Fic: In My Arms Tonight, 1/1, Rated PG-13
Title: In My Arms Tonight
Author: courts
Disclaimer: Um, yeah, no, not mine. Don't know them. This is fake. Lyrics belong to Rufus Wainwright.
Rating: PG-13, because Cook has a dirty mouth
Summary: Cook is sick and Archie takes care of him.
Notes: Inspired by this thread about Cook getting sick during the show in Charlotte.
Thanks: To vna04 who sent me a fic to beta while I was writing this that was about the same thing! lol We decided to each finish our fics separately, then beta for each other and as it turns out we had very different takes on the situation after all. Anyway, thanks so much to her for the awesome insta-beta and if you haven’t read her fic already then go do it already because it's awesome! :)
-=-=-=-=-
You're worried as soon as you see him come backstage after My Hero. It's not that you haven't noticed how worn down he's been looking before that moment, or that you haven't thought the same thing about yourself about a half a dozen times a day for the last two months. But something about his face as he comes off the stage tonight just looks so . . . not right. You've been watching his performance on the monitors and he seemed okay, if a little tired. But now . . .
His eyes lock with yours as he lets one of the stagehands take his guitar. You know he's supposed to go back out to sing Billie Jean in about two minutes and, looking at the man before you, you are really wondering how that's ever going to happen.
"Cook?" you voice tentatively as you take a few steps towards him. His head has dropped forward and he has his hands resting on his knees as he hunches over. You find yourself moving without even being aware of it and, the next thing you know, you're standing beside him with an arm around his trembling shoulders and he's leaning his whole body into you and you've never felt more worried in your whole entire life.
You swallow hard against your own fears and try to ignore the voice in your head that is reminding you of that night he nearly collapsed after performance night on the show. You were so, so scared that night; so scared when they took him to the doctor and he looked terrified, but kept telling you it would be okay and you wanted to believe it but you really didn't, not until you saw it with your own two eyes. And you couldn't even eat dinner that night, you were so worried. You'd gone back to your room and gotten under your covers, still fully clothed, and cried.
When Carly found you that way, you knew you should have been embarrassed, but you were just too darned scared and it felt really good when she wrapped you in her arms and rubbed your back and told you that it would be okay, that he would be okay. She'd rocked you gently against her until your tears stopped and you knew she'd never said a word about it, not even to Cook.
Later, when he'd gotten back to the apartment, you were sitting with everyone else in the living room of the apartment that Cook shared with Michael and Jason. You'd looked up at him, being helped over to the couch and looking pale and tired, and your heart had lurched in your chest. Because something could have happened to him that night! What would you do if . . .
Your tears had choked you then, just like they are now. You'd gone over and knelt in front of him and clutched at his hand, not caring who saw or what they thought, not even caring what he thought, because that was before he really knew how you felt about him. But you couldn't even think about that as you sat there on the floor on your knees in front of him and looked up at him with watery eyes and asked if he was okay. He had smiled down at you and assured you that he would be fine. He just needed rest. And you'd been somewhat reassured, because at least he sounded sure of that. He'd be fine and you felt better.
But tonight, when he's bent over at the waist and clutching at his knees in a white-knuckled grip and leaning a vast majority of his weight against your side, you feel a sudden need to hear him say that he's okay again. You want him to tell you that it's alright, because he's always good at reassuring you and you find yourself aching to hear those words.
The words that come out instead, though, threaten to rip you apart.
"I . . . Archie, I don't know if I can do this," he says hoarsely so that only you can hear. You feel your tears threaten at the words, but you force them back, tighten your hold on him and steering him towards a nearby folding chair.
"Sit," you say softly and he complies. You find yourself crouched before him once again, looking up at him with worried, watery eyes and it feels like déjà vu. Except, instead of looking down at you with a reassuring smile, he looks a little panicked this time. He's leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees and head hanging in front of him and he looks completely beat down. You reach up and brush his hair back with your hand and ask, "You okay, babe?" even though it's a stupid question, but you can't think of anything else to say.
He doesn't answer, just presses into your touch with his eyes closed and sighs. You raise up a little and bring one hand down under his chin to tilt his face up. Then, with your palm resting flat against his cheek, you say, "You don't have to do this. We can finish without you just this once."
He seems to consider it for a second, but then his eyes harden and he's shaking his head and they are calling him from the side of the stage, telling him that it's time to go back out. "No," he says fervently. "I can't . . . it's only one song, Archie. I . . . I can do it."
"Cook-" you start to protest, but he's already standing up and striding somewhat unsteadily over to get his guitar.
He turns back to you and attempts that reassuring smile you were longing for. "I'll be fine," he says and you nod and watch him walk out on stage and hope that he's right, but something about that smile just isn't right. You're looking at him on the monitor again moments later as he the crowd screams around him and you can't help thinking that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
-=-=-=-=-
"I'm fine, Archie," he says for probably the tenth time in the three minutes since he's come off stage from his encore. You still don't believe it.
Chikezie has just gone out to start the finale and Cook has gotten into his jacket and is sitting on one of the couches in the ready room, guzzling a bottle of water. You're sitting next to him, your hand on his thigh as you try to get him to look at you.
"David . . . I'm worried," you say weakly and you hate the way your voice cracks, but, dang it, at least it gets him to look up. His eyes find yours and you see the hard determination in them melt into something different, something familiar.
He sighs as he covers your hand on his thigh with his own, giving your fingers a quick squeeze. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I know I scared you before, I just . . ." He sighs again, tossing aside his water bottle and reaching up with his free hand to scrub at his face. "I came off that stage before and . . . fuck, I didn't feel like I had anything left, you know? It was . . . it kind of fucking freaked me out, to be honest."
You swallow hard and move an inch closer to him, his thigh now pressed warmly against yours. You can hear the crowd screaming for Michael and someone yells, "Thirty seconds!" in your general direction. You know that it's time to go.
"Are you sure you can do this?" you ask again.
He looks up at you and smiles and, this time, it's the real smile. "Yeah, I'm good," he says. "Let's do this." You smile back and stand up, pulling him to his feet and walking behind him towards the stage.
-=-=-=-=-
The interviews and autograph signings after the show pass by in a blur. You insisted after the final song that he go straight back to the bus and not participate in any of the after concert stuff tonight. It says a lot about how bad he really is feeling that he didn't even put up a fight about it. He just allowed you to help him change his shirt and steadied himself against your shoulder as he stepped out of his pants, then pulled on a pair of jeans. Then, after you squeezed his hand and softly told him to get some rest, he let himself be whisked away by one of the production assistants while the rest of you went to face the crowds outside.
You always feel like you need to give your all to the fans, especially the ones that wait outside for so long just to see your face and maybe get a picture or an autograph. But, tonight, you find it hard to even concentrate on what most of them are saying. You keep smiling, but it's not as sincere and you hope that none of them notice. It's just that he's all you can think about and you can't wait to get back to the hotel and make sure that he's really okay.
By the time that the bus has deposited the rest of you at the hotel, you practically run down the steps and into the hotel. No one asks you what your hurry is and you probably wouldn't stop to explain if they did. You just rush upstairs to the room that you know is his and use the spare key he gave you to open the door.
"Cook?" you say softly as you ease open the door. The room is dark and you think he must be asleep so you ease the door shut to avoid waking him. It's useless, though, because the next thing you know there is light spilling through the darkness and his voice calls out your name into the silent room.
You look over and he's lying on the bed on his back, still in his jeans and tee shirt. 'At least he took his boots off,' you think as you move quickly to kneel on the bed beside him. "You're supposed to be sleeping," you admonish as you brush a hand over his forehead.
He smiles up at you with tired eyes and says, "I was waiting for you."
You shake your head, hoping that he at least caught a nap while he was waiting, and ease back off the bed to kick off your shoes and strip off your own tee shirt.
His eyes widen as you start on your jeans, but you shake your head immediately. "Not a chance," you say. "You're going to sleep and I don’t want to hear another word about it." He pouts, but sits up as you pull his shirt off as well.
"I need to shower," he says as you unfasten his jeans and pull them down his legs, leaving him in just his boxer shorts.
"You sure that's a good idea?" you ask him wearily. He looks like he might fall over at any minute and, while you're a little less worried now than you were a few hours ago, you still feel the stinging concern in your chest that makes you want to pull him against you and take care of him.
"I'm sure it's not a good idea if I go to bed like this," he says as he wrinkles his face and rubs a hand through his sticky hair, no longer sweaty, but dried down to plaster across his head. You have to admit, it is pretty gross. Still, you know you won't let it stop you from curling up next to him. He obviously sees your skepticism, because he quickly adds, "I won't be able to sleep like this, babe."
With a sigh, you acquiesce. "Wait here," you tell him as you walk into the bathroom to start the shower. You took a shower at the venue, but there's still no way you're letting him stand in the slick tub all alone, so you shuck your boxers before returning to the bedroom.
He looks pointedly at your lack of clothing and you feel yourself redden, but force yourself to meet his eyes as you say, "Like I'm going to let you crack your skull on the porcelain." He's smiling as he takes your outstretched hand and allows you to lead him into the bathroom.
Once there, you steady him against the counter and pull down his boxers, holding them as he gingerly steps out. Then, you help him into the shower and step in behind him.
"Mmm," he groans as the water beats down over him and, you have to admit, that seeing him standing there, naked and wet, with his eyes closed and his head thrown back . . . well, it's hard not to break your own rule and grab him. But then your mind flashes back to the look in his eyes when he came off stage tonight and you remember that stab of terror that coursed through you and you know what you have to do.
Grabbing a washcloth, you open one of the miniature bottles of body wash provided by the hotel and squeeze half of the bottle into the cloth. Then, stepping forward, you start to rub the soapy cloth against his chest. His eyes open and he looks down at you questioningly, but you just smile and say, "Relax, babe," and that seems to do the trick.
The rest of the rub down goes pretty quickly. You run the washcloth diligently over his skin, trying not to think too hard about how much your lips would love to follow it's path. This is about him, about Cook, about taking care of him and making sure he's okay and nothing else even comes close to mattering right now.
You rinse him off quickly, then have him close his eyes and lean his head forward so you can reach to wash his hair for him. His body is braced against the tile wall of the shower and he moans as your fingers massage his scalp, but other than that he doesn't say anything. You have him turn around and tilt his head under the water as you rinse his hair, then repeat the process with the conditioner.
Ten minutes after it began, the shower is over and you turn off the water and get out ahead of him to help him over the edge of the tub. You dry yourself off quickly, then do the same for him. Amazingly, he allows the whole process without a word, not even his usual innuendo, which means he really does feel terrible. The thought of this spikes your fears and you wrap an arm around him to lead him out of the bathroom and back to the bed.
Once there, he allows you to pull back the covers and help him under them, effectively tucking him in. You decide not to bother with underwear since you'll both be asleep soon anyway and no one is going to come into Cook's room without knocking. Well, except maybe Michael and he's seen you in Cook's bed more times than you care to recollect so you decide to risk it.
You walk quickly around the bed and climb under the covers on your side, instantly seeking him out and pulling him close to you. He snuggles down into your arms and you hear him release a contented sigh.
"Thanks, baby," he says softly into your neck as you brush his wet hair from his forehead, laying a kiss there. His lips press against your neck to reciprocate and you smile.
"Sleep," you whisper.
"I love you," he says and, though his face is still buried against your neck, you can still pick out the decided slur of exhaustion in his words.
You tug him closer, tangling your legs with his and running your hands in soothing circles over his bare back as you reply, "I love you, too, Cook. Now, go to sleep, please."
You can't suppress a frustrated sigh as he lifts his head enough to look at you. You're giving him a pointed look for not obeying orders, but he just smiles softly and kisses your lips.
"I'm sorry I scared you," he says as he pulls back.
And maybe it's the words or maybe it's the look in his eyes as he says them or maybe it's just that you're finally alone with him and you know he's going to be okay, but something inside you gives way at that moment. You feel a tear slide down your cheek and he brushes it away. "Please don't do that again," you say hoarsely and when you look into his eyes, you see tears there as well as he nods at you.
You reach up and run your hand across his cheek, taking in the beautiful, exhausted face, before pulling him down for another kiss. He allows you to pull away and press his head against your shoulder, his body relaxing back into yours, as you say, "Now, will you sleep, please?"
He nods against you and you feel his arms wrap around your body as your arms wrap around him. You lie awake, holding him, until you feel his breathing even out against you. "Good night, Cook," you say with a smile into the darkness, then you let sleep claim you as well.
-=-=-=-=-
A place to rest and forget yourself
In my arms
Tonight
-=-=-=-=-
The End
August 19, 2008
-=-=-=-=-
Author: courts
Disclaimer: Um, yeah, no, not mine. Don't know them. This is fake. Lyrics belong to Rufus Wainwright.
Rating: PG-13, because Cook has a dirty mouth
Summary: Cook is sick and Archie takes care of him.
Notes: Inspired by this thread about Cook getting sick during the show in Charlotte.
Thanks: To vna04 who sent me a fic to beta while I was writing this that was about the same thing! lol We decided to each finish our fics separately, then beta for each other and as it turns out we had very different takes on the situation after all. Anyway, thanks so much to her for the awesome insta-beta and if you haven’t read her fic already then go do it already because it's awesome! :)
-=-=-=-=-
You're worried as soon as you see him come backstage after My Hero. It's not that you haven't noticed how worn down he's been looking before that moment, or that you haven't thought the same thing about yourself about a half a dozen times a day for the last two months. But something about his face as he comes off the stage tonight just looks so . . . not right. You've been watching his performance on the monitors and he seemed okay, if a little tired. But now . . .
His eyes lock with yours as he lets one of the stagehands take his guitar. You know he's supposed to go back out to sing Billie Jean in about two minutes and, looking at the man before you, you are really wondering how that's ever going to happen.
"Cook?" you voice tentatively as you take a few steps towards him. His head has dropped forward and he has his hands resting on his knees as he hunches over. You find yourself moving without even being aware of it and, the next thing you know, you're standing beside him with an arm around his trembling shoulders and he's leaning his whole body into you and you've never felt more worried in your whole entire life.
You swallow hard against your own fears and try to ignore the voice in your head that is reminding you of that night he nearly collapsed after performance night on the show. You were so, so scared that night; so scared when they took him to the doctor and he looked terrified, but kept telling you it would be okay and you wanted to believe it but you really didn't, not until you saw it with your own two eyes. And you couldn't even eat dinner that night, you were so worried. You'd gone back to your room and gotten under your covers, still fully clothed, and cried.
When Carly found you that way, you knew you should have been embarrassed, but you were just too darned scared and it felt really good when she wrapped you in her arms and rubbed your back and told you that it would be okay, that he would be okay. She'd rocked you gently against her until your tears stopped and you knew she'd never said a word about it, not even to Cook.
Later, when he'd gotten back to the apartment, you were sitting with everyone else in the living room of the apartment that Cook shared with Michael and Jason. You'd looked up at him, being helped over to the couch and looking pale and tired, and your heart had lurched in your chest. Because something could have happened to him that night! What would you do if . . .
Your tears had choked you then, just like they are now. You'd gone over and knelt in front of him and clutched at his hand, not caring who saw or what they thought, not even caring what he thought, because that was before he really knew how you felt about him. But you couldn't even think about that as you sat there on the floor on your knees in front of him and looked up at him with watery eyes and asked if he was okay. He had smiled down at you and assured you that he would be fine. He just needed rest. And you'd been somewhat reassured, because at least he sounded sure of that. He'd be fine and you felt better.
But tonight, when he's bent over at the waist and clutching at his knees in a white-knuckled grip and leaning a vast majority of his weight against your side, you feel a sudden need to hear him say that he's okay again. You want him to tell you that it's alright, because he's always good at reassuring you and you find yourself aching to hear those words.
The words that come out instead, though, threaten to rip you apart.
"I . . . Archie, I don't know if I can do this," he says hoarsely so that only you can hear. You feel your tears threaten at the words, but you force them back, tighten your hold on him and steering him towards a nearby folding chair.
"Sit," you say softly and he complies. You find yourself crouched before him once again, looking up at him with worried, watery eyes and it feels like déjà vu. Except, instead of looking down at you with a reassuring smile, he looks a little panicked this time. He's leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees and head hanging in front of him and he looks completely beat down. You reach up and brush his hair back with your hand and ask, "You okay, babe?" even though it's a stupid question, but you can't think of anything else to say.
He doesn't answer, just presses into your touch with his eyes closed and sighs. You raise up a little and bring one hand down under his chin to tilt his face up. Then, with your palm resting flat against his cheek, you say, "You don't have to do this. We can finish without you just this once."
He seems to consider it for a second, but then his eyes harden and he's shaking his head and they are calling him from the side of the stage, telling him that it's time to go back out. "No," he says fervently. "I can't . . . it's only one song, Archie. I . . . I can do it."
"Cook-" you start to protest, but he's already standing up and striding somewhat unsteadily over to get his guitar.
He turns back to you and attempts that reassuring smile you were longing for. "I'll be fine," he says and you nod and watch him walk out on stage and hope that he's right, but something about that smile just isn't right. You're looking at him on the monitor again moments later as he the crowd screams around him and you can't help thinking that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
-=-=-=-=-
"I'm fine, Archie," he says for probably the tenth time in the three minutes since he's come off stage from his encore. You still don't believe it.
Chikezie has just gone out to start the finale and Cook has gotten into his jacket and is sitting on one of the couches in the ready room, guzzling a bottle of water. You're sitting next to him, your hand on his thigh as you try to get him to look at you.
"David . . . I'm worried," you say weakly and you hate the way your voice cracks, but, dang it, at least it gets him to look up. His eyes find yours and you see the hard determination in them melt into something different, something familiar.
He sighs as he covers your hand on his thigh with his own, giving your fingers a quick squeeze. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I know I scared you before, I just . . ." He sighs again, tossing aside his water bottle and reaching up with his free hand to scrub at his face. "I came off that stage before and . . . fuck, I didn't feel like I had anything left, you know? It was . . . it kind of fucking freaked me out, to be honest."
You swallow hard and move an inch closer to him, his thigh now pressed warmly against yours. You can hear the crowd screaming for Michael and someone yells, "Thirty seconds!" in your general direction. You know that it's time to go.
"Are you sure you can do this?" you ask again.
He looks up at you and smiles and, this time, it's the real smile. "Yeah, I'm good," he says. "Let's do this." You smile back and stand up, pulling him to his feet and walking behind him towards the stage.
-=-=-=-=-
The interviews and autograph signings after the show pass by in a blur. You insisted after the final song that he go straight back to the bus and not participate in any of the after concert stuff tonight. It says a lot about how bad he really is feeling that he didn't even put up a fight about it. He just allowed you to help him change his shirt and steadied himself against your shoulder as he stepped out of his pants, then pulled on a pair of jeans. Then, after you squeezed his hand and softly told him to get some rest, he let himself be whisked away by one of the production assistants while the rest of you went to face the crowds outside.
You always feel like you need to give your all to the fans, especially the ones that wait outside for so long just to see your face and maybe get a picture or an autograph. But, tonight, you find it hard to even concentrate on what most of them are saying. You keep smiling, but it's not as sincere and you hope that none of them notice. It's just that he's all you can think about and you can't wait to get back to the hotel and make sure that he's really okay.
By the time that the bus has deposited the rest of you at the hotel, you practically run down the steps and into the hotel. No one asks you what your hurry is and you probably wouldn't stop to explain if they did. You just rush upstairs to the room that you know is his and use the spare key he gave you to open the door.
"Cook?" you say softly as you ease open the door. The room is dark and you think he must be asleep so you ease the door shut to avoid waking him. It's useless, though, because the next thing you know there is light spilling through the darkness and his voice calls out your name into the silent room.
You look over and he's lying on the bed on his back, still in his jeans and tee shirt. 'At least he took his boots off,' you think as you move quickly to kneel on the bed beside him. "You're supposed to be sleeping," you admonish as you brush a hand over his forehead.
He smiles up at you with tired eyes and says, "I was waiting for you."
You shake your head, hoping that he at least caught a nap while he was waiting, and ease back off the bed to kick off your shoes and strip off your own tee shirt.
His eyes widen as you start on your jeans, but you shake your head immediately. "Not a chance," you say. "You're going to sleep and I don’t want to hear another word about it." He pouts, but sits up as you pull his shirt off as well.
"I need to shower," he says as you unfasten his jeans and pull them down his legs, leaving him in just his boxer shorts.
"You sure that's a good idea?" you ask him wearily. He looks like he might fall over at any minute and, while you're a little less worried now than you were a few hours ago, you still feel the stinging concern in your chest that makes you want to pull him against you and take care of him.
"I'm sure it's not a good idea if I go to bed like this," he says as he wrinkles his face and rubs a hand through his sticky hair, no longer sweaty, but dried down to plaster across his head. You have to admit, it is pretty gross. Still, you know you won't let it stop you from curling up next to him. He obviously sees your skepticism, because he quickly adds, "I won't be able to sleep like this, babe."
With a sigh, you acquiesce. "Wait here," you tell him as you walk into the bathroom to start the shower. You took a shower at the venue, but there's still no way you're letting him stand in the slick tub all alone, so you shuck your boxers before returning to the bedroom.
He looks pointedly at your lack of clothing and you feel yourself redden, but force yourself to meet his eyes as you say, "Like I'm going to let you crack your skull on the porcelain." He's smiling as he takes your outstretched hand and allows you to lead him into the bathroom.
Once there, you steady him against the counter and pull down his boxers, holding them as he gingerly steps out. Then, you help him into the shower and step in behind him.
"Mmm," he groans as the water beats down over him and, you have to admit, that seeing him standing there, naked and wet, with his eyes closed and his head thrown back . . . well, it's hard not to break your own rule and grab him. But then your mind flashes back to the look in his eyes when he came off stage tonight and you remember that stab of terror that coursed through you and you know what you have to do.
Grabbing a washcloth, you open one of the miniature bottles of body wash provided by the hotel and squeeze half of the bottle into the cloth. Then, stepping forward, you start to rub the soapy cloth against his chest. His eyes open and he looks down at you questioningly, but you just smile and say, "Relax, babe," and that seems to do the trick.
The rest of the rub down goes pretty quickly. You run the washcloth diligently over his skin, trying not to think too hard about how much your lips would love to follow it's path. This is about him, about Cook, about taking care of him and making sure he's okay and nothing else even comes close to mattering right now.
You rinse him off quickly, then have him close his eyes and lean his head forward so you can reach to wash his hair for him. His body is braced against the tile wall of the shower and he moans as your fingers massage his scalp, but other than that he doesn't say anything. You have him turn around and tilt his head under the water as you rinse his hair, then repeat the process with the conditioner.
Ten minutes after it began, the shower is over and you turn off the water and get out ahead of him to help him over the edge of the tub. You dry yourself off quickly, then do the same for him. Amazingly, he allows the whole process without a word, not even his usual innuendo, which means he really does feel terrible. The thought of this spikes your fears and you wrap an arm around him to lead him out of the bathroom and back to the bed.
Once there, he allows you to pull back the covers and help him under them, effectively tucking him in. You decide not to bother with underwear since you'll both be asleep soon anyway and no one is going to come into Cook's room without knocking. Well, except maybe Michael and he's seen you in Cook's bed more times than you care to recollect so you decide to risk it.
You walk quickly around the bed and climb under the covers on your side, instantly seeking him out and pulling him close to you. He snuggles down into your arms and you hear him release a contented sigh.
"Thanks, baby," he says softly into your neck as you brush his wet hair from his forehead, laying a kiss there. His lips press against your neck to reciprocate and you smile.
"Sleep," you whisper.
"I love you," he says and, though his face is still buried against your neck, you can still pick out the decided slur of exhaustion in his words.
You tug him closer, tangling your legs with his and running your hands in soothing circles over his bare back as you reply, "I love you, too, Cook. Now, go to sleep, please."
You can't suppress a frustrated sigh as he lifts his head enough to look at you. You're giving him a pointed look for not obeying orders, but he just smiles softly and kisses your lips.
"I'm sorry I scared you," he says as he pulls back.
And maybe it's the words or maybe it's the look in his eyes as he says them or maybe it's just that you're finally alone with him and you know he's going to be okay, but something inside you gives way at that moment. You feel a tear slide down your cheek and he brushes it away. "Please don't do that again," you say hoarsely and when you look into his eyes, you see tears there as well as he nods at you.
You reach up and run your hand across his cheek, taking in the beautiful, exhausted face, before pulling him down for another kiss. He allows you to pull away and press his head against your shoulder, his body relaxing back into yours, as you say, "Now, will you sleep, please?"
He nods against you and you feel his arms wrap around your body as your arms wrap around him. You lie awake, holding him, until you feel his breathing even out against you. "Good night, Cook," you say with a smile into the darkness, then you let sleep claim you as well.
-=-=-=-=-
A place to rest and forget yourself
In my arms
Tonight
-=-=-=-=-
The End
August 19, 2008
-=-=-=-=-