, and he smiled, and Mac could only stare at him. It took some seconds before he remembered, really remembered, and the man's name came back to his mind.
"You're a dream, right?" he managed to say in between huge gulps of air that never seemed to reach his lungs. "Say that you're a dream."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Mac - I'm not a dream."
"Not - a dream?" He couldn't believe it. "You're real? Danny?"
Danny nodded and touched his arm carefully. His hand was cool against Mac's overheated flesh, heavy and comforting, and Mac felt the pricking of fresh tears behind his lids.
"Her?" he asked, and Danny shook his head. "Don't worry, Mac. Let us take care of it. Let me take care of you."
It were almost the same words Rose had used, but this time Mac knew that they were meant seriously, that he was safe, and he took a shaky breath.
"Yes," he simply said. "Yes."
Danny nodded. "We'll get you out of here, I promise. Just a few more minutes, okay?"
Mac swallowed against the lump in his throat. "What took you so long?" he asked hoarsely.
Danny brushed a hand over his leg and squeezed briefly. "They wanted to take your case from us...you should have seen Stella...Mac, that woman is dangerous...she scared a few people with her dedication to find you."
He looked up and snapped his fingers impatiently. An officer put a key in his outstretched hand, and Danny unlocked the cuffs around Mac's ankles first, then those around his wrists.
He felt strangely naked without the cuffs. Helplessly he looked at Danny. Danny smiled tenderly. "We found her card...it fell down, under the desk...nobody bothered to check there, nobody noticed it until we found it....it lead us to that bar, and then we found your wedding ring...she must have thrown it away...her fingerprints were on it," he explained.
"Danny did it," another voice put in. "He found you, Mac."
Stella entered the room, a stormy, determined expression on her face. "Hold on, paramedics are on their way."
She left again, without commenting on his nakedness or the sorry state he was in, and when she was shocked about the wounds and the hollow look of his face, and the heartbreaking hope in his otherwise expressionless eyes, she didn't show it. A short while later she was back, with a blanket and a bottle of water she gave Danny.
Mac struggled to sit upright, but he felt dizzy and relieved and in pain and euphoric and depressive all at the same time, and he almost fell back down.
Danny unscrewed the bottle and wrapped Mac in the blanket. "I'm just so glad to have you back," he murmured and moved to sit next to him.
Mac drank a few sips when Danny held the bottle to his lips. "I thought you wouldn't come," he confessed. He was too tired to hide his feelings any longer. "I thought you've forgotten all about me."
Danny shook his head. "This were the worst three weeks of my life, Mac," he confessed. "We all missed you. I think nobody in the lab has slept for more than a few hours...I bet a few criminals got away with whatever they did, because we were all focused on finding you."
Mac slumped against him. "Really?"
Danny wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close. "Of course," he murmured against Mac's temple. "We missed you." He swallowed. "I missed you."
Mac didn't answer. He still couldn't believe it - he was sure he would wake up every second now, and Rose would stare at him.
"I don't get it," he murmured after a long while. "Why?"
Danny pulled him closer. He already could hear the paramedics picking their way to them. "I don't know for sure," he answered. "She wanted you, and she didn't get that you weren't interested. She didn't know that you're mine. And I..." he tipped Mac's head up with his fingertips to look deep into his eyes. "I love you, and I'll never let you go."
The End.