#and it snows so infrequently in the valley I live in too

[toastysol]

Bro it's fucking march

[pedros-mustache-main]

baby, it’s cold outside

summary: for too long you’ve been cooped up. perhaps they will be the ones to change that...

word count: 12k

warnings: mostly tropey-wintery goodness, however: accident related trauma and nightmares, language, innuendo, brief suggestive content, absolute timeline inaccuracy but i don’t care!!!!, could also be described as queen x reader but we’ll ignore that

a/n: this is a little different from my normal, but i hope you enjoy this slow and gentle fic as much as i do. happy holidays, dear ones!! 

also thank you to @dancingdiscofloof​ for your help with this one! (if you aren’t reading rove’s deaky fic, you are sincerely missing out.) 

december, 1981. montreux, switzerland. 

day zero.

in the aftermath of the accident, the cabin in the alps has been your saving grace. though the home is overly large for just one person and a cat, you cannot imagine living anywhere other than here. it is a balm to your weary soul, having nursed your broken bones and shattered spirit better than any modern medicine. it is here you began again, rising like a phoenix from the ashes, and it is here you will remain—happily.

you cherish the cabin and all the memories etched within the handcrafted walls and sturdy pine beams. each morning as you make your tea and scratch behind marmalade’s ears, you hear the laughter of your childhood echoing through time and space to reach you in the here and now. each evening as you shut off the lights and secure the doors, you smell your grandfather’s pipe smoke, though the artifact is tucked away on the fireplace mantle, now cold with neglect.

your mother, father, grandfather—they’re all gone now. it’s just you and marmalade. you’re content, though, even as you crawl in bed and snuggle beneath the covers night after night and wake up morning after morning with the promise of another solitary day.

truly, the isolation does not bother you. after the accident, it’s people—crowds and gatherings and meetings—who have become the irritant. wherever people congregate, so too does danger. you’ve experienced your fair share of hazardous situations, so you prefer the quiet mountainside now. there’s less peril, less chance for heartache.

each year, after the last of autumn’s leaves have fallen and snow begins to blanket the alpine hills, you tuck yourself away in the cabin until the end of winter. the larder in your basement remains well-stocked with all the essentials—human, feline, or otherwise—and the weeks come and go without issue. you play your records in the afternoons to fill the silence and watch the television as you eat your suppers. marmalade makes for a good conversational partner when the loneliness creeps in—and it does on occasion. still, the orange tabby cat, fat with laziness and all the love you have to offer, tilts her head when you speak and meows softly when you lift your eyebrows in expectation of a response. she’s all you need, really; but the infrequent calls you have with your boss do make up for your lack of human interaction. editing manuscripts can be done anywhere, and, so long as you meet your deadlines, your boss doesn’t care where you get the work done.

early in december, on a dreary evening, the radio encourages all listeners to batten down the hatches in preparation for a nasty snowstorm due to sweep through the mountain and the valley overnight. you look away from your mug of steaming hot cocoa and shoot marmalade a grin.

“sounds fun, yeah?” you ask her, wiggling your eyebrows.

from her place on the yellow laminate tabletop, marmalade pauses her grooming session. her paw hangs midair, the tip of her tongue hanging over her small chin. she drops her paw as you move to curl your hand beneath her stomach and lift her to your hip.

“i know you like snowstorms just as much as i do,” you say.

leaving the kitchen in favor of the open living room, you nudge the overhead light off with your knuckle. it flickers before shutting off, but soon leaves the cabin illuminated solely by the lights of the christmas tree in the corner. the cocoa trembles along the lip of the mug, so you step gingerly. your socks snag against the faded carpet, but you make it to the sofa in one piece. marmalade hops from your arms and curls herself on the far side of the couch, her tail tucked snug around her body.

knees against your chest, you sip your cocoa and bounce your eyes between the christmas tree and the bay window overlooking montreux’s city-center at the base of the mountain. both the lights of the tree and the lights of the city twinkle in the darkness, rivaling any of the brightest stars. tree branches scrape against the roof, following the path of the wind, and, if you squint hard enough, the first of the snowstorm’s flakes are visible through the pale beam of the floodlight outside.

a sigh rattles your chest, and you smile.

it’s a quiet life. some might say a lonely one. but even if they’re right, you wouldn’t change it.

not for anything.

day one.

you wake up late.

normally, you rise with your alarm and keep to a consistent schedule. it helps with the monotony of your life and stops you from wasting time lounging in the comfort of your bed. some days, though, you allow yourself a few extra hours, and the morning after a snowstorm seems the perfect day to sleep in a tad longer.

it reminds you of childhood—the mornings you listened to the radio beneath your bed covers, fingers crossed your school would be announced as closed due to inclement weather. when the inevitable joy came, you would snuggle back in bed; though by then, the glee of a surprise day off of school was all too much too bear, and you were up and moving within moments.

you smile to yourself at the memory, at the way your mother made pancakes every snow day, without fail. you miss her pancakes.

when marmalade pounces onto the end of your bed, meowing sharply, you sit up. “what? are you hungry?” twisting, you glance at the analog clock across your bedroom. “it’s only nine, marmy.”

she presses your foot with her paw, meowing again.

“fine.”

slipping from bed, you cross to your dresser and drag a brush through your sleep-rustled hair. as always, a sliver of cold seeps in through the skylight overhead, and you lift your face, smiling at the sight of snow obscuring the heavens. your smile only widens as you hurry down the stairs, elbows fighting against the arms of your robe.

the world is drenched in snow. you trip to the bay window, press your hand against the cold glass, and grin. a layer of fluffy white powder clings to every nook and cranny of the mountainside. hints of evergreen peak through as the only spots of color in an otherwise white world. even the sky reflects the dazzling brilliance of the snow, and you have to blink rapidly to keep from going blind.

marmalade’s bell collar jingles as she makes her way down the stairs. she stretches at the bottom step, meowing again when she sees you.

“okay, okay, miss impatient.” you shake your head as you turn from the window. “we have the whole day, you know? ‘s not like there will be much else going on around here.”

you turn on the radio as you enter the kitchen. a soft melody—“merry christmas darling” by the carpenters—sets you to a gentle sway as you pour marmalade’s food and set about making your own breakfast.

karen’s warm voice distracts you from the first knock on your door.

keeping marmalade away from the bacon in the cast-iron skillets hinders you from answering the second.

the third, though—the third knock makes you scream.

it’s not so much of a knock as it is a hand slammed against the outside of the bay window, dark eyes peering into your sanctuary, winter cap pulled tight over any discernible features save a thick mustache. you screech, dropping the spatula in your hand to the floor. marmalade drives for the grease-covered utensil, and you trip over her in your haste to hide in the narrow closet beneath the stairs.

perhaps he hadn’t heard you? perhaps he hadn’t seen the streak of multi-colored fabric as you rushed across the living room in your purple robe and bright yellow socks?

who are you kidding? the bay window offers a glimpse into the majority of your home: the small living room, equally as small kitchen, stairs leading to the bedrooms on the second floor. he probably even saw you fling open the closet door and close it. if he did make it inside, he wouldn’t have to search for long in order to find you.

you press a hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut, at the sound of another bang against the door.

this—this was why your aunt in sheffield had pleaded for you not to take the cabin after the accident. she was so afraid you’d be murdered by a crazed hiker or wayward bear. you’d laughed at the thought back then.

but here you are now, cowering in your closet between a hoover and a winter coat, preparing to make her worst fear a living reality. you only hope marmalade enjoyed the bacon grease as a parting gift.

a muffled voice drifts through the walls after a beat of silence. “for god’s sake, we know you’re in there!”

we? your heart rate triples at the simple, two-letter word. we!

drawing in a deep breath, you root around in the darkened closet for a makeshift weapon. this is your home; you will defend it. or at least do your best to scare off the intruders with whatever fake bravado you can muster.

finding nothing, you inch out of the closet and crawl on your hands and knees toward the kitchen. you pause long enough behind the sofa to peer over the arm. another man has his face pressed against the window, his eyes narrowed as he looks over the room. he looks to his right, long curls bobbing with the motion. his mouth moves, but only garbled sounds meet your ears. while he’s distracted, you crawl into the kitchen and grab the cast-iron skillet. it feels hefty in your palm, and you judge the weight with a turn of your wrist. it could do some serious damage if handled correctly. flicking the oven off and dumping the burnt bacon in the trash, you curl both hands around the handle of the skillet and slink toward the door.

no one stands before the window as you make your way through the living room. no one bangs against the door. yet you can feel their presence on the other side of the flimsy piece of wood separating you from them.

you swallow hard as you grasp the cold doorknob, twisting the lock to the side.

steeling yourself, you grit your jaw, and, in one quick motion, throw open the door, brandish the skillet overhead, and roar like a lioness.

“oh fuck!” one of the four men on your front porch stumbles backward in surprise. his arms pinwheel as he loses his balance and drops to his backside on the snowy ground.

the one with the cascading curls can only stare at you with wide eyes and parted lips, stunned to frozen. for his part, the one with the mustache shields himself behind the one with the curls, shouting for someone named deaky to get her to understand.

it is the one with the straight, grecian nose and storm cloud eyes—deaky, you surmise—who speaks to you first. he holds his arms out in defense, his long fingers splayed wide. he glances between the skillet over your head and your face.

“we’re not here to hurt you,” he says. his voice is even and calm, though more unique than you would have originally guessed. you thought all bad guys had deep voices. his voice is too pleasant, and it sets you further on edge.

you deepen your frown, drawing in another breath. “isn’t that what they all say?”

he frowns. “i don’t know who they are.”

“thieves. murderers. criminals!” you lift your skillet slightly higher, and he flinches backward, hands raising a fraction. “i’m not afraid to use this!”

“i don’t doubt it!” he shakes his head, and his eyelashes flutter when a wayward snowflake catches in his vision. “really, though, we just want to use your phone.”

“my… phone?”

with an exasperated sigh, the blond who’d fallen to his rump in the snow shoulders past deaky. “yes, your phone. you do have one, don’t you? we need to get down this godforsaken mountain before our tits freeze off!”

deaky twists and scowls at his friend, hissing, “roger!”

roger waves him off with a dark look. “deaky, i nearly broke my ass with that stunt she pulled. i’m cold, my trousers are wet, and i want to go home. you’ll have to forgive me if i’m a little terse, you twat.”

the one with long curls and sharp facial features gently moves roger out from under deaky’s increasingly cold stare. he places himself between the pair, towering over the other two. despite his height, he holds his shoulders in a noticeable hunch, as though attempting to make himself smaller. he offers you a wry grin.

“sorry for startling you,” he says. his voice is soft and decidedly unthreatening; your tight hold on the skillet goes slack. “i’m brian. these are my friends—roger, john, and freddie. we’re kind of in a bind, and we’d really appreciate it if you lent us your phone. just for a quick call. then we’ll be gone.”

you glance between the foursome. though roger’s face is still shadowed by frustration, they seem harmless enough. maybe a little cranky, but mostly harmless.

unless, of course, that’s what they want you to think.

your aunt’s warning that you trust too easily plays in the back of your mind, and you consider that she might be right. you bite your lower lip, prepared to turn them away, when marmalade jingles her way into the conversation. she curls around your ankle, head lifted to stare at the four men on her porch. the bell around her neck sounds as she turns from side to side around your leg.

“you didn’t say you had a cat!” the one with the mustache—freddie—coos in delight. he crouches, clicking his tongue to gain marmalade’s attention. after a beat of hesitation, she inches forward to sniff the proffered hand. you watch, and when marmalade nuzzles her nose against freddie’s palm, the tension in your shoulders dissipates.  

you sigh with a conciliatory smile. “well, if she trusts you, i suppose i will too.” stepping to the side, you nod to the living room. “come in and warm up.”

the men mumble various forms of gratitude and shuffle past you, sure to stomp their snowy boots against the welcome mat outside the door. they crowd around the low fire in the fireplace, and you hurry to toss a few logs on the dying embers. deaky takes the fire poker from your hand when you grab it from its place nestled along the extra pile of wood. his fingertips skim your knuckles, and you’re struck by how warm he feelings despite the weather outside. you meet his gaze, your eyes wide as you wait for him to explain.

“i can do that,” he says. “maybe you can show brian the phone?”

now that he’s shed his overcoat, you note the way his pale blue sweater brings out the pale blue of his eyes. he really is quite handsome. they all are, and it’s been a long time since you were in the presence of a handsome man, let alone four. who can blame you for being a little tongue tied?

you blink when you realize you’ve stared a bit too long. heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn away, scanning the small room for brian. “right, yes. the phone.”

you find brian stood between the living area and the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, stiff while his counterparts make themselves comfortable. roger lounges on the sofa, his legs spread toward the fire. freddie sits at the kitchen table, marmalade snuggled beneath his chin. and with the fire now flooding the cabin with warmth, deaky drops to the single armchair facing the kitchen.

you motion to brian’s wet coat. “would you like to take your coat off, brian? you look awfully damp.”

he shakes his head. “i’m alright.”

you decide not to press and instead point to the phone attached to the wall. “the phone’s just there. do you need a number? or do you have what you need?”

“actually, do you have a number for the gondola lift?”

“yeah, of course.”

you step past him to pull open a junk drawer. apart from a winding, perilous road, the gondola lift is the only way down the mountain for the few people who live mountainside year round.  you’ve gotten to know the owner and operator—jimmy schmits—well after your several years living in the cabin. he or someone on his staff is only a phone call away should you need travel assistance, and you prefer the gondola ride to taking your beat-up car down the rocky, poorly paved road.

you hand brian a small, cardstock business card. “that’s the number there.”

he glances down then gives you a tight smile. “thanks.”

turning to allow him what privacy you can in the cramped space, you glance around the room at the three pairs of eyes staring back at you. the laugh that escapes from behind your lips is decidedly nervous, wavering and forced. “sorry. i just—this is a bit weird for me. i would have dressed the part had i known people were coming over.” you suck in a breath and nod to the refrigerator. “have any of you eaten?”

roger opens his mouth to say something, but deaky hurries to speak first, leaning forward in the armchair. “yes, thank you. we ate early this morning.”

roger’s face contorts to a frown, and, in what you assume is supposed to be a surreptitious move, deaky kicks his friend’s shin to silence any further protest. you look away when deaky’s eyes find yours again, his gaze apologetic.

“i’ll just make some tea, then,” you mumble.

the quiet in the room is thick, save for brian’s soft voice coming from the hall as he talks on the phone. you keep your back to the three men as you prepare a kettle for tea.

you spend much of winter in solitude, and truly, you like it that way. this sudden influx of company has you on edge, especially considering your less-than-becoming attire, bedhead, and sleepy eyes. you don’t know what to say to alleviate the discomfort in the room, aren’t really sure if it’s your job to make them feel comfortable.

really, you aren’t sure about anything this morning.

as you wait for the water to boil, you lean against the kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. the fuzzy neck of your robe rubs against your chin as you duck your head, and you study the worn tile floor beneath your long socks.

“what’s your cat’s name?”

you look up. it’s the one with the mustache—freddie. his brown eyes are warm, and he scratches beneath marmalade’s chin as he waits for your answer. for marmalade’s part, she purrs happily in his arms, seemingly more comfortable with your guests than yourself. “marmalade,” you say.

freddie grins, and you can’t help but find yourself smiling back. “perfect name. yet we seem to be missing one important thing…”

“what’s that?”

“your name. if we’re going to intrude upon your cabin and make you uncomfortable, i think we should know who to send the gift basket to once we’re rescued.”

your brow pinches slightly in confusion. freddie speaks with a certain air that you can’t quite place—one of regality, you think. you glance at deaky across the room, and he moves his eyes to the fire as he gnaws on his lower lip.

you look back at freddie, give him your name, then say, “and you’re not making me uncomfortable.”

“please,” freddie deadpans. “i know discomfort when i see it.” he lets marmalade go, who jumps to the floor, padding her way from the tiled kitchen to the carpeted living room. he stands from the table and points to the stove. “the kettle is ready, love.”

you hadn’t heard the sharp whistle, so engrossed were you in your own thoughts.

“oh!” spinning on your heel, you flip the stove-top off and remove the kettle, the whistle dying to a light trill. freddie arranges a ramshackle collection of mugs along the counter, pulled from the spinning rack in the corner. “thank you,” you whisper, as you divvy out the hot water and he drops the tea bags into the mugs.

freddie gathers the milk and sugar, making himself both useful and right at home, which you find you don’t mind too much, though it surprises you how he moves with such ease and command around a home not his own. he must be comfortable anywhere and with anyone, and you envy him that.

he carefully sets the tea tray on the low coffee table in the living room. “how do you take your tea, darling?” he asks you, bending over, his ass pointed near the fire, as he makes to prepare your cup.

you skirt into the living room, shaking your head. “oh, you don’t have to—”

he arches an eyebrow, and his voice is firm when he speaks. “how do you take your tea?”

with a small smile, you lower yourself beside roger on the couch, careful to keep a large space between you. “more sugar than milk, please.”

freddie prepares your cup then passes you the steaming mug. your smile widens in gratitude as you take the warm ceramic from his hands. he prepares his own tea before dropping to the brick ledge of the fireplace. he waves his hand in dismissal at roger and deaky.

“you two make your own,” he quips. “you’ve thoroughly pissed me off this morning.”

from behind the lip of your mug, you pull your mouth into an amused line. your eyes dart to deaky, who is bent forward, frozen as he reaches for a mug of tea. he skewers freddie with an unamused look.

“this isn’t my fault, fred,” he says.

from beside you, roger’s deliciously high voice pipes up. “nor mine!”

“no, of course it isn’t your fault, roger. we wouldn’t dare accuse you of—”

before freddie can finish his sentence, brian returns from the side hall. you shift, turning your head along with the others to hear what came of his conversation with the gondola lift owner.

brian rubs the back of his neck, his eyebrows tilted upward in apology. “well, the gondola is down today.”

“all day?” you speak a little too quickly, and you wince, dropping your eyes to the pale liquid in your mug.

brian nods. “yeah—at least until tomorrow. i guess a tree fell after we were dropped off this morning and struck a line on the lift. and the road isn’t clear, so… we’re stuck.” he glances between his friends, the hunch of his shoulders growing as the weight of their predicament sets in.

“well…” you start. you lean forward to place your tea on a worn coaster. “i certainly won’t turn you out with nowhere to go.” for what feels like the tenth time this morning, you draw in a deep breath through your teeth to steady yourself. “i suppose you lot can stay the night, then. that is, if you want to...”

there’s a beat, a moment of heavy silence, before brian says, “we couldn’t impose like that.”

you frown. “where else would you go?”

roger snorts. “brian would sleep beneath a tree if he thought it might make your life a little easier.”

you glance at roger, uncertain if his words are more jest than jab. the half-smile on his face fades under your questioning gaze, and he shifts. “i just mean,” he continues, “that brian is the most chivalrous out of all of us. not that we have any ugly intentions—”

“roger.” it’s deaky this time, and he sounds more than a little perturbed. “stop talking.”

you hesitate before explaining your offer further. “it’ll be a squeeze,” you say. “but we can make it work. i would rather you spend the night here then wander around in the cold and freeze to death. my closest neighbor is four kilometers off, and she doesn’t have electricity. you won’t be able to find her cabin if it gets dark.”

freddie shivers, though you’re sure his backside is nice and toasty from where he sits close to the fire. “oh good god,” he mutters, bringing his tea close to his mouth. “you people are insane.”

deaky catches your eye, and his brow arches. “if you’re sure…”

you nod. “i’m sure.”

“thank you. honestly, you’re a life-saver.” brian’s shoulders seem to straighten as a smile eases the lines on his forehead. he offers you his hand, which you shake, as he says, “and i’m sorry, but i didn’t catch your name while i was on the phone.”

you give him your name, and he grins, nodding to his friends. “in case you forgot: i’m brian may, and that’s roger taylor, john deacon, and freddie mercury.”

there’s something vaguely familiar about the names, particularly freddie’s, but you can’t quite put your finger on where you’ve heard that lineup before. frowning, you glance between the four men, who stare back at you with expectant sort of faces, as if they’re waiting for the lightbulb above your head to illuminate. you run through the rolodex of names in your brain, but come up short.

“are you performers or something? i swear i’ve heard your names before.”

“we’re in a band,” roger says.

you cringe in apology. “i’m afraid i don’t know bands very well. my radio—i only get one station up here, and it’s mostly yodeling. christmas is the only time of year i can pick up anything worthwhile. got any christmas songs?”

“no, and i’m not sure we will.”

“what band, then? maybe i’ve heard of you on the off chance, but don’t take it to heart if i haven’t.”

freddie leans forward in expectation. “we’re called queen. ring any bells?”

you consider before nodding. “i think so. there’s only one song that comes to mind, though. another one bites the… something? dust, maybe?”

with a laugh, freddie slaps his hand against deaky—john’s knee. “that’s deaky’s song!”

you find yourself smiling—and easily—for the first time since waking. “really? i like it!” shrugging your shoulders in time with the bassline, you do a poor imitation of the song’s opening. beside you, roger laughs, shoving john’s shoulder when a flush creeps up his cheeks. “it’s fun!”

john nods once, mumbling, “thanks.” he drops his cheek to his hand, eyes falling to the carpet, and your smile softens.

you look away, sparing him further embarrassment. “so, i’m in the presence of royalty, i guess, but all i have to offer you is my parent’s old bed, which can fit two, a trundle mattress in my bedroom, and a military cot in the basement.”

brian squeezes your arm in reassurance. “anything will suit us fine. we’re just glad we found you.”

“i’m glad i can help,” you say, and even if it were for this moment alone, you’re glad you never listened to your aunt in sheffield.

day two.

you wake the next morning with a gasp, panic shooting straight to your heart when you roll over and see a man lying on the floor next to your bed. your first instinct is to scream, to call for help, but then the fogginess of slumber lifts from your mind. you recognize the man on the floor, and your defenses drop in relief.

you’d forgotten.

the previous day’s events seem more like something out of a dream than reality. four men—four famous men—appearing on your doorstep? getting stuck in your cabin after a technological malfunction? challenging one another to a game of rock-paper-scissors in order to determine sleeping arrangements? surely you’d made that up, a dream produced by an overactive imagination and too much time alone.

but no—the presence of one john deacon, asleep on the trundle bed extended from beneath your mattress confirms your current reality. you run your eyes over his sleeping face and note the stillness with which he softly snores, one arm tucked behind his pillow. he looks peaceful.

you hope you didn’t disturb his sleep during the night. ever since the accident, nightmares tend to plague your dreams. at least twice a week, you shoot out of bed, drenched in sweat and crying out in the empty darkness of your room. you can’t remember if you’d dreamt at all last night, but you’d shrivel up and die of embarrassment if any of your frantic kicking or mumbling had woken him.

“do you always stare at people when they sleep?”

“shit!” you crash backwards against the wall in surprise at the sound of john’s sleepy voice. your head connects with the paneled wood behind you, and you curse again, rubbing the sore spot on your skull.

“do you always have such a dirty mouth too?” he’s propped up on his elbow now, eyes gleaming with a mischief you hadn’t seen yesterday. his curls lay askew on his head, and his shirt—a flannel pulled from the depths of your grandfather’s belongings—swallows his torso.

continuing to rub your head, you frown. “do you always insist on asking so many questions this early in the morning?”

“only when people stare at me while i sleep.”

you drop your hand, wrinkling your nose in embarrassment. “sorry.” although the tip of your nose is cold, your cheeks feel warm with a flush. “i didn’t think you were awake, and i was… thinking. i wasn’t really staring at you.”

half-truth. maybe a quarter-truth. your four guests are handsome—each of them in their own right—but john… he has the potential to make your knees go wobbly should he flash you one of his secretive and elusive grins.

but, in all truth, you were thinking of other things as you’d looked down at him: thinking about the day and your work and how soft his hair looked and the strength of his nose and—

john rolls off the trundle bed. when he stands, he swivels his arms back and forth, stretching his back muscles. “’s okay. i’m getting used to it.” before you can ask him what he means, he points to the skylight in the middle of your room. “i’ve got a feeling we’re in for a rude awakening.”

your gaze follows his extended finger, and you huff when you see the skylight entirely darkened by a heavy layer of snow. yesterday afternoon, you had still been able to make out the sun’s rays through the unmelted snow leftover from the recent storm. now, the skylight serves more as an extension of your stippled ceiling than an opportunity to glimpse the night sky.

“must have been another storm last night,” you say, slipping out of bed.

you don’t miss the way john’s eyes immediately flit to your legs and your exposed thighs. your nightshirt falls to the middle of your thighs, a long pair of socks pulled over your knees your only leg coverings. his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, his lips slightly parted, but he looks away when you shift uncomfortably with the hem of your shirt. damn your mother for passing on her penchant for hot sleeping!

he gathers his clothes from a chair in the corner and nods to the door. “i’ll just go… change downstairs.”

your nod is too enthusiastic to be anything but embarrassed. “yeah, okay. i’ll be down in a moment. help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen.”

john, holding his clothes to his chest, leaves the room in a hurry, his head down and eyes averted. when the door shuts, the lock giving a soft click as it slides home, you drop to your bed with a groan.

it might be a long day.

after fixing your hair and pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and sweater, you make your way down the stairs and into the living room. a chill hangs in the air, one much deeper than the general winter cold. it goes straight to your bones and makes your teeth chatter in your skull. shivering, you circle your arms around your waist, prepared to go start a fresh fire in the hearth, but something in the corner of your eye stops you.

your guests—all four of them in a line, their mismatched heights on full display—staring out the bay window.

“what is it?” you ask, bending to lift marmalade from the floor when she jingles her way over from the kitchen. “did it really snow that much?”

roger looks over his shoulder, and the disappointment shadowing his face gives you pause. “come see for yourself.” he drops to the couch with a defeated groan, cradling his forehead in his hand.

holding marmalade against your shoulder, you tiptoe to the window, the floor beneath your feet unusually frigid. you exhale at the sight of the fresh snowfall, and your breath clouds the windowpane. a thick layer of white powder covers the mountainside. as far as your eye can see, there’s nothing but pure white. it’s blinding in the morning sun, and you blink against the glistening snowflakes.

“it’s got to be at least one meter,” brian whispers. “maybe more.”

freddie shakes his head back and forth, gesturing to the side. “i can’t even see the bloody porch steps. they’ve been swallowed!”

john shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “no power either.”

you twist to stare at him in shock. “what? no power?”

he gives you the briefest of glances then returns his gaze to the window. “i checked the breaker. it’s all out.”

from the couch, roger groans again. “which means we are stuck for the foreseeable future. brian called the gondola and they couldn’t even pick up, so that’s out of the question.” he slumps further down the couch cushions. “i had a fucking holiday party planned for next week.”

“now wait a minute.” brian turns from the window and reaches over to give roger’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “the snow will clear up before then. it’ll just be a few more days. that is”—his eyes slide to you—“if you’ll let us stay?”

you glance between your guests before laughing in indignation. “you didn’t really think i’d turn you out, did you?” marmalade hops from your arms when you plant your hands on your hips. “honestly, i might be somewhat of a recluse, but i’m not completely rude.”

freddie skirts around john to place both hands on your shoulders and steer you toward the kitchen. “no one thinks you’re rude, darling. we just didn’t want to assume.” he jerks his head toward john. “now, john will start the fire and we’ll all get cozy and perhaps play a game of scrabble. roger found the board downstairs last night. how does that sound?”

you meet john’s eyes over freddie’s shoulder, and he smiles—ever so slightly, but enough to drop your defensive stance. you nudge freddie with your arm and nod. “scrabble it is.”

after breakfast, you are quickly bested in the shortest game of scrabble you’ve ever played. it seems your guests are quite the experts, so you leave them to their fun in order to complete a series of edits on your latest manuscript. from the kitchen table, you can hear them bickering over whether or not freddie’s addition is a dictionary defined word or whether or not john can go twice in one turn because roger knocked his letters from the coffee table.

the gentle hum of conversation—of life—warms your chest. it’s been a long time since your home felt lived in. for so long you have simply subsisted, moving from room to room to change the scenery, leaving the mountain only when necessary, never truly engaging with the outside world. it’s easier to live alone—there’s less risk in it, less wondering if today could be the last day you interact with a loved one because fate has some cruel trick up its sleeve.

but, damn, if having roger and john and brian and freddie grace your living room doesn’t remind you of how irritatingly necessary other people are to living a truly fulfilled life.

brian asks if he can prepare a light lunch, and while he does, you gather your work and set it aside. you have a deadline—the first of the year—but for the moment, you’d rather engage with others instead of shoving your head deep within the made-up realms of your novelists.

with a dramatic stretch, you raise your arms above your head and groan as the muscles pop in your back.

“all done, then?” freddie asks.

“for now,” you say.

he pats the open spot of the couch between himself and john, and you squeeze between them, tilting your socked feet toward the roaring fire. you find yourself still shivering slightly, despite the extra layer beneath your sweater and warm wool socks. if you remember correctly, your father had complained of poor insulation in the attic. you wish, perhaps a bit selfishly, he’d gotten that fixed before his passing.

“here.” john shimmies one side of the blanket draped over his shoulders around yours. “we can share.”

“thanks,” you whisper, grabbing the corner he offers and pulling it around your back. the movement draws him closer, the outside of his thigh pressed tightly against yours. he feels warm, though, like your own little space heater, and you resist the urge to lean into him for further comfort. instead, you focus your attention on freddie, who explains how he and his bandmates came to be stranded on a swiss mountainside.

“so, really, it’s roger’s fault that we’re in this predicament,” freddie says. “he was the one who wanted to go skiing.”

you tilt your head to the side, confused as you glance toward the front door. “where is all your gear, then? you didn’t bring any in.”

john sighs with a shake of his head. “we forgot that in the hotel.”

“no one is brilliant at five am, dear. except for maybe brian, but even he failed to remind us that the first rule of skiing is you need skis.” freddie shrugs his shoulders. “oh well. it brought us to you, didn’t it?”

smiling, you nod. beside you, john shifts a little closer. his free hand rests on his leg, but his pinky finger extends outward, brushing along the outer seam of your jeans. your grin widens.

“yeah, i suppose it did.”

day three.

it’s just past midnight when you tumble from the depths of your nightmare.

the accident—replaying—over and over and over. the twist of the car over the edge of the ravine. you, powerless, helpless as you watch from the safety of your grandfather’s truck. the crunch of metal against rock and tree and—

—and the ultimate knowledge that there was no way your parents could survive such a fall settling over your heart like a three-ton brick.

you jerk awake with a barely-contained screech. clamping your hand over your mouth, you squeeze your eyes shut, willing away the images that flash through your mind like some sort of cruel slideshow. blood and guts and screams and—

a warm hand on your shoulder, soft voice in your ear saying your name, pulls you back to reality. “hey. hey, wake up.”

your eyes flutter open, sleeve of your shirt caught between your teeth where you bite down hard. in the dim light of the room, you can make out the angles of john’s face, the line of his nose, pout of his lips. a soft glow—from the nightlight in the corner, you think—shrouds the curls on his head, giving him the curve of a halo.

your ribs shudders as you exhale. he looks like an angel, an angel sent to save you perhaps. never in your lift have you so badly wanted to embrace someone in relief.

instead, you drop the hand from your mouth and lean closer to the wall at your side, away from him. “huh? wha—oh… john, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to wake you.”

his grip on your shoulder tightens, and he ignores your apology. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing. just a nightmare.”

“some nightmare.” john’s hand slips from your shoulder to your elbow, and he rubs his cheek with his opposite hand. “you hit me.”

“fuck, did i? oh hell, john.”

scrambling to your knees, you frown into the darkness, searching for a welt or bruise blossoming on his cheek. it’s too dark to see clearly, though, and you sigh in defeat, hanging your head. embarrassment swells in your stomach, wrenching it side to side, and you turn your face away, hoping against hope that he can’t see the evidence of your fluster.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

more than anything, more than the embarrassment roiling through your system and the nerves wracking your chest, you find yourself feeling frustrated. two day—two days with queen in the house, and two days you’ve felt a magnetic pull towards john. maybe you’re just lonely and maybe you’re just reading too much into the stolen glances and brushes of his hand against yours, but having him here in the house with you? tossing your sideways looks when freddie says something that makes you laugh and helping you pull the biscuit tin from its place on the top of the shelf? you’d thought that maybe—just maybe—he might see something worthwhile in you, too.

but no rockstar could put up with you. surely, he must see that plainly now. your fear of crowds and loud noises and your night terrors—that’s not made for the high life. he would go once he got the chance, forget about you and you cat in the cabin on the mountainside. why you ever considered for a moment he would do otherwise further stokes the shame threatening to consume you.

you fiddle with the sheets and blankets gathered around your knees. “you can sleep downstairs, if you like,” you say in a rush. your grip tightens on the quilt binding, and you rub your thumb back and forth across a frayed string. “i won’t mind.”

john remains still and quiet for so long you think he must’ve fallen back asleep. but then he stands, and he gently nudges your shoulder.

“scoot over,” he urges, and you find yourself inching closer to the wall without a second thought. john slides into bed next to you, his body warm and strong. “is this okay?”

you nod because, truly, yes, it is okay with you. very much okay.

“when i was little,” he starts, adjusting the quilts around his chest, his ankle brushing your leg. “i had this dog, and any time i had a nightmare, he would crawl into bed with me, help it all go away. i know i’m not as fluffy as a dog, but… well, i thought maybe we might see if this helps it go away.” he pauses for a breath and asks again, “is that okay?”

“yeah, yeah, it’s okay.” your voice is a puff of air, and if it were any colder, you’re sure your breath would crystalize.

“good.” he settles deeper into your shared pillow, and you catch a whiff of your shampoo in his hair. it makes your stomach clench, not from embarrassment, but an entirely different emotion. beneath the covers, one of his hands slips over the curve of your wrist, and his fingers tangle with yours. he gives your palm a squeeze. “go back to sleep.”

you do—easily.

john’s heartbeat is steady beneath your ear when your eyes flutter open for the second time. you’d rested without struggle for the first time in a long time. your shoulders feel loose, your eyes free from heavy circles.

and it’s all because of john.

your cheek is firm against his chest, and the fabric of your grandfather’s flannel still smells like his cigar smoke, but there’s something else, something distinctly john, and it’s all you can do to not turn your face further into his chest and snuggle closer to his side. he’s warm, and you’re still cold despite the heavy blankets cocooning you. his arm is slung over your back, drawing you tighter to his chest, his face turned to the side as he breathes softly in sleep.

you should get up, go downstairs, and find something to eat, check to see if the power has returned. you’d rather stay here, in this quiet, still moment, until the rest of the world fades away and you are left with him and him alone. your wish isn’t meant to be, it seems, because just as you are prepared to lean further into john’s warmth and return to sleep, freddie bursts through the door.

you jolt upwards at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. john is right behind you, and his arm instinctively tightens around your back.  

the grin on freddie’s face is positively shit-eating, and he puts his hands on his hips as he looks between you and john with something between pride and amusement. “oh! well, well, well, what do we have here?!”

“fuck, fred.” john releases his hold on you, moving to run a hand down his face to cover his yawn. “damn near pissed myself.”

“yes, i’m sure.” freddie chuckles to himself then cocks his head toward the open door. “make yourselves presentable. we’ve got decorating to do.”

he exits without further explanation, leaving a ball of confusion and uncertainty in your stomach and a proverbial elephant in the room. you fiddle with the end of your sleeve, wondering if john thinks the silence is as thick as you do.

“you seem to have slept better,” he says at last.

you turn, and his face is so near yours you could kiss him. instead, you just nod and say, “yes, i did. thanks to you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “i’m a selfish guy. i didn’t want to get hit again. seemed the easiest way to spare me the pain.”

somehow you know he’s joking. you know he slept as well as you because of your body pressed against his. you know he feels the spark, and he’s waiting for the moment to light the flame.

perhaps it’s the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, or the quick wink you nearly miss, that tell you you’re not crazy, that he feels it too. or maybe… maybe he’s the other half of the string that’s tied beneath your ribs. the string is no longer stretched and pulled taut, but relaxed, made light by fate and nature conspiring to bring you together.

or maybe you’re reading something that isn’t there again.

you look away first, but can’t keep the giddy smile from your face. he makes your heart feel weightless. and after being weighed down for so long, you feel as if you could do anything.

john gathers his clothes and changes downstairs while you get dressed for the day. by the time you make it to the living room, brian hands you a warm-ish glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal while roger tends the fire and freddie sits on the floor, marmalade sniffing around the open boxes of christmas décor at his feet. 

unbidden, tears spring to your eyes, and you tighten your hold on the glass in your hand.

three christmases you’ve been alone. three christmases you’ve avoided the tried and true rituals of your childhood. three years you’ve missed this, the warmth of friendship and togetherness.

your heart gives a painful lurch at the thought of all you’ve missed out on, all you’ve neglected in order to save yourself from pain. only, perhaps you’ve driven yourself to much more pain, shutting yourself away on the mountain as you have.

john appears at your side, and his hand comes to rest on the curve of your neck, his finger tracing the edge of your jaw. “what is it?” he whispers, low enough so only you can hear.

clearing your throat, you grin up at him. “i’m just happy.”

his eyes scan the room before he dips his head and presses his lips to your temple. his grip on the back of your neck tightens as he lingers against your skin. your eyes flutter shut, and you lean closer to him, warmth spreading from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet. he releases you after a moment, nudging you forward with a hand to the small of your back.

you drop to the carpet beside freddie and take a bite of your cereal. “where did you find all this? i didn’t know i’d kept it.”

“i found it, actually,” roger says from his place in the kitchen.

“and you found the scrabble board too… if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were snooping around my house.”

“so what if i am?” roger shrugs. “i’m bored as hell without the tellie. there’s loads of stuff downstairs just waiting for me to snoop through.” he finishing tacking something to the archway of the kitchen before stepping into the living room, hands in his pockets.

“roger, stop your griping and sit down.” brian nods to the open armchair. “we haven’t had this much time off in ages. enjoy it while you can.”

“really, why do you keep all this marvelous stuff downstairs?” freddie asks. he sifts his hands through the box on his lap, filled with tinsel and ribbons your mother collected over the years. “you have a tree, but that’s it. your entire cabin could be dripping with christmas cheer if you wanted.”

“it’s just me,” you say. as if understanding, marmalade gives a petulant meow. you smile and scratch behind her ears. “and marmy, i guess. there’s no reason to go above and beyond if it’s just me.”

brian’s brow furrows in concern. “your parents? siblings?”

“my parents died about five years ago, my grandfather shortly after. there’s no siblings. just me.” rising from your place on the floor, you gather your empty breakfast bowl and the leftover plate sitting adjacent.

it’s quiet as you deposit the dishes in the sink. the story of your parent’s tragic accident and grandfather’s health decline has never been a mood booster; this you well know. still, you feel obligated to tell your guests. no—not obligated. willing. you love your parents and your grandfather, but you’ve neglected their memory too long.

you turn from the sink. “why don’t we put the decorations up? in their memory.”

freddie’s smile is soft, affectionate. he nods resolutely. “a lovely idea.”

brian puts a christmas record on the turntable, and the house seems to sigh in relief as life, happiness, and festive cheer fills the rooms after so long. roger tosses handfuls of tinsel upon the sparsely decorated tree, his hips swaying to the beat of the music, and freddie directs brian in hanging garland over the mantelpiece and around the staircase banister. you sit beside john on the floor, stringing popcorn along a piece of string. your hands are salty and warm from the popcorn, and his shoulder brushes yours as you work.

“you know,” he says. “my dad died when i was young.”

you pause, an unpopped kernel between your fingers. “really? sorry—i don’t mean to sound so surprised. i just—you didn’t say anything, so…”

he brushes your hurried apology away with a shake of his head. “i was eleven. changed me forever. i don’t really remember much of my childhood, you know, ‘cause of that.”

“oh, john.” though your fingers are slick with salt and butter and grease, you cover his hand with yours. he looks up from the half-filled bowl, and leans closer, his shoulder pushing against yours. “i’m sorry. that—no child should have to lose their parent at a young age.”

“i don’t tell you to feel sorry for me.” he removes his hand from beneath yours and continues to string the popcorn, but there’s no malice or hostility in his words—just truth. “i’m just saying it because i know how it feels to lose a parent early. it’s… devastating.”

you nod, twisting your mouth to side and looking away from his searching gaze. “yes, it is.” drawing in a deep breath, you face him again. “i think i dwell too much on the sadness, though. there’s happiness in their memory, and i forget that. but you lot helped me remember. you helped me remember.”

john ducks his head on a shy grin, his cheeks pink with blush.

heart tripping in your chest, you stand and return to the kitchen to refill the popcorn bowl while he drapes the first completed string around the tree. as the popcorn pops, you tuck your face near your shoulder, smiling to yourself. three days ago, you’d gone to bed thinking you knew what christmas would look like this year: desolate and lonely, with only your cat by your side and work to fill your days. how could you have guessed? how could you have known what nature would bring your way?

when you turn, the freshly filled bowl cradled in the crook of your arm, you stop short. roger, a sideway grin on his face, stands in the doorway of the kitchen. he jerks his chin upwards, and you follow his eyeline to the sprig of faux mistletoe tacked to the ceiling.

you roll your eyes. “so, that’s what you were doing. you really are a trouble-maker, roger.”

“come on, it’s tradition, love. just one kiss?” he opens his arms slightly, beckoning with a wave of his fingers.

you huff with mock indignance, but your cheeks warm at the thought of roger taylor wanting to kiss you of all people. the little you know of queen and their stardom is knowledge enough to tell you that roger has kissed far worthier people. they all have, probably. you—you’re just a country bumpkin, hardly interesting or captivating enough for his—or any of their—attentions.

that, at least, is what you would have told yourself three days ago. today, the thoughts tumble through your head, but you push them aside with a newfound sense of confidence. it doesn’t mean anything, anyway. it’s just a mistletoe kiss. and you think you’d regret it forever if you turned him down.

before you can stop yourself, you step forward, and roger rightly takes the movement as an agreement. he kisses you soundly, one hand feather-light in the center of your back. you don’t let the connection linger too long for fear you will lose yourself to the moment. roger is kind and charming, but he’s not… well, he’s not john, and the thought of john and whatever it is he means to you makes you pull away after a few seconds.

from their place in the living room, freddie and brian cheer, clapping in response to the good-natured fun. you duck your head, but smile all the same and drop to your spot beside john. you hand him the bowl of popcorn, but he doesn’t start stringing the new line. he just looks at you, his eyes roaming your face, barely so much as a frown pulling his brow tight or downward tilt of his mouth wringing his lips in a scowl. he just… stares, openly, without pretense, and you suddenly wish you’d turned roger down. though the feeling of roger’s lips still lingers on yours and the kiss wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest, john’s arms around your waist while you sleep leaves much more of an imprint on your skin. his soft breath when he sleeps, the perfect rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear—it all is so much better than a silly mistletoe kiss with roger.

a muscle ticks in john’s jaw, the only evidence of possible frustration. you look away and continue stringing popcorn along the line.

“i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

at the sound of john’s mumbled words, you trip over a mislaid shoe in the middle of your darkened room. he’d gone to bed earlier than everyone else, leaving you and the others to play another round of scrabble until well after the sun disappeared. you’d considered following him when he made his exit and explaining your kiss with roger, but you’d decided it against it.

neither roger nor john could stake any claim over you or your actions, and you’d wanted to kiss roger. not to piss john off, not to push him away, but purely because you’d wanted to. maybe you wouldn’t do it again, not after seeing the crestfallen look on john’s face. but you’d done it, and there was no shame in it.

you grip the edge of the bed frame, bent at the waist, frozen in the way you’d tripped. “what?” the word is a sharp exhale in the already tense room.

“you heard me: i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

you aren’t sure what to say, so the first thing that comes to mind slips from your mouth. “well… you didn’t.”

john huffs and hops off his spot atop your bed. the snow covering your skylight has started to melt in the last day or so, allowing slim rays of moonlight to pierce the darkness of your room. the moonlight coupled with your nightlight illuminates only the sharpest features on john’s face, and while any other evening you might think the line of his jaw or definition of his nose might be alluring, tonight, coupled with the scowl on his brow, you wish you could see him clearly. he stands in the center of the room, hands on his hips, and you straighten, run your fingers through your rumpled hair.

“you could have,” you whisper. “but you didn’t.”

“beneath the mistletoe?” he scoffs like the mere implication is an offense. “no. that’s not what i meant.”

“what did you mean, then? you can’t just say you wanted to be the one to kiss me with no explanation. i’m not some plaything, john. you boys might be used to that, being famous or whatever, but—”

“no.” his voice is stern, commanding, resolute. you shut your mouth with a snap. “you drive me crazy, you know that?” he steps forward; you step back. “you think you’re so insignificant, that you’re not good enough for anybody.”

your frown and retreat another step when he advances. “i don’t know what you’re—”

he cuts you off as though your protest went in one ear and out the other. “you’re shy, sure, but you’re brave. i mean, dammit you live all the way up here by yourself, and you nearly fought us off with a fuckin’ frying pan.”

he sighs. but then his arm extends, his fingers hovering over your cheek. when you don’t flinch, don’t so much as move a muscle, he covers your cheek with his palm, his fingertips tracing the edges of your hair. “you’re a lot like me. we have a lot in common.”

your heart lurches—not out of pain or regret, but anticipation. a lump of excitement clogs your throat, and it’s hard to swallow, hard to think, hard to breathe, with john so near and his words so intoxicating.

“john…” your eyelids flutter shut, your head tilting into the warmth of his palm. “i—”

“i wanted to kiss you because i like you, not because you’re the only bird here, but because i like you and i think we have a lot—”

you surge forward on a burst of assertiveness. grabbing the edges of john’s night shirt, you drag him forward and slot your mouth over his. his lips are smooth, and once he registers what you’ve done, he responds with equal parts ferocity and tenderness. one hand bunches the fabric of your shirt at your waist, the other grips the back of your neck, holding you against him like you might be blown away by the wind at any moment.

after a moment, he pulls away, rolling his forehead over yours. “tell me to stop and i will.”

you kiss him again, chaste and fast enough to draw back and murmur, “don’t stop,” before losing your nerve.

john circles his arms around your back, then, resuming his careful but hungry attack on your mouth, your cheeks, your neck. you wind your arms around his shoulders, drawing him tight, and you don’t make it to the bed before collapsing to the floor in a heap of passion.

day four.

the power comes back on the next day, and by late evening, jimmy schmits from the gondola service calls to tell you everything will be back up and running by morning. your guests are pleased. they’re eager to get back to the comforts they’re accustomed to, and you don’t blame them. four days in an unheated cabin with rapidly spoiling food in the fridge is not typical rockstar accoutrement. still, they tell you they’ve thoroughly enjoyed their break from reality, and you respond in kind. it was as much as break for you as it was for them.

on that last evening, the lights are kept off for the final time. the fire in the hearth permeates the room with its light, though you don’t need its warmth as much now that the heater is back on. the christmas tree sparkles in the corner, and a few candles flicker in the kitchen and hallway. brian sits in the armchair, your father’s old acoustic on his lap. roger, of course, had found it buried in a spare closet, and he suggests brian play to close out the night.

you lean your back against john’s chest where he sits on the couch. his arm is draped around your body, his fingers running nonsensical patterns over your waist. the back of your head rests against his shoulder, and you feel like you could walk on water you’re so light. all the stress, the aches and pains you’ve carried for so long, have melted like the snow. john is to thank for that, as are the others, but mostly him. he’d pegged you quite right with his speech the night before: shy and unsure of yourself and entirely unconvinced of your own worth. but you’re on the mend, you think.

insignificant? you? no, not anymore. not when he looks at you and holds you close.

brian cringes when he gives an experimental strum of the guitar and something akin to a high-pitched whine hits the air. “oh wow. this hasn’t been played in a while.” he looks up, pulling his mouth to the side in a wry grin. “sorry,” he says when he meets your eyes. “i just have to tune it some.”

“go ahead,” you say. “do what you have to.”

brian adjusts the tuners at the top of the guitar before plucking and pulling the strings in time to a gentle rhythm. when he opens his mouth, he begins to sing. “have yourself a merry little christmas. let your heart be light.”

freddie joins him, scooting forward on the other side of the couch, marmalade snug in his lap. “from now on our troubles will be out of sight.”

when roger jumps in for the bridge, the trio’s voices mingle together in the air like pieces of a puzzle. each part is distinctive and unique, but no less important to creating the larger picture. you snuggle closer to john and feel the vibrations of his chest against your back as he hums, his finger tapping along your shoulder.

“once again, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore. faithful friends who are dear to us will be near to us once more.”

tears cloud your vision, and you tighten your grip on the arm draped over your stomach.

tomorrow your guests will return to their normal lives, lives of fantasy and extravagance. you will return to your hum-drum existence, and the holiday will come and go with little fanfare. but if this is the only gift you will receive this christmas—this time with the hodge-podge musicians that make up queen, this time with john—you will take it with no expectation for anything more.

you’d forgotten what it was like to live with joy and freedom, some semblance of your life prior to the accident. john, freddie, roger, brian—they’d helped you remember, and for that you are forever indebted to them.

clearing your throat, you twist slightly in john’s arms, enough to tilt your head back and let your eyes roam his face. he looks down at you, lips caught in a serene smile. you brush your fingers along the line of his jaw.

“merry christmas, john,” you whisper.

he hums in approval, grinning, before lowering his mouth to kiss you softly. “merry christmas, darling.”

six months later.

it’s hot out, the summer sun roasting you through the thick glass of the gondola. you could drive your car down the mountain, but you prefer the gondola. the gentle sway of the hanging car, the way the buildings in montreux slowly grow taller as you inch closer to the city—it’s all a part of the journey, and you enjoy it, find a comforting rhythm in the predictability.

today, you have an empty basket on your lap, your ankles tucked beneath the bench, as you make your way to the farmer’s market that pops up once a month. it’s a simple little thing, and you often only leave with a few ripe fruits and handful of fresh-cut flowers, but ever since your christmas with queen, you’ve been venturing out more. not enough to truly consider yourself a social butterfly, but you enjoy the odd afternoon at the farmer’s market or dinner in one of the pubs where you listen to the local bands play. you’ve made a friend—your first friend in ages—and heather only further helps to draw you out of your reclusive nature.

then, of course, there’s john. he helps too, always does.

when he’d left in december, he made no promises, and you didn’t expect him to. after all, you’ve only really been with him in person for four days; that’s hardly enough time to build a lasting sort of connection.

still, he calls when he can, and you catch up, but there’s no real agreement between you both. yet he continues you to encourage you to get out more, going so far as to ship you a bicycle you can ride the mountain trails on. he promises to come ride with you one day, but you won’t hold him to it. it’s the thought that counts.

for the first time in years, you’re happy, sincerely happy. you once thought that living by yourself, away from the world so you couldn’t be hurt, was enough to be content, and for a time, you were content. but then you’d been forced to remember, to remember how much you need others, and now that you can accept that, loneliness no longer pervades your home or your person. you walk with purpose; your smile comes naturally; your shoulders sway with ease.

it’s still a quiet life, but a much happier one.

you disembark the gondola with your eyes scanning the small list of items it would be worthwhile to buy—a new vase, a bouquet of flowers for the dinner party you’re hosting for heather and her siblings in two days, a necklace to replace the one marmalade broke—and you barely noticed when you bump shoulders with someone boarding the gondola car. you startle, though, when a hand wraps around your wrist and someone says your name.

you turn, lift your eyes, and gasp, your heart leaping to your throat. “john deacon!” it’s practically a squeal, and john shushes you with a fast hand over your mouth.

he glances around to see if anyone heard you or cares, and it seems the world is too busy with their own affairs to study john deacon and the girl he has pinned against his chest, his arm around her back and hand over her mouth. his eyes sparkle when he returns his gaze to you. “hush! don’t blow my cover!”

you swat his hand away, but don’t move out of his grasp. “what are you doing here?!”

he nods his head to the gondola car, now filled, the doors shut and prepared for departure. “i could ask you the same thing.”

you flush unwillingly and shrug your shoulders. “i actually leave the house now.”

“really?!” john releases his tight hold on your back, giving you breathing space, but doesn’t move his feet. when he speaks, his breath—recently freshened with a mint—fans your face. “i was actually on my way up to surprise you, but it looks like you’ve beaten me to the surprise.”

your heart, still lodged in your throat, skips a beat. “you were coming to see me?”

“’course i was.”

“i didn’t know you were in montreux.”

he nods. “we’re recording. should be here a month or two. just got here yesterday.”

you grin. your cheeks pinch in a slight ache, such unrestrained joy still uncustomary to your muscles. “and you were coming to see me?”

while you grin and reach forward to toy with the edge of john’s shirt, he frowns. “’course i was,” he repeats. “you say that like you’re surprised.”

“well, it was your intention to surprise me, right?”

“of course i would come see you if i was in town.” john nudges your shoulder with his hand then covers your bicep with his palm, squeezing lightly. “you’re my girl.”

you tilt your head to the side. “your girl?”

he nods, steps closer, and holds your other arm. “yeah,” he says, his voice gone deeper, gravely. “my girl.” this thumb brushes along the exposed skin of your shoulder, tanned by the sun. “i told you in december: i like you. the last six months have been… hectic, but i was always going to come back.”

tucking your lower lip between your teeth, you narrow your eyes as you wind your arms around his neck. the hair at the nape of his neck is soft as you play with it. “i would say really and not believe you. but i seem to remember someone telling me that i’m a lot more significant than i give myself credit for.”

john laughs, and the sound pierces your heart like cupid’s bow. “what genius said that?”

you shrug your shoulders, rolling your eyes. “i dunno, but i took it to heart.”

“did you? good. then maybe you’ll be more inclined to say yes when i ask you to come on tour with me, with all of us.”

“oh, you were going to ask that?”

“part of my surprise.”

leaning forward, you feather your lips over john’s. “ask me, then,” you whisper, grinning even further when you feel a shiver run down his back.

“come with us. come with me. let me take you around the world.”

the you of six months ago flares in your chest, telling you to say no, to stay home where it is safe. the you of six months ago tells you that john is just being nice, that he doesn’t see you as anything serious.

but the you of today…

the you of today just smiles and kisses john soundly. you move your mouth over his like he is your dance partner, like you were made for one another, and maybe you were. he tastes sweet, feels even sweeter against your body, and you wonder if this is what your parents felt like when they first fell in love. as your mother tells it, she thought your father had hung the stars in the sky, and when you pull back to look at john, the same thought comes to mind.

“so is that a yes?”

you nod. “i’d go anywhere with you, john deacon.” another thought pops to the forefront of your mind, and you fist your hand in john’s shirt with a frown. “but wait: who will watch marmalade?”

[emospritelet]

Homecoming - chapter 15

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] AO3 link

Last time, the family travelled to Willowbrook Grange, on the site where the town of Avonleigh once stood, and where, unknown to them, Belle lived one of her past lives

x

The air was frigid, and Belle shivered, sending Ogilvy a smile as he handed her down from the carriage. She clutched Ava and Nicholas close to her, the latter grumbling about his empty stomach, and Ogilvy ruffled his hair comfortingly. Lady Tremaine had stepped forward to greet the Professor. She was a slender woman with light brown hair and a strong jawline, her eyes alight with excitement.

“Oh, Professor Lowe, it’s so good of you to come!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been quite beside myself! It felt as though there was nowhere else for me to turn, and then Lady Fortescue pointed me in your direction. She can’t recommend you highly enough, so I’m delighted you agreed to come all this way!”

“Not at all, not at all,” said the Professor heartily. “May I present my good friend Mr Ogilvy?”

“A pleasure,” said Lady Tremaine, as Ogilvy took off his hat and bowed his head. “I understand your knowledge of the dark realms is almost equal to that of the Professor’s.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Belle noticed Lord Tremaine roll his eyes a little, but he said nothing.

“We shall do our utmost to assist in whatever way we can,” said Ogilvy smoothly.

“And I presume this is Mrs Ogilvy?”

Lady Tremaine was looking expectantly at Belle, whose mouth fell open as she felt a blush rise in her cheeks. Alice snickered, and covered her mouth with her hand as though she had coughed.

“Ah,” said the Professor. “May I present Miss Annabelle Marchland? I believe I mentioned her in my letter. She’s our assistant, and a most competent one, I assure you.”

“I - see.”

Belle shot him a surprised look, and the Professor winked at her. Lady Tremaine looked Belle up and down a moment, a crease of confusion between her eyes.

“Forgive me, Miss Marchland,” she said. “You look frightfully familiar. Have we met?”

“Your Ladyship may have seen me once or twice at Furton Grange,” offered Belle, and Lady Tremaine’s expression cleared.

“Ah. I daresay that’s it. Some soirée of my dear friend Lady Ella Deville, no doubt. She’ll be here for New Year’s Eve, you know. Well, come in, come in! We shall all freeze to death out here!”

Belle was spared from explaining that she had been Lady Ella’s governess as Lady Tremaine turned on her toes, bustling off into the house. She had completely ignored the children, and Alice was biting her lip to hold in her amusement. It was a relief to step inside, a tide of warmth flowing over them as the heavy doors were closed. Ivy and Hatter had disappeared, following the other servants carrying in the trunks, and Belle was led up a sweeping staircase where two suits of armour stood guard with long pikes. That sense of familiarity was there again, a creeping tingle down her spine, and she shivered. The house was different to Furton Grange, its decor a little old-fashioned with its deep reds and golds, the wooden panelling and staircase giving the entrance hall a darker, heavier look. It suited the building, though, this red-brick mansion in the dark and cold of the far north of England. Belle wondered what it had seen over the centuries. The stories it could tell.

x

Dinner was a relatively quiet affair, for which Belle was grateful, two days of travel having taken their toll. She was escorted in by Henry Mills, an American writer wed to Lord Tremaine’s daughter from his first marriage. Mr Mills was a handsome, dark-haired young man, pleasant and attentive, and Belle found herself seated between he and his friend Mr Branson. Mrs Mills was seated to the right of Mr Branson, and seemed a lovely woman, but Belle couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t get along with her stepmother. Mr and Mrs Mills were expecting a child in March, but informed her that they already had a daughter, Lucy, who was the same age as the twins. Mr Mills suggested that the children could keep one another amused for the duration of their visit.

“There’s a well-stocked nursery,” he added, as he took a sip of his wine. “Jacinda and I came over from Seattle in the summer, and Lucy seems to enjoy the change of scene. I’m sure she’d be happy to show your two around the old place.”

“Nicholas and Ava had a difficult start in life,” said Belle carefully, thinking of the unsuccessful spelling lessons, and the words the twins could teach Lucy, if she wasn’t around to stop them. “Mr Ogilvy was good enough to take them in and give them a home. They may not be the kind of playmates that Lucy is used to, but I assure you they’re good children with good hearts.”

“Oh, street rats, huh?” said Mr Branson, in a tone that made Belle want to frown. “Well, I guess Lucy spends enough time with the servants. She’ll be used to their kind. She can keep ‘em in line.”

“Don’t be unkind, Nick,” Mrs Mills chided. “They’re children. I’m sure they’re just as well-behaved as Lucy.”

“Hmm.” Mr Mills looked resigned at that. “God help us all.”

He shared a chuckle with his wife, and Belle joined in.

“Well, I guess they won’t be able to get up to anything too terrible,” he went on. “The woods and fields around the house are perfect for exploring, but with all this snow, something tells me they may want to spend their time indoors near the fire.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Mr Branson muttered under his breath.

“Careful,” warned Mr Mills, with a twinkle in his eye. “Her Ladyship might leave you at the tender mercies of her ghosts while the rest of us go shooting.”

The two men chuckled, casting a look up the table to where Lady Tremaine was chatting animatedly with the Professor and Ogilvy, her husband’s attention solely on his food.

“What do you know about these strange occurrences that the Professor has been asked to investigate?” asked Belle curiously, and Mr Mills gave her a somewhat rueful smile.

“I can’t say I’ve seen or heard anything myself,” he said, shooting a glance at Lady Tremaine. “But perhaps I’m not as sensitive to these things as Her Ladyship. She says there are strange noises at night. Banging and knocking.”

“Of course there are, it’s an old house,” said Mr Branson dismissively, cutting a piece of beef.

“Well, no doubt she’ll tell you more tomorrow, Miss Marchland,” said Mr Mills. “Her Ladyship has an excellent imagination, and something of a flare for the dramatic. She’s an interesting character.”

“Interesting enough to put in one of your books?” asked Belle, and he groaned.

“Don’t, I’d never hear the end of it. Tempting though it is.”

“I think there’s already a tale with a wicked stepmother anyway,” murmured Mr Branson, and Mrs Mills shot him a quelling look tinged with amusement.

x

Ogilvy woke when it was still dark, heart thumping in his chest as the last oppressive scenes of a disturbing dream faded away. The dream had been formed from his own memories, and his heart sank as he faced the days ahead of them, darkened by shadows of the past. He was looking forward to returning to the city, and leaving the ghosts of this place to rest.

As usual, Hatter seemed to sense when he was awake, and was soon at the door with hot water for his morning shave. It made him feel a little better, and having established that Doc was still asleep, he dressed warmly in a tweed suit and his thick wool overcoat. The house was silent as he made his way downstairs, and the butler, Thwaites, let him out of the door and into the cold, crisp morning.

The sun was just sneaking above the horizon, sending long, scarlet fingers through the grey wisps of cloud, and he sensed that it would be a sunny day, at least at first. He closed his eyes for a moment to remember his surroundings as they had once been, letting memories crowd in on him, joy and guilt and grief clamouring for his attention. When he opened his eyes, he half-expected to see the town of Avonleigh as it had been centuries earlier. The house where he had spun his thread and made his deals and where he had loved Isabelle so many times. The square where the market had been held, and where the townsfolk had danced at the birth of spring. The space where the gibbet had stood. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on happier times, and blinked rapidly, glancing to the east as he set off to explore the land around the house. It was cold enough to make him cough, and he pushed his chin into his scarf, using his walking cane to pick his way across the frozen ground.

The river that had once powered the mill’s wheel in Avonleigh must have been dammed at one point, and a lake now filled the lower part of the valley where much of the town had stood. Most of the lake was coated with a layer of snow-covered ice, but there were patches kept clear to allow the fish beneath to break the surface, and birds to drink. Ogilvy walked slowly, watching the water ripple, weak orange sun gleaming on the ice and making the snow glitter. The winters had not been so harsh in their old life, the snow infrequent and light in its appearance. In the lives to come, he had wondered at the colder climate, and how many lifetimes it would last. He had wondered if it would always be winter without Belle.

The crunch of footsteps behind him made him turn, and he smiled as Belle appeared, a flush in her pale cheeks and breath coming from her in plumes of white. She wore a heavy woollen skirt above sturdy boots, her long coat tight around her slim figure and her hair pinned up beneath a black hat. He reached for his own, lifting it in greeting as she approached.

“i wondered if anyone else was awake,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Alice said she wasn’t leaving the house until after breakfast, but I thought I’d make the most of the morning.”

He smiled, settling the hat back on his head and offering her his arm.

“I was about to take a walk around the lake.”

Belle beamed at him, slipping her arm through his, and they set off at a comfortable pace. The chirps of birds were coming from the trees that stood at the eastern edge of the lake, and Ogilvy headed for them, thinking that the snow would be lighter on the ground beneath their boughs.

“How are the children?” he asked, glancing at her, and Belle smiled.

“Homesick, I think,” she confessed. “I woke this morning to find them both nestled in bed beside me.”

“Ah,” he said. “Not what you expected when you became governess, I daresay.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said, with a chuckle. “In fact, it’s encouraging to think they might come to me for comfort. I have no desire to be one of those governesses that the novels warn us of.”

“Which kind?” he asked, with a grin. “Terror of small children or scheming seductress?”

Belle giggled, her blush deepening as she clapped a hand to her mouth.

“I would hope that I fit neither description,” she said primly, and his grin widened.

“Then I shall rest easier in my bed knowing that you don’t intend to murder me and steal my fortune,” he remarked.

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for the festive season, would it?”

“Best wait until we get home, then.”

She giggled again, and he felt her squeeze his arm as she moved a little closer.

“I take it the twins will be having their breakfast upstairs?” he asked, and she nodded.

“The maids brought it in just before I left, but Alice offered to sit with them while they ate. I’m told that we’ll have ours in the breakfast room from nine-thirty.”

“I’m sure we can work up an appetite by then,” he remarked.

“If we keep at this pace, I have no doubt of it.”

Ogilvy laughed, her presence lightening his mood, and they walked on, feet crunching and squeaking in the snow. He let his eyes roam over the familiar slopes of the surrounding fells and the purplish peaks of distant mountains, the cold air making his teeth hurt when he breathed it in. Belle let out a sigh.

“It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “Desolate, but beautiful.”

“It is,” he said, and hesitated a moment. “How - how do you feel, being here?”

She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully, but if she found his question strange, she didn’t say anything.

“It’s the oddest thing,” she said eventually. “There’s something familiar about it. I was trying to remember if I had ever come here with Lady Ella. I don’t believe I have, but I feel as though I know this place. As though when I turn the next corner, I’ll know exactly what’s in front of me.”

“I understand,” he said. “It feels that way to me, too. Except here around the lake.”

He glanced at her, expecting her to agree, but she shook her head.

“The lake feels familiar too,” she mused. “I must have been here before, there’s no other explanation. Perhaps I just saw it from a carriage once, or something.”

“Oh.” Perhaps she has. Why wouldn’t she? She’d have no reason to avoid the place, would she? Not like you, you coward.

“Perhaps it’s one of your past lives,” he said tentatively, and she smiled at him.

“And were you ever here, Mr Ogilvy?” she said teasingly. “One hundred lifetimes must span a long time indeed. I imagine you must have seen all manner of changes.”

“The lake wasn’t here when I last walked this way,” he said, matter-of-factly, and she laughed, as though he had made a joke. It was surprisingly painful.

They circled the farthest edge of the lake, where fir trees clustered close enough together to provide a needle-covered patch of ground clear of snow. Ogilvy could feel the cold beginning to sink into his feet through his boots, and he glanced at Belle, wondering if she was getting chilled. She seemed to feel his eyes on her, and looked around with a faint smile.

“Are you starting your investigations today?” she asked.

“So I believe,” he said. “Doc asked Lady Tremaine a few questions last night, but we’ll look over the house today, while we have the benefit of the daylight.”

“I hear there are a great many guests due for the celebrations this evening,” she said. “Mr Mills told me of some of them, including Lady Ella, of course, and many of the inhabitants from the nearby towns. It’s a grand occasion, it seems, with music and dancing.”

“Perhaps we can put Her Ladyship’s mind at rest quickly, then,” he remarked. “I’d hate for her evil spirits to spoil the mood.”

Belle smiled at that.

“Do you believe there are really evil spirits here?” she asked, her tone sceptical, and he hesitated.

“I believe that she believes there are,” he said eventually. “Sometimes that’s all it takes: an old house with creaking floors and an impressionable owner.”

“That’s what Mr Branson said.” 

“However, I like to keep an open mind,” he added. “I have no doubt that there have been restless souls in this place. That dark deeds have been done, and innocent lives taken.”

She gave him a curious look, but he said no more, guiding her around a stump of wood.

“The Professor called me your assistant,” she said. “I’m not sure what Her Ladyship made of that. Nor of how much assistance I could be.”

Ogilvy smiled at her uncertain look, and patted her hand.

“Good sense is always in demand, Miss Marchland,” he said. “Your input will be welcome, I promise. And rest assured that no matter what we may face in this investigation, Doc and I will protect you.”

“I’ll do my best not to be a liability, fainting in fear at every creaking floorboard,” she said, in a dry tone that made him grin.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I still have the obsidian wand the Professor gave me,” she added, and his grin widened.

“Good.”

They continued around the lake, the rear of the house coming into view with its ordered gardens and large orangery, and he felt her shiver.

“Cold?” he asked, concerned.

“No - I mean, yes, I am, but—” She shook her head. “Just that odd feeling that I’ve been here before, that’s all. I’m sure it will pass.”

“Perhaps it will,” he said grimly. “Come, let’s pick up the pace. A hot breakfast would be welcome.”

Belle agreed readily, and they quickened their pace, rounding the lake and heading back uphill towards the house. He steered them towards one of the gravel paths used by the servants, where the snow was lightest, and Belle shivered again as they stepped out onto the sweeping driveway at the front.

“A chilly day for a walk, but I daresay it’s good for us,” she announced, and turned to him with a smile as they stopped just outside the door. “It’s certainly reminded me that I’m very much alive.”

“Yes,” he said softly.

Her eyes were sparkling in the morning sunlight, threads of red in her dark hair, her skin like cream and her lips soft and pink as rose petals. His fingers itched from wanting to stroke her hair, to cup her cheek. His mouth ached from the urge to kiss her. Belle smiled a little dreamily, glancing back towards the woods.

“I look forward to the spring, Mr Ogilvy,” she said. “Snow-laden trees are all very well aesthetically, but I long to feel the sun on my skin and smell green, growing things. I think morning walks with you will be far more pleasant when we’re not worried about freezing to death.”

You always loved the spring, when the flowers began to bloom and you could run through wet grass with your feet bare, laughing up at the sky. I loved seeing you so free. I loved laying you down in the heather and kissing your sweet mouth, making you cry out in pleasure as the sun warmed our skin. So many years we missed, my love! How many more before you know me again?

Belle was looking at him expectantly, and he swallowed hard, past the lump in his throat.

“I should be delighted to spend each and every morning with you, Miss Marchland.”

His voice was lower than usual, roughened with emotion, and she smiled at him, gazing up through thick, dark lashes as she blushed a little. He returned her smile, the fond look in her eyes sinking into him, warm as sunlight, comforting his tortured soul and chasing away the shadows of the past.

“Come,” he said, offering his arm to her again. “Let’s have breakfast.”

[missblissy]

Title: Homeless at Home Fandom: Red Dead Redemption Genre: fanfiction, chapters, angst, reader insert, fluff, slow burn, friends-to-lovers, pre-game Characters: Young!Arthur Morgan, Dutch Van Der Linde, Hosea Mathews, Arthur Morgan/ Reader, Female reader, Arthur x Reader, Arthur Morgan x Reader, Arthur/ You, Young!reader Chapter: One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten

Follow me on AO3!! Read it there too!

((Hello friends!! Another chapter has been posted!! Another one will be up tonight!! Thank you so much for being so kind with me!! I’m sorry I’ve been posting infrequently! That is about to change soon!! Several other fics will be posted tonight!!!!))

Description:

The winter world was slowly melting away and it was quite beautiful to watch. You would stare at the colorful birds as they flew from branch to branch. Blue Jays bounced around and sang as they raced the Cardinals to the barren treetops. You much preferred to watch the crows though, they would stare back at you with dark little eyes that told ancient stories you could never understand. The crows would hop around and watch you and Arthur ride through the thin forest, then suddenly dozens of them took to the skies.

_______________________________________________________

This was it. You knew you had finally done it. The air was frigid, it made your skin turn a light shade of pink. Your fingers were ice cold even though you had two pairs of gloves on. It may have been near freezing but you were still sweating from running so much. Your heart raced, beating louder and louder like a drum in your ears.

Where was he? The tree you had taken cover behind wouldn’t last for long. You knew he was out there, waiting, ready to end it all. God dammit! Why did you always find yourself in these kinds of situations? Why were you so bad at being… bad? You sucked in a deep breath and took the biggest risk of your life.

Slowly and slower than time, you started to peek your head out from around the tree. Maybe he was still out? Or was he hiding still? As you neared the side of the tree and peered around the corner, you had zero time to react. What god damn mistake you made.

A snowball collided with your side of your face, adding to the collection of welts to your body that now tallied to six. Arthur was standing in the backyard of your hidden home, bending over laughing.

“Haha!! Got you again!!” You watched him slap his leg and nearly shit himself laughing.

You cleaned the snow away from your face and hair and took this as a chance to wad up a snowball of your own. Packing the snow tight together between your hands, you curled your arm back and snapped it forward. The snowball flew through the air right towards Arthur’s shoulder. When he was struck by the snowball he looked back up with a fire in his eyes that told you to run again.

A scream echoed out into the snowy forest as you ran for the barn this time. Arthur was hot on your tail and you could hear him calling out to you.

“You started this war!” He laughed, “Surrender or die!”

You got to the front doors of the barn and fumbled to push them open, “Eat my shit!!” It was too late, as you looked over your shoulder you were pelted with another snowball, this time on your upper leg.

Sometimes he could be such an asshole. You let out a yelp and frowned at Arthur, “This isn’t fun anymore! You’re just trying to hurt me now!” It was all fun and games in the beginning, but somehow it really did turn into a snowball war and Arthur was winning. He was only so good because he was older and had wicked good eye sight. You still struggled with shooting and aiming a gun, so how on earth could you throw a snowball?

Despite the war, it was nice to finally get out of the house again. A long storm had raged through the deeper parts of Paradise Valley. And Dutch said the winter’s here were mild. You’ve spent nearly all of it inside that house, listening to Uncle’s drunk stories about his golden years. The spring was only a few weeks away now, and Hosea had still not returned.

Nothing special happened this winter, thankfully. Though, when the Christmas time came around there was a nice humble morning were everyone woke up together and had a real and meaningful breakfast. You spent a lot of that time reading the medical books you had gotten from the doctor in town. One was on plants and how to make them in to medicine, you already knew a lot about that thanks to your mother. Another one was about tending to all type of open wounds and injuries. You had started practicing how to stitch with a needle and thread that Susan had lent you. Stitching a person and a blanket wasn’t that different. You had mastered the baseball stitch and the lock stitch but you still had a few others to get.

Now you stood facing death on the first day out in months. Arthur was an evil man, or just a bastard, perhaps both. You looked at him, glaring, daring him to throw another snowball, “Hit me again and see what happens!” You challenged him for the first time since this war started.

“Yeah? What’s a tiny little thing like you gonna do?” Arthur’s cocky grin ate away at you.

With a huff and a pout, you decided to really turn the tables. You locked eyes with Arthur and started to get the waterworks going. You let out a fake sob and wailed, “DUTCH!!!” And ran past Arthur before he could slap a hand on your mouth and save his own skin.

He cursed under his breath and dropped the snowball in his hand, “Shit- (Y/n)! I didn’t mean it! Come on it was a game!!” It stopped being a game when he started being an asshole.

You ran inside from the backdoor and through the kitchen, Arthur was close behind you when you got to the living room, “Dutch!” You yelled out to the old man sitting on the couch, reading away. Your loud yell startled him and he dropped his book right before you hid behind him with a small cry, “Arthur’s throwing snowballs at me! He won’t stop! He hit me in the face! Look!”

There was no way of stopping the bomb you had just set off. Dutch didn’t say a word as he gentle grabbed you by the chin and turn your head to look at the goose egg that was forming. You let out another cry, “He got me other places too,” You whined.

Arthur stood frozen in the entrance to the living room. You watched as a part of his soul floated away and into the heavens. Normally when Arthur was being a dick, you just ignored him. But sometimes he took it too far, like today, and you needed to unleash the wrath of Mother Dutch onto him.

Dutch snapped his gaze to the young outlaw and said, “What the hell is wrong with you? Huh? Throwing snowballs at a little girl?” You weren’t that little, not really.

You watched Arthur start to glare and his mouth hanging open, “She!” He pointed a finger at you, “She started it! She threw one at me!”

“And surely you are the dumb ass to throw one back,” Dutch got up from his spot on the couch while picking his book up off the floor. As he passed Arthur he smacked him on the head with his book and said, “Stop it. Get your ass back outside and keep watch,” Dutch suddenly snapped to you, “And you,” His glare softened but it was still there, “Stop bothering him.” He left after that and headed upstairs to find a new peaceful reading space.

The two of you were left alone again and all the hostility from before had started to melt away. You had won the last battle and you took your victory with pride. However, at the same time, you wanted to get the hell out of the house before Susan or Annabelle started asking you to do chores. So it was time for a new game.

You bolted. You broke out into a sprint and as you ran past Arthur you slapped a hand onto his arm and yelled out, “Tag!” And ran for the door.

He took the bait. He always took the bait. For a grumpy teenage outlaw, he sure loved playing games with you. He’d be turning 17 soon, and you knew sooner or later Arthur would join The Adults and leave you and your games behind. So you tried to enjoy them while you could. He was your best friend and you wanted to keep it that way forever.

As you ran out of the house you made your way back to the barn. Hidden inside was Callus and the rest of the horses. You had about ten seconds to mount up and run. It took you fifteen seconds just to get inside. Arthur was right behind you and you felt him smack your arm as he ran past you going deeper within the barn. He got on his horse quicker than you and fled the barn. His laughter filled the air as you scurried after him.

You busted out of the barn and saw the Arthur in the distance as he fled the forest. You chased after him on Callus. Snow fled into the air as you rushed your mustang to catch up with Arthur. Somehow tag turned into a race. When you got close enough to Arthur you laughed out and said, “Last one to Bottom’s Bridge has to do the other’s chores for a week!” Just as you said that you made it to the main road. You took a sharp right turn and took the lead as a confused Arthur had to process what you said.

It didn’t take long for him to understand and chase after you. The two of you race nearly side by side on the road. Eventually, the thick forest turned into an open valley. Cold air whipped past you, burning your cheeks and tangling your hair in the wind. For the first time in months, you felt free and alive. Something about riding a horse on the open snowy plains made you feel this sense of wonder that you thought you’d never feel again. Laughter bubbled from your lungs and filled the chilly air. The morning sun had nearly made it halfway up into the perfectly clear sky. Not a single cloud was out.

You looked over and you could see Arthur riding along beside you. He had a grin larger than life on his face. His own laughter echoed into the valley air. You shared a glance with him, your eyes locked and in just second Arthur had sped off ahead of you. His hair fluttered effortlessly in the cold wind and you could just make out the trail of clouds that escaped his lungs as he breathed.

That bastard wasn’t going to win, you wouldn’t stand for it. You spurred Callus on and snapped your reins, You let out a quiet breathy whisper, “Come on!” You begged your stallion, “Come on boy!” You kept your eyes locked on Arthur as you followed hot on his tail. He looked over his shoulder and cackled and hollered.

“Can’t catch up can ya, kid?!” The idiot wasn’t paying attention to where he was going.

In the distance, you could see the valley’s end. A frozen river flew and squirmed through the valley until it reached the end of a cliff. Bottom’s Bridge swept across the Paradise Falls where the river flowed down into a deep gorge.

Arthur’s horse grew spooked by the wall of steam and misty the flew in the sky as he ran towards the river’s bridge to cross it. The horse nearly bucked and kicked him off but you and Callus dashed past him and into cold icy clouds. The sun shimmered and little rainbows cast off each misty drop that escaped the edge of the falls. As you past Arthur you grinned at him, amazed and delighted to see his surprised face.

You pulled on the reins just as you heard the sound of wood clonk under Callus’s hooves. You made it to the bridge, a big cheeky grin smeared on your face, “I won!” You look over your shoulder at Arthur who had just made it there and threw the wall of mist, “I beat you!”

“Ah! So what!” He waved a hand at you, clearly trying to play it off, “I ain’t doing your chores no matter how many times you win!”

“Fine!” You huffed but you had a small smile. You pulled at the reins in your hands and spurred Callus towards the bridge, “Buy me something in town then!”

Arthur didn’t argue, you were already half way to town anyways. Besides, he could buy some much needed personal supplies. He could check the post office too for Dutch while he was at it. You waited for him to reach your side and the two of your set off together, side by side once again, at a slow and casual pace.

The winter world was slowly melting away and it was quite beautiful to watch. You would stare at the colorful birds as they flew from branch to branch. Blue Jays bounced around and sang as they raced the Cardinals to the barren treetops. You much preferred to watch the crows though, they would stare back at you with dark little eyes that told ancient stories you could never understand. The crows would hop around and watch you and Arthur ride through the thin forest, then suddenly dozens of them took to the skies.

Spring was coming very soon and you loved watching the world come back to life. The ride was silent for the most part, but you enjoyed the silence while a glance at Arthur every now and then just to make sure he wouldn’t pull any tricks or stunts. It wasn’t long until you made it the near hour and a half journey into Sugartown. It had been weeks since you saw the bleak little town. The dark winter trapped you in the house and it was refreshing to see other people some kind of civilization. You had little clothes to keep you warm, which was the biggest reason you stayed indoors. The second reason was that you had taken advantage of the basement in the house and used to practice your herb use as well.

At least it was warm enough now for your crappy jacket and several layers of shirts. You and Arthur hitched your horses outside the post office at every edge of town. As he stomped down into the muddy snow he groaned out and complained, “Ahh- I’m gonna check for any mail,” He sniffled his nose, you could see it was bright red and runny. He swiped his sleeve under his nose then walked past you, “Don’t get lost, kay? I’ll be back out and buy you whatever you want in a few seconds.”

You didn’t say much, you just nodded your head and made yourself comfortable against the wall near the front door. Arthur headed inside and you took to your least favorite pass time, people watching. First, you saw a busy priest dash down the road from his cute little church and right into some unknown building that didn’t have any signs on it. Then you saw a cozy fat little woman walking with her son, they headed down the main drag of town and went into the doctor’s office. You felt a shutter and shiver go down your spine and you knew it wasn’t from the cold. That town doctor… whatever his name was, you couldn’t remember if he told you or not. He didn’t give you a good feeling. He knew your family, and at this point, there was no way he didn’t know you.

The last time you saw him, it scared you a little bit, and at the same time, it bothered you. Would he go to the law and expose Dutch and the gang for technically kidnapping you? It wasn’t like that at all, but what adult lawmen would listen to a 13-year-old girl explain that she willingly went with them? So many people wanted Dutch’s head, they’d take any excuse they could to book him in a jail cell for good. The face of an evil child kidnapper was exactly what they wanted to paint him as. You and everyone else who knew Dutch knew he was more of a chaotic lover than anything else. He didn’t want to harm people, and a lot of his fortune was spent on others, even strangers. If people pushed him though, he’d kill and he’d do it with no mercy.

You shook those thoughts from your head then wondered what was taking Arthur so long. He’d been gone for almost ten minutes. You ventured into the dark and dim post office and waited as your eyes adjusted to the light. After a second of blinking blindly, you found Arthur at the mail window.

It took only a second for you to glare and roll your eyes before walking over to him. He was standing broad and wide, leaning forward on the mail window’s counter as he flirted with the young teenage teller who worked here. Arthur talked low and made the young girl laugh and giggle behind her hand.

You couldn’t blame him, she was very pretty. She had a clean smile and rosy cheeks that gave away her wild blush. Her hair was dark black with wild curls that frizzed out in every direction. She dressed very casual and proper in a creamy white dress that had cute little black ribbons in it. You made your way to the window and crossed your arms and stomped a food hard down onto the floorboards.

Arthur snapped from his flirty eyed daze and you saw his face go from that gross thirsty look into one of anger and irritation. The young woman, however, seemed amused. She laughed like an airhead and peered over the counter to look down at you.

“Hello, little girl,” She greeted you, but you ignored her and glared back at Arthur.

You pointed a finger at him and took three steps closer till you jabbed your finger into his stomach, “You said a few seconds! You’re a dirty filthy liar.”

“It’s only been a few minutes,” Arthur retorted and shrugged like he didn't care, “Go wait outside, kid,” He tried to shoo you away but you smacked his hand.

The poor innocent girl made a terrible mistake. She was confused and asked, “Is she your little sister?” Something about that question made you angry.

“No!” You suddenly turned your glare on the innocent girl and tried to smile, “He’s a terrible person, trust me, your father would never let you marry him.” This girl stared back at you with a blank gaze, it made you think she was more stupid than the average person.

Before Arthur could beat you and before the girl could gasp in shock, you slapped your hand on the mail Arthur failed to take. You looked at him, ready to fight toe to toe, “Can we go now?”

As much as Arthur wanted to wring your neck, he didn’t and he just huffed a big sigh and grabbed you by your arm as he dragged you out of the post office. You yanked your arm away from him once got outside and gave the mail back to Arthur. He tucked it away into his satchel and followed you.

“Why you always gotta do that?” Arthur barked down at you, he walked beside you as you ran down the steps and deeper into town.

“Do what?” You asked like you had no idea what he was talking about.

Arthur scoffed then slacked your shoulder with the back of his hand, “Be a little rude shit to all the girls I talk to?” You couldn’t deny that anytime you caught Arthur flirting with some stranger you’d get angry, but you did because it disgusted you and he always chooses to take his perverted interests at the most inconvenient times.

“Because it annoys you,” You smirked up at him and then mockingly said, “Because I’m your annoying little sister,” You smacked him back, right in the gut, then hurried off to avoid getting smacked twice as harder.

You fled into the general store, your goal all along, a ran towards the back of the store were the kept all the candy you could dream of in tiny little barrels. This was the prize you wanted for winning your race. Arthur may have forgotten all about it, but you didn’t. He came bursting through the door looking like an idiot. The store clerk gave him a glare and muttered something under his breath.

Arthur joined you in the back of the store, slightly winded and breathing heavily. He didn’t even say a word and picked up a bag and started doing the same as you. You both filled the red paper bags to the brim with sweet treats. You loved chocolate the most and got the sweet little round chocolate truffles. Arthur collected carnal and butterscotch like some old man.

“I should get two bags because I won the race,” You said casually.

Arthur grunted, which was his only reply. He didn’t say no, so you handed him your first bag and filled a second one. You filled that one with one of every candy, then a few extras of your favorites. Arthur took all three bags and handed them over to the overly grumpy store clerk. He weighed them out then tied them closed with little twisty ties. Arthur paid for each one in his silent monotone autopilot mode, mumbling thanks, then tossed you both of your bags.

You left the store, tearing open one bag and digging into the candies, and followed Arthur through town once more. You walked side by side down the wood plank sidewalks. You tossed a little chocolate truffle into your mouth and sighed in glee at the sweet and precious candy as it melted away in your mouth.

“Thanks for the candy, Arthur,” You beamed up to your unruly friend.

He seemed to have gotten over all the trouble you caused him today, and was content with plucking away at the sweet little caramel treats he got himself, “Don’t mention it,”

Despite all the irritation, you caused each other, you really did care about Arthur like he was a brother. He was family, and as much as you pestered and annoyed the shit out of him sometimes, he’d never want to see or do you any harm. The two of you enjoyed each other company and found a bench to sit on under the cover of a stores front porch. You silently sat together, eating away at candy, until Arthur realized the whole reason you even came to town.

“The mail!” He said out of nowhere, nearly giving you a heart attack, “I almost forgot!” He set his bag of candy down between the town of you and dug into his satchel, “Look, (Y/n),” Arthur handed you a small and warn envelope.

You clasped it tight with cold fingers and squinted down at the words. It was addressed to a Francis Marwick. That was another pen name set up between the gang. Suddenly it hit you and you snapped your gaze back to Arthur, gasping out, “It’s from Hosea!”

Arthur swiped the letter and tucked it away. Before you could protest and ask to read it, he firmly said, “Dutch has got to see it first,” he shook his head at you. You sprung up from your seat quickly and grabbed him by his arm, “Then we better get back!”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He was coming back. Hosea had written a lengthy letter that took to long to finally get to Dutch. When Arthur gave Dutch the letter, he was almost at a loss of words. A letter and it was from Hosea? You thought Dutch would be angry, at first, but he was just surprised. It took him a while to get through the whole thing, but you watch Dutch’s face change and listened to him read bits of the letter out loud.

The story goes like this; Bessie’s father had died and her two sisters sold the ranch and ran off with whatever money they could make. She followed one of her sisters to California after finding out they tricked her, and lied about going to Texas. Hosea comes in because he promised to help Bessie get the money for her ranch back. Months had passed and they made no luck finding her sister… but… They did get married. Hosea pleaded that he would have been back sooner, and with as much money as he could bring but they were cheated out of an inheritance and robbed of everything they owned. They got stuck in California though, waiting to make enough money to head home.

Hosea wrote that he would have never of let this happen and that he would hopefully be home once the spring had settled in. As for Susan’s declaration that he was a money hungry gold digger, that seemed false because he didn’t gain a single penny from marrying Bessie, instead he gained the love his life, or so that’s how he described it.

Now you had to wait. You made yourself useful around camp and started talking up hunting as your preferred chore. For some reason, you wanted to impress Hosea when he got back home. You still studied hard away at making medicines in the basement. You were not very good at it, but you knew it’d take time and practice. You practiced your stitching as well, every day you would take some leather from a previous hunt and stitch them together as if they were skin in need medical attention. You had started studying from a book on veins and arteries as well.

When you weren’t busy studying or doing chores, you’d spend your free time with Arthur. Dutch was to busy looking for a new campsite or wooing Annabelle to be bothered right now. Susan enjoyed your company in the morning when you did chores with her, but she preferred to spend her evenings in town or alone. And no one wanted to hang around Uncle to long or he’d talk your ear right off.

The snow soon melted away entirely, and days turned into weeks, and the forest started to bloom to life. With the good weather, Dutch took to moving camp closer to town. You packed up your things and wished the house a very welcomed goodbye. You hated living there, crammed into such a small space with so many people. Perhaps it wasn’t that bad that Hosea wasn’t there for the house, there surely wasn’t any room for him or Bessie.

As you left the house behind, you wondered how Hosea would know where to find your new camp. Arthur left a note behind, written in code in case anyone other than Hosea was to find it. Your new camp was a million times better, thank God. Although the weather was still a little chilly, the days grew warm and you found a new camp west of Sugartown, and east of a new town called Blue Rock, it was a coal mining town and full of prospects and outlaws. It was a place Dutch wanted to call home but Annabelle managed to argue with him into choosing a shady lakeside camp equally between the two towns.

You were glad she did, because, on your first visit to Blue Rock, you felt unwanted and scared. It was a town filled with mostly men, prostitutes, miners, and all sorts of criminals. They all stared at you like you were a freak. There were houses that the miners lived in, saloons, train stations for the coal that was mined, and several brothels. There was no church, no sheriff’s office, no bank, and no doctor. It was truly lawless, dark, dank, and dangerous. You never went back after that. Anytime Arthur or Dutch went to town, you had to always ask which one now.

It wasn’t until it was a cold and misty morning where you found yourself cast far out from camp. You were sitting on a rock down the beach of camp as you worked at carving your initials into the stone with your hunting knife. Someone was walking across the stony beach, you could hear them step over all the smooth little pebbles. They made their way towards you and as you looked over your shoulder you threw your knife to the ground and leap from the top of the large boulder you perched yourself on.

Hosea had come home, and he stood in front of you with his arms held wide open. He was tanner than usual and his hair had grown out some. You let out some strange laugh mixed with a cry as you ran towards him and threw yourself into his arms, “You’re back!” It had been months since you last saw him.

You never realized until he was gone just how much you missed Hosea. He laughed and let out a grunt as you threw yourself at him, but he smiled and jokingly said, “Of course I am! Where else would I go?” You missed him so much. Life wasn’t the same without him, you had no one to go hunting with, which you’ve grown to deeply enjoy the hunt and providing for the gang since Hosea’s absence. There was less joy in camp without him as well, everyone missed him. There was also little profit coming in without the master conman at work. Dutch was little to nothing without his right-hand man.

“I never thought you’d come back. You just left without saying anything…” You let out a little cry, but it was free of any tears. You buried your face into Hosea’s chest and listened to him softly laugh. It was comforting to hear him again.

“I would never leave you behind, I always had intentions of coming back,” Hosea held you close, hugging you, then pulling away, “How could I leave you and Arthur with Dutch for too long? He’d get you guys killed eventually,” He said those words so seriously, you thought he was joking but he didn’t laugh and neither did you.

Hosea stood tall and held onto your hand as you walked down the beach towards camp together. You told him all about how awful the winter was and how much Arthur liked to pick on you.

When you started to ask him about his time away, he’d brush it off and answer your question with another question. He didn’t seem to want to talk about what happened when he was gone or why he left at all. He came back to a married man, however, and Bessie was back in camp waiting for him. The two had drastically changed in character. The last time you saw them together they were very friendly towards each other, now they were very openly affectionate, going as far to call each other very cheesy pet names. It almost grossed you out.

The first night Hosea and Bessie were back, everyone partied. Even you did a little. You really just enjoyed having Hosea back, even Bessie too. It had made you reflect on the past year and a half. So much of your life changed. You lost your parents but gained several new ones. You had gone through a series of depressive episodes, but you were learning to cope with your grief and sorrow of your family and life. You’d be turning 14 this year, though your birthday was still many months away. As you sat around the large fire pit with everyone, listening to Hosea and Bessie retell parts of their journey home, you felt whole for the first time in what felt like months.

It was if Hosea’s homecoming that enlightened your soul or sparked some kind of hope in you. You looked forward to the next day, and the months to come, excited to see where Dutch and Hosea would take you next. The dark winter was finally over and you could live in the sun again, you hoped, and almost prayed that you’d be heading to the desert again. You could feel it in deep within you, good things were about to happen.

[whatmyheartsaw]

What My Heart Did Chapter 5, Episode 3

Thawing from Below

Present Writing always seems to get harder for a time once I uncover a new element of deeply embedded truth. Since all the discoveries about my grandfather’s murder trial and how that trauma has passed down through the generations, I’ve been numb to the stories that until now have been so important to recovery. Nearly a year has passed. My mother died in January, and my father is in a nursing home. It’s almost as if my mind and body have needed to put all the facts of my ancestry aside and place any realizations into hibernation or a dormant state until I am able to adjust and understand.

Spring is slowly unfolding again in the Shenandoah Valley. As I watch the bulbs burst from the ground and the leaves and blossoms timidly emerge from the barren limbs of flowering trees and oaks, I think back to winter’s rough hand. How do trees and plants weather ice storms, snow cover, and frozen ground to faithfully reemerge each spring? What is their defense against the difficulties they are handed each and every season?  

So, like any curious gardener or naturalist would do, I looked it up. I wanted to remind myself of the process I probably learned in 7th grade, and maybe glean some insight into how we as humans can be more resilient. I found an explanation by Gary Watson, head researcher from The Morton Arboretum in Illinois that struck me.

“Plants from climates with cold winters have evolved to survive winter by going dormant. That means not just dropping leaves and slowing or stopping growth, but also reducing the amount of water in branch and root tissues. The lowered concentration of water in a plant's tissue acts like a natural antifreeze: It means it takes deeper cold to form ice inside them.”

"There's always warmth in the earth," Watson says. "The soil may be freezing from the surface, but it's always thawing from below."

Throughout the winter, he says, plants are adapting constantly to the changes. The biggest danger to plants is a sudden deep freeze. "As long as they have time to adjust, they're OK," he says. "It's when change happens suddenly that it can cause trouble."

As I let that description of how plants adapt to the challenges of winter sink in, the correlation to my own life emerges. “There’s always warmth in the earth,” throbs in my heart like a drumbeat.  

2014-2017 Dismantling my “busyness” took some time to settle into. First it required shutting down one business, stepping down from a non-profit board, and figuring out how to be more present with a family that was 750 miles away. The road was a bit bumpy to say the least. I considered moving closer to my family, but given my business was just starting to earn me a decent living, I didn’t think about that long. So instead I traveled and tried to keep up with the work on the road. I quickly saw that if I was going to eventually relocate, I would need to reposition my business in the new town. And while I wasn’t technically opening a “new” business, the expansion to a new market wasn’t much different. For two years I shuttled back and forth between Virginia and Florida, networking, teaching classes, and taking on new clients in both locations. Busyness took on a whole new meaning. But I rationalized the effort was “focused.”

Soon there was a second grandchild on the way. As rewarding as it was to spend time with my new granddaughter and anticipate the arrival of #2, the trips were exhausting and expensive for someone chronically ill and financially strapped. Despite my efforts towards self-care, in addition to the bouts of fibromyalgia and gastrointestinal maladies, I caught more bugs that lasted longer and had less and less energy for other parts of my life.  Friends and social activities were infrequent, and I dragged myself from task to task with a gritty determination that held my fractured pieces together like glue drizzled over a pile of straw. I knew I was hanging by a thread, but the realizations of how family trauma is passed on and my intuition about how to stop the cycle kept me driving forward. I couldn’t undo what had happened to me, but I might be able to contribute to greater understanding, support, and love in subsequent generations. Quitting wasn’t an option.

What I didn’t realize was how fragile my recovery still was. Spring and summer turned to fall, and the stones I thought I was turning to reveal a saner life just uncovered another cloudy puddle of fear. Being part of the more animated, vocal family that my son married into set off all kinds of triggers. I had to practice boundary setting again and again in order to keep myself from splitting apart, and I wasn’t sure anyone understood my challeges. More intimate contact with other people’s unhappiness and passionate disagreements reminded me just how ill-equipped I was to be a grounding force within a family. Despite how far I’d come, I had a long way to go.

By early 2017 I found myself dismantling again, but in a much more dramatic way. During a trip the previous fall where I met with multiple clients, did the whole family fall activities thing, and tried to fit a visit with a friend from high school into the mix, I literally went blind. I was fighting off yet another cold, and prior to an early flight out, had booked a room at a small lake resort near the airport hoping to get some much needed recovery time. When I arrived at the hotel, I noticed my eyes were tired and cloudy, but went about having dinner and enjoying some time by the water watching the sun set. By the time I went to bed, my eyes were quite bloodshot and red, but I passed it off as fatigue and decided a good night’s rest would help.

In the morning my eyes were glued completely shut. Somewhere I had contracted a nasty case of conjunctivitis. How was I going to get my rental car back to the airport and catch my flight? I felt my way to the sink to bathe my eyes. Warm water helped, but I looked a fright and there was no time to make other arrangements. So, like every other time in my life when the going got tough, I went. Donned my sunglasses, loaded up my bags, and got safely to the airport, on the plane, and home from the airport without incident, all the while conscious of not spreading the horrific eye crud to anyone else. 

But the pink eye did me in. Despite my careful attempts to manage the infection, it moved from one eye to the other and back. Even with treatment, I was unable to see for several weeks, and stumbled through limited work. Three eye doctors and several months later, I was left with a twitch and a clue that perhaps I wasn’t seeing my life clearly. By May I had shut down the Florida business operation and was regrouping once again, wondering if I would ever find my way out of the fog of trauma. The frustration of never quite finding the path to healing was driving me mad.  

Present Today I woke to a cool spring morning, Easter in fact, and the metaphor of resurrection isn’t lost on me. I noticed the oak tree that groaned and shattered so violently during the winter’s first ice storm has, in spite of its scarred limbs, begun to rise to spring’s call with a splash of brilliant green.  

I feel as though I’ve risen from the dead more times than most people could fathom, but these old trees give me pause. The season has turned again, and I’m cautiously optimistic that I can too.

Holidays bring mostly painful memories for me – but this Easter I’m focused on the fun parts that did and do exist. The waking to eggs hidden in the house. An Easter basket and a new dress or shoes for church. A new tradition of funny bunny ear photos. 

And as I relive and enjoy the good parts, I see that the legacy of childhood abuse and how it passes down through generations is a lot like the hardness of winter. Just when we think we’ve recovered and created eternal summer in our hearts - just when we think the storm has passed - winter comes around again in a blinding snowstorm or coating of ice, freezing the soil and forcing us into hibernation. And each time the winter of our pain recurs, it’s easy to despair and believe the ravages of those traumas will never heal. But remembering there’s always warmth in the earth, thawing us from below, can help us keep going. Accepting we may never “heal,” just like accepting that winter will come again, is a sweet surrender to a truth that can settle the restless heart of a trauma survivor.  Somehow, even through generations of all kinds of human trauma and pain, just like plants, we too can wake from difficulties of winter and rise again to a new season. And perhaps that’s all the healing we really need. 

Read previous episodes of What My Heart Did HERE.