Disclaimer: Darn it all, I don't own any of them! OK, I promise to put Marguerite back safe and sound when I'm done with this. I don't think Roxton would appreciate it if I didn't. I am just doing this for enjoyment, so please enjoy!

Time Frame: Set just after "Suspicion." OK, so I haven't seen "Finn" or even half of "Suspicion," but I think this would fall right after "Suspicion."

Rating: PG (for the angst and some words)

Authors notes: I love the character of Marguerite, so I tried to do a fanfic in her POV. Please forgive me if it falls far from what she should sound like! I wondered about what is behind Marguerite's very infrequent tears, so I thought I'd write this as an explanation. It's a little more angsty than I thought it would be. Oh, well.

                                         I NEVER CRY

The jungle is quiet tonight. Not that it isn't quiet on other nights, but tonight I particularly notice. We nearly lost Challenger today, to some fool demon trapped in a bottle like a damned genie. And then John went and offered himself in Challenger's place. As I stare out into the darkness from my seat on the balcony, remembering these recent events, I feel an irritating prickling in my eyes. No, no, no, I will not allow it, I never allow it. I press my fingers against my temples and squeeze my eyes shut, taking deep, calming breaths until the sensation passes. Good to know the old trick still works.

I don't cry. I never cry. Its been years since I actually cried. I don't count that hallucination cave; I wasn't really myself, and what I experienced there would make anyone a bit out of control. Even when John and the others went over that cliff, I refused to let the tears fall. My voice was thick with them and they crowded my eyes, but they did not fall. However, in spite of my resolve, and in spite of years spent perfecting a variety of techniques, my time on the plateau has brought me closer to tears than anything I've ever known. This year especially. First I was nearly killed by a trickster god, then John was nearly killed by, of all things, his own double, then we were all nearly killed by a vengeful spirit. We're getting very good at getting very nearly killed. And of course Veronica went missing, and Ned left, then I finally had to divulge the secret of why I came on this expedition. I'm surprised that the skin at my temples isn't bruised by the number of times I've pressed my fingers there, and I must have expanded my lung capacity a great deal by the amount of deep breathing I've done.

Still I have maintained control, even if it hangs by a fingernail. Tears have threatened, tears have even been so bold as to make their way into my eyes, but I have not let them fall. I can't. I won't. Tears are a weakness. Some say you cry when you are happy, but I myself have never found occasion to experience happiness so profound as to warrant tears. And some say tears allow a release of tension and emotion, but I've found that all they do is reveal your own frailty. Frailty is a liability, especially in this place, where the law of the jungle rules, quite literally.

Tears proved useless against the nuns in the convent. They merely told me that trying to prey on their emotions would do no good whatsoever. Tears over childhood nightmares never brought comfort, only reproof from whichever sister whose sleep I had disturbed. Tears brought ridicule from the other girls. I would watch them as their families came and enfolded them in love I desperately yearned for, as hugs and kisses were exchanged, where the gifts were lavish and pretty, not just useful and dutiful presents from the nuns. The girls would laugh when I cried, calling me crybaby, mocking the lonely little girl with a generous allowance and the lack of friends.

"Poor sad Marguerite," they would call, "no one wanted her, no one loves her, she has plenty of money that was probably given by her parents to keep her away from them." The words stung like barbs in my childish heart, and my heart bled with pain. Soon enough I learned that the only way to keep from getting teased was to never let them see me cry. Controlling my tears gave me the first step to control over my own life.

Tears did nothing the day my first and only little pet dog, the one the nuns had allowed me to keep, was hit and killed by a carriage. Tears solved nothing the day I saw one of my schoolmates, the only girl who I had been close to, apply to the convent in order to escape the hard fists of her husband. Tears only succeeded in giving me a headache when several universities rejected me.

Tears in Shanghai showed me how weak I had become, how tightly I had wound my emotions around someone who had no problem ripping my heart into little pieces. The pain and loss I felt there crystallized my resolve. Shanghai was the last time I really cried. I vowed never to let it happen again.

Yet I realize that here, in this place, life is even more fragile and unpredictable that I ever thought it could be. Is it possible that here, in this plateau tucked away from the rest of the world, I could find reasons to cry, and people who will accept my tears and not mock me for them? I want to believe this; I desperately want to believe it. I want to believe that if I cry, there will be gentle hands to wipe away my tears. I want to believe that someone will sit with me and hold me until the tears stop. I want to believe that warm, comforting words will be offered to sooth my bruised heart, instead of cold and harsh pronouncements about my obvious weaknesses.

Until I can really believe that, however, believe it down in the depths of me, I will not cry. I know that the day I have to reveal all of my secrets will be the most painful day of my life, and I will need someone there for the tears that no amount of pressure at my temples or no amount of breaths will be able to stop. I hope against hope that John will be there for me, that he will still be able to care for me and offer me his comfort, that all the rest of my friends will at least try to understand. Tears are so personal, so vulnerable. I can't share them until I am sure they won't be for nothing.

So I sit in my room or out here on the balcony, and I press my fingers to my temples and take deep, cleansing breaths. In and out, slow and careful, moving my fingers to my eyes when rubbing my temples doesnt seem to be working. Let them think I care less then I do, let them wonder at my stoic responses. If there's one thing I've learned, it's this: Unless you can be sure they won't turn away, never let them see you cry. I am not sure, not yet, so they will never see me cry. Never. Never.

Oh, please, God, someday let them see me cry.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of them, they belong to New Line and Coote/Hayes. Darn it. I would so love to have Roxton and Marguerite over for tea. Not that I like tea all that much, but hey, it's them...

Time Frame: This is set the night immediately following "The Secret."

Rating: PG

Authors notes: OK, I really need to start writing happier fics! This is my third angsty TLW fic in a row! I promise that my next few will be happier. While I loved "The Secret," I (and my friend Traci) thought that Roxton was a little harder on Marguerite than he needed to be, so I thought I'd write something where he gets told off by Challenger and made to feel really, really guilty by Marguerite. So, here it is!

The treehouse was uncharacteristically quiet. It was not just Veronica's absence or the comfortable silence of people who are contented; an undercurrent of tension ran through it. Challenger and Roxton sat at the table sipping tea. Marguerite had miraculously managed not to burn dinner, but she had only managed to choke down a few bites before excusing herself and going out to the balcony. She had been out there for the past hour.

Challenger set down his cup rather forcefully. Roxton looked at him in surprise as the rattle of china broke the stillness.

"What's wrong, George?" he asked.

Challenger shook his head. "How dense are you, Roxton? She's been out there by herself, alone and hurting. Just go and talk to her. She needs you."

Roxton turned his head away, his jaw clenched. "She lied to us. She's been lying to us ever since we arrived. She doesn't seem to need anyone but herself."

"Quite technically, John, she never lied about why she came here. She's always said she funded the expedition for her own reasons. We just never bothered to push her about it. And when we first arrived, we were nothing more than colleagues to each other."

He shifted in his seat, turning slightly to face Roxton more fully. "Think about it, John. Her whole life Marguerite has had only herself to depend on, and she has always done what was necessary to survive. How much harder must it be for her to trust than for any of us? But she has learned to trust, John, she cares about us."

"Then why not tell us the truth, George?"

"If I'd had a secret of that magnitude, John, I would be afraid and ashamed to tell my friends. Ashamed that such motives has driven me, and afraid that in telling all of you, you could not forgive, and I would lose you. In fact, I would be terrified of that happening, terrified of losing the first real family I'd ever had. When we first met each other, it was not a secret for us to know. She didn't really know if she could trust any of us. More recently, it was something she couldn't bear to let us know. Consider this, John. Would you rather have had her find the missing half of that medallion right away, and have left us? Would you rather have known the truth, and in knowing, lost the chance to get to know Marguerite?"

He raised his eyebrows as Roxton squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. Roxton opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again hastily. They sat staring at each other in silence. Just as Roxton had gathered his thought enough to speak again, Challenger held up his hand, forestalling Roxton's outburst.

"Roxton, hush. Can you hear that?"

Roxton listened, his brow furrowed. A faint sound reached him, barely above the level of the myriad jungle noises. A soft, rhythmic sound, rising and falling. With a start, Roxton realized what it was: Marguerite was crying! He'd only ever seen her really cry once, in the cave full of hallucinogenic spores, and the sound now was as full of pain as before. It tore at him. His eyes flickered to the dark balcony entrance.

He glanced back at Challenger, only to find the older man's eyes fixed on him, full of sympathy. He nodded slightly and rose, placing his half-full cup down on the table. Challenger's words reached him just as he turned away.

"Remember, John, she didn't mean for any of us to get hurt."

Roxton took in Challenger's words as he cautiously approached the balcony and peered out. Nothing. He advanced a little further and looked around the balcony until he spotted Marguerite. She was curled into a ball on the floor against the wall, her head bowed and her shoulders hunched, her dark curls spilling down her back and around her face, hiding it from view.

He could hear her sobs more clearly now, but they were still strangely muffled. Even so, the sound was full of misery. He paused for a moment with his hand resting on the doorframe, indecision halting him. He finally sighed and stepped forward.

Marguerite had evidently heard the creak of the floor as he walked towards her, because he could hear her attempting to control her sobs. He cautiously took a few last steps and crouched down next to her. As he touched her shoulder, she flinched away, and he felt a little spurt of anger. Why should she shrink from him? She had deceived them, lied to them, she'd brought danger upon them. He should be the one flinching from her. He sat back on his heels and spoke.

"Feeling a little prickly, are we, Marguerite?"

"What do you want, Roxton?" she whispered. Her voice was thick with tears, and Roxton felt a twinge of regret at his harsh tone, but pressed on.

"Come now, Marguerite, no need for that. Just think, there's one less thing for you to hide from us. It should be a little easier on you now."

Silence. He heard nothing from her, and she was still resolutely turned away from him. He waited a bit longer, listening to her ragged breathing. Finally, impatient with waiting for her to respond, he reached out and gripped her shoulders, turning her to face him. His eyes widened as he took in her appearance.

Her right arm was wrapped around her stomach, but now Roxton could see why her cries had been muffled. To keep the sound low, Marguerite had shoved her fist against her mouth and was biting down on her knuckles. His anger abruptly fled as he took that sight in, along with the tears that made silver tracks down her cheeks in the moonlight and the hollow look in her large eyes. He gently drew her hand away from her mouth, noting that she had been biting down so hard that tiny droplets of blood were welling up on her knuckles. He drew out a corner of his shirt and carefully wiped away the blood. He looked up then to see that her eyes were fixed on him, her lower lip trembling.

"Oh, Marguerite," he sighed. As angry as he had been with her, as betrayed as he had felt upon learning her secret, he would still never want to see such sadness in her eyes. She, however, found a different meaning in his sigh.

"Right, John, again I've caused you trouble. Again my scheming and devious ways have brought harm to our makeshift family. Well, I'm sorry that Ive been such a nuisance to all of you! I'll do my best to keep all of you out of my problems from now on." Her words were angry, bitter, and harsh, and Roxton almost recoiled from the venom in her voice. But then he realized that she lashing out in self-preservation, trying to keep herself, and even perhaps them, safe. Instead of releasing her, as he knew she expected him to do, he tightened his grip and brought her even closer to him.

She tried to flinch away from him, her mouth twisting and her brows lowered as she struggled to keep more tears at bay. She looked up at him, and his heart broke at the despair in her gaze.

"Marguerite-" he tried to begin, but she cut him off.

"Do you think I wanted it to be like this?" she whispered fiercely, her body tense. "I never wanted to let this hurt you, any of you. I couldn't tell you, John, I couldn't! It was my secret, and then...it was my shame! How could I tell you what a shallow and selfish person I was? How could I risk everything I've built here? For the first time, I have friends, John, friends...and family. I've never had family. I couldn't...I didnt w-want to lose you. And I h-have, haven't I?" She looked up at him. He could only imagine what strength of will kept her from allowing the tears to spill freely. "I can see it in your face, hear it in your voice. Go ahead then, hate me. It'll b-be no different than an-anything I've ever known."

He felt a twist of remorse like a knife in his heart. God help him, he didn't hate her. He could never hate her. He couldnt bear to see her in such agony, when he could do something to soothe her pain. He gently touched her cheek, and her eyes widened at the caressing gesture.

"Marguerite, I don't hate you. How could you think that? I would never hate you. I'll admit, I was angry and hurt, but you...you mean so much to me, Marguerite. More than even I know. I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm so sorry. I never wanted to make you cry."

Marguerite's eyes searched his with an intensity that he felt down in the depths of him. He stared back, willing her to accept his fumbling apology. He moved his thumb over the soft curve of her cheekbone. The tender move undid Marguerite, and her face crumpled. With a cry she collapsed against him, the tears she had held in check now pouring freely down her face,

He gathered her close to him, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and using his other hand to gently stroke her hair. He could hear her whispering "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over into his chest, and he felt his own tears threaten. He began to rock her, telling her to hush, that it was all right, he was there. He held her in that manner, allowing her to cry until the front of his shirt was soaked, until her cries had faded to sniffling and irregular hitching breathing, until the relaxation of her body and her even breaths told him she had fallen asleep. Her exhausted body had overridden her anguished mind, and she slept.

Roxton sat there a few moments longer, and allowed some of his own tears to leak out. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, allowing himself to breath in the scent of flowers that was always around her and letting the soft dark curls to soak up the evidence of his own guilt. Challenger had been right; Marguerite had needed him. Needed him to be there for her, needed him to understand. Most importantly, she needed him to forgive.

He carefully picked her up and carried her to her room, placing her down on her bed and spreading a light blanket over her. He lingered for a moment, studying her features. She was so beautiful, even with tears on her face, and sadness, too. He leaned over and softly kissed her forehead.

"I don't know what will happen tomorrow, Marguerite, but for tonight, I want you to know this. I don't regret anything that has happened between us. I would never want to have missed the chance to know you. I-I-you are dearer to me than anything in this world. I can't pretend that your secret doesn't affect me, but what I said earlier still stands: I will be there for you when you're ready to tell me all of your secrets. You won't lose me, because I could never stand to lose you. Goodnight, my lady."

His whispered words nonetheless brought a relaxation to Marguerite's face, an indication that she had somehow understood his intentions, if not the words themselves. He allowed himself one last gaze over her face before he turned and left. He knew that in spite of her revelation, he would be true to his words. He would stand by her, and he would never leave her. He knew it would take some time to truly forgive her for her deception, but he also knew that he was still ready to trust her with his life. With a new understanding in his heart, he went to his room and allowed himself the luxury he had given Marguerite. He allowed himself to sleep and dream of a better tomorrow.