#and then and then -- 'you'd be dead' 'but you'd have red john' [smash cut to him shooting his only lead to save her life] LIKE???

[lisbonsteresa]

climbing the walls over this

[siriuslyshewrote]

Gotta Be A Reason - Shelby!Sister

Summary : Finn and Y/N have been drifting apart for a while, but a storm may help them reconcile.

Requested? Yes

1927 - February - Aged 18

The storm raged outside the Shelby house, rain pelting against the windows like tapping fingers, thunder rumbling so loudly it was deafening, lightning occasionally brightening the room through the thin lace curtains. The inside of the house was quiet, nearly all of its residents fast asleep, most of the Shelby siblings and their aunt able to sleep like the dead, even with the cacophony of noise outside.

You weren't, however, your hands, white knuckles showing through skin, clutching the quilt tightly around you in an almost cocoon, a way to block in the sounds of your sobs. Your forehead was damp, though you couldn't tell if it was from the tears, or the sweat that covered you on nights like these.

The nightmares had always plagued you, in different forms, ever since you were a tiny child. When you were younger, Polly had taken you to a variety of people to try and figure it out, but no one ever could, and after a while, you started to refuse to go with her, accepting that this was something you just had to deal with. When your father lived with you, the dreams were of his yells, the tiny cupboard that John often put the three of you - yourself, Finn, and Ada - in, when yelling turned into smashing furniture, then into worse things. During the war, there was gunshots and mud, and John and Tommy and Arthur, all dying in some horrific way. Afterwards, it was blood on the pavement, razor blades in caps, split knuckles, yells, and worst of all, the members of your family getting killed.

Now, it was similar dreams each night. They all ended the same way, John, bleeding, shot, on the pavement outside his own home. The blank glassy stare, the slightly open mouth that never would, and never could, make a joke again. Most nights you woke up screaming, Polly rushing into your room, wrapping her arms around you, hugging you tightly, saying nothing, because she knew no words would comfort you now. She held you until she thought you fell asleep, and then left the room quietly. You never fell back asleep. How could you?

You sniffed quietly, fingers brushing away the cold tears, the cold sweat on your forehead, pushing yourself into a sitting position, arms wrapping around your legs. Your eyes looked over at the other empty bed in the room, once slept in by your older sister, before she had moved to London. The photos of her favourite actors and actresses were still pinned above her bed, cut out from programmes and magazines, some of the teenage love letters still stuffed under the mattress, Henry, the bedraggled teddy she'd inherited off Tommy, slumped against the pillow, one eye missing, due to an unfortunate argument with John.

A few years ago, if you had nightmares, Ada, you, and Finn would crowd into that uncomfortable single bed with the lumpy mattress, and you'd feel safe, nestled between your two older siblings (though, as you constantly told Finn at the time, there was only an hour between the both of your ages). You would look at those photos, hear the crinkle of the letters, clutch Henry to your chest, and sleep.

Even earlier than that, before the war, when your eldest brothers didn't spend their whole nights drinking and doing god knows what else, you'd just wander into the first room that still had the light beaming out from under the door.

Sometimes, you'd find John, and he'd read to you, in a soft voice, and occasionally, if you were really upset, would make up stories, always with 'Princess Y/N' as the heroine. In those stories, you'd fight dragons and sea creatures and monsters that hid under the bed, and suddenly, you weren't all that scared of the dreams anymore.

Arthur would sing the old pub songs that your father had once sang, and the lack of tune was made up for by your brothers soft singing voice, the songs almost morphing into nursery rhymes to you. The songs were never scary when they came from Arthur's mouth.

Tommy was always best found near the fire downstairs, too tired and weary to make it to his room, and you'd curl up next to him, in your hand-me-down striped pyjamas, in a comfortable quiet, his arm, that was wrapped around you, enough to make you feel brave enough to fall asleep.

But now, you were older, no longer lulled to sleep by songs, or stories, or a warm arm, and besides, even if you were, you knew that if you ventured to the hallway, there would no longer be a crack of light under the worn wooden doors. Your brothers had moved out, become too consumed with money, women, drugs. One of them was gone forever.

They no longer cared for fairy tales or songs or warm arms. That was what you told yourself on nights such as these. You weren't sure if it was true or not.

*****

You stood outside the door in the hallway, cracked and dented from years of arguments and slamming doors, in your too big striped pyjamas that had once been John's, bare feet cold against the wooden floor. You wouldn't wake Polly tonight, wanting to let her have at least one night of full sleep. Besides, from the dim light under the crack of the door, your twin brother was in his room at night for the first time in months, ever since he started donning his crown of razor blades.

The hesitation in you wasn't something that you were used to, but you and Finn had grown apart a lot, over the past few months. You barely spoke, and when you did, it always ended in an argument. He was never around anymore, preferring to spend time with Bonnie and Michael and Isaiah, out drinking, or doing things at the office, running errands for Tommy. The most you saw him was at family meetings, though you barely even looked at each other anymore, your eyes firmly on the ground, eyelids heavy, anger boiling every second that went by that no one mentioned John or Esme or the children. They all preferred to forget what had happened, to forget them all. You couldn't. You wouldn't.

"Finn?" You whispered loudly through the crack in the door.

You waited a few moments, in silence, shivering, trying to blinking away tears. For a moment, you thought he was going to ignore you,but then the door swung open, and you looked up to see an exhausted looking Finn, still dressed half in his suit, hair rumpled with sleep. He blinked a few times, as if trying to wake himself up before he noticed your tears.

“Hey, what’s the matter?”

For once, he didn’t sound drunk, just exhausted, as he stepped back a little, inviting you into his room. The lamp was dull, illuminating only the desk, which was strewn with papers, full of scrawling, messy writing, almost like a child’s. Finn had never been the most articulate, and you’d been teaching him, but it had trailed off after the events of Christmas last year. His bed was the one pushed against the far wall, though there was now plenty of space to move it, with the absence of the three other beds of your older brothers that had once been there, and his clothes were strewn all over the floor. It filled you with a small sense of familiarity - this room was the way it had always been.

You hugged your arms around you, stepping into the room, taking the moment when your back was turned to wipe away the tears from your eyes.

“Nothing, I ... I just can’t sleep is all. Thought you’d be awake.” You turned back to him, a half smile on your face, though it faltered as you saw the disbelieving look he shot you.

“Come on, Y/N. I know when you’ve been crying.”

He held out his arms, and you shuffled into them, your cold arms wrapped tightly around him, face buried into his chest, teeth biting your lips to contain the sobs.

“I just... I can’t stop dreaming about him. About how it happened. It’s just stuck in my mind, over and over and over. I can’t-“

“Sh, I know, I know. It was just a bad dream, okay? Just a bad dream.” His hands stroked your hair, but his voice was half strangled, as if he was out of his depth. He was, really. You hadn’t talked to each other about John since the day it happened.

“He’s gone, Finn. Our brother, and no one seems to care-“

“We do care.”

You pulled back, red rimmed eyes looking at his half accusingly.

“You never speak about him. Tommy took down all of the photos. Locked up his house - I can’t even get in.”

“It’s easier that way, Y/N/N.”

“Everything’s fallen apart since he died.” You continued, hands gesturing almost wildly. “Arthur’s off his head, Tommy only cares about the business, Ada never comes to visit, and you -“

“Don’t start with this tonight-“ His voice was strained, panicked, never wanting to talk about John. You shouldn’t have pushed him, shouldn’t keep going. But you did.

“I didn’t know that when I lost one brother I’d lose my twin too.” You said quietly. “I thought it was us against the world, Finn.”

“We’re just growing up-“

You sniffed, wiping your nose on your sleeve, lip wobbling.

“Is that really it?” Your voice was uncertain, trembling. “Am I just not as fun as ‘Saiah, or Bonnie, or Michael?”

“You pushed me away first-“

“I didn’t-“

“You never come out of the house anymore, you never speak to me-“

“He was our brother! I’m fucking grieving, Finn.”

“And he’s gone!” He exclaimed, breaking your previously hushed conversation. “He’s gone.” His eyes began to tear up, and he turned away, never willing to let anyone see his emotions, not anymore.

“Finn-“ You spoke quietly, hand reaching out to his shoulder.

“I can’t talk about him, okay? I can’t.” His voice cracked.

“Okay, okay.” You softly said, heart breaking a little. Finn was always the strong one, but it was only now occurring to you that perhaps it was just a facade to shield you from what he was feeling.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I know I should have been there for you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think that ... I just thought you’d forgotten.”

He sniffed, hand reaching to face, turning back around. His face was damp, and his eyes avoided yours a little, sitting down on his bed. He was a giant compared to you, but right now, he just looked like a little kid again, the one who’d always stood up for you, held your hand always. You’d both neglected each other lately.

“We haven’t been acting much like twins, lately, have we?” He spoke again.

You shrugged, sitting down next to him.

“It hurts too much to talk about him. And I know you want to, but-“

“It’s okay, Finn. One day, we’ll talk about him again. But for now ... I think we just need to talk to each other again.” You leant into his side, his arm wrapping around you.

He murmured an agreement, and you both sat in silence for a few moments.

For the first time in a few months, as your eyes flickered shut with tiredness, you were sure you wouldn’t have the nightmares.

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