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ghosttownwherenoonegoes · 2 years ago

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Weather the storm // e.m x gn!reader ft. Uncle Wayne

Summary: You need some help to help yourself but Eddie needs help to help you because he's never seen you like this before. Luckily, Uncle Wayne has a wealth of life experiences which he uses to aid Eddie, who can then help you. Eddie just wants you safe, healthy and happy.

Tw; comfort, fluff, I've written so many fics like this already but oh well have another one because we all need a hug from our Uncle Wayne, reader has trouble communicating and uses the weather system to describe their mood, reader stops eating and sleeping as much (poor self-care due to low mood; vicious cycle which they're aware of but lack the want to change it), reader cries, Eddie & Uncle Wayne worry, Uncle Wayne is a hand-holding sweetheart, Eddie and Uncle Wayne refer to each other FREQUENTLY as son & dad respectively because that's the canonical truth and I won't listen to anything else, I only refer to him as Uncle Wayne because calling him 'Wayne' with no precursor feels rude as all hell. Not sure why!

Dedicated to @stevesmunsons, who is going through something incredibly difficult but is still doing her best and kicking ass. Eddie would tell you that it's okay to feel, it's okay to cry, you're still the most metal ever in his eyes, he loves you and he'll always be there, 'kay? 'Kay. I love you lots, Sarah, and I'm sending you lots of love and hugs!💖💖💖 I also dedicate this wholeheartedly to you for always being so sweet and giving with the Eddie edits!!!! You have no idea how light and happy your creations make me feel and how tightly I grip my phone just to feel him closer.🥺Thank you, thank you, thank you.💖I hope you enjoy, Sarah!🌸

Fic specific tags: @neewtmas @maladaptive-day-dreams @sadbitchfangirl @tayhar811 @captainonaboat @chloe-6123 @desicroft02 @anotherdayinchuckletown @skyline4446 @cherrycolas-things @relocatedheads @madaboutmunson2 @rebelcthulhu @fluffysteampunkd @babyloutattoo89 @indiefawna @thefreak0fhawkinshigh @tinfoilhat86

Eddie tags: @eddiebunson @hersweetrevenge @sweetpeapod @sabbathsworld @hawkinsroyaloutcast @seidenbros @bakerstreethound @eddiemunsonshoney @potatos-library @gemstone-roses @hellfire1986baby @jslittlebirdie @comfortcharactercraze @heydreamchild @mywinterivy @corrodedcoffeen @m00nlight101 @3ddi3-daydreamer @pleasantlycrazyworld @samlealea @indouloureux @basicallybats @niceboyeds @manyfandomsfanvergent @becca-alexa @singularattitudeofasafetypin @knifeskiss @loving-and-dreaming @hiscrimsonangel

Word count: 3, 877.

To begin with, your mental and physical self-care had only slipped a tiny bit. It was barely enough for anyone other than you to notice. You slept an hour less than usual, you snacked a bit less, you gave yourself less time in the shower and watched television for half an hour less every night or watched everything other than what you actually wanted to watch. All that 'saved' time was used to work a bit more, a bit harder, to love yourself a bit less.

To begin with, only you noticed.

Until you didn't. Until you lost sight of yourself.

You stopped noticing the darkening bags under your eyes, the way you occasionally stumbled from exhaustion through the trailer door late at night, the way you stopped smiling when your favourite song came on the radio in Eddie's van or the way the sight of Uncle Wayne at the end of a long hard day (the start of his day spelled the end of yours; you were ships in the night) made you grin so hard you teared up, now caused you to just stare at him with glassy eyes and a barely perceptible smile. You stopped noticing that it had become easier for you to skip a meal than it was for you to actually sit down and eat something.

But Eddie didn't.

Eddie noticed everything, from the very first day you started to display signs that you weren't okay. He saw it all, kept mental notes on behaviours which cropped up which concerned him, and almost nightly relayed them back to Uncle Wayne when they were alone - what is spoken in the Munson trailer stays in the Munson trailer. It's in the Munson Doctrine and so it is a rule never broken, on pain of receiving a cold shoulder for a day or two.

The Munsons had icy shoulders when wronged.

Uncle Wayne had told Eddie to keep an eye on you, to let you come to him in your own time, and Eddie had done that. But then days had turned to weeks, weeks to a month, and Eddie couldn't take it anymore.

He had to step in.

In all honesty, if he hadn't stepped in when he did, Uncle Wayne's advice that night would have been just that:

Clearly, you needed help to help yourself.

You needed Eddie.

Eddie would deny you nothing during the best of times, but during the worst of times? He'd give you all he had and then some.

"Hey, do you think you can swing it with your boss to come home early tonight? Clouds are real dark overhead and I don't know what to do." Eddie turned and looked over his shoulder, to see what had been constant for the last half an hour; you, with a blanket thrown over your lap, staring through the television as you passively watched the images of your favourite film flicker across the screen. There was nothing on your face besides vague recognition. It sent chills down Eddie's spine to realise that even your most beloved film wasn't connecting with you and lowered his voice, "something's wrong, man."

It was the way Eddie stopped speaking in metaphors which grabbed Uncle Wayne's attention, as well as the fact that Eddie was usually the quiet supporter of the graveyard shifts and long, long hours. He was the one to cook three lots of dinner so Uncle Wayne could eat when he got home, he was the one who set the shower up so all that needed to be done was for it to be turned on, he was the one who got the pull out bed ready so all his beloved dad had to do was reheat dinner, eat, shower, then sleep.

Eddie never asked for Uncle Wayne to come home early unless it was real dark overhead. A code for 'family emergency' and one long established: ever since the Munsons had realised that you didn't always have it in you to ask for help, but you were happy to use the weather in place of a mood. No forecast had been given this morning and no forecast had been given this afternoon, either, even though it was obvious that the sun wasn't coming out for you, but this evening, Eddie had had enough of not being able to see what the weather was even when he was sat right next to you, and so he called in the one weatherman who always knew what to do.

All his life, Eddie had never once been in a situation which his dad hadn't been able to resolve or make better somehow, and this was no exception. He was sure of it.

In the end, Uncle Wayne faked a family emergency (it was more an elaboration of the truth, really, because you not feeling okay was an emergency) so that he could get out of work, on account of having no sick time available until the next quarter. He had been working at the plant long enough now that if he wanted to leave early, little about it was said and few eyebrows were raised at the daring. It was known that Wayne Munson would make up the time at a later date; his boy was probably in trouble again.

Uncle Wayne got home as quickly as he could. No traffic laws were broken, a decision made through a clenching jaw and fingers which white-knuckled the steering wheel. If he had his way, he would fly home. Hell, he would never have gone to work at all if he really wanted to get his way, but the world hadn't ever been kind to him and Uncle Wayne had sworn to himself over a decade ago that he would shield his boy from it as best as he could. Full of anger, he always chose kindness where he could, and he was nice where he couldn't be kind. It wasn't easy, but he wanted to be better than the people who had taught him how to hate. He wanted to do right by his boy. Even when his boy wasn't around to watch.

That had to count for something, right?

Uncle Wayne thought it did, and to hell with anyone else who didn't.

He had Eddie and they didn't, so who was the real winner in this situation?

On that high thought, which made Uncle Wayne's heart ache in his chest, he was home, and in no time at all did he push open the front door to the trailer with a world weary sigh. The world couldn't touch him or his boy when they were home together. It was their sanctuary from a world which sought to devour anyone born into it, turn them into just another nameless, faceless cog in the machine. A number on a spreadsheet. A statistic. But here, in this trailer? Why, it was a place of love and acceptance, tough love when required, pride always, understanding and tenderness and no judgement. Ever. For anything.

Home is where the heart is and that's why the trailer was the trailer when one or both Munsons weren't in it, but home when they were together under the same metal roof.

"Hey, kiddos!" He kept his voice level; it came out sounding gruffer than it was intended, but you and Eddie both heard the relief in his voice to be home, and the slight strain of tension in his voice when his tender blues fell upon you. He wasn't even fully in the door and already you were one of his priorities. Eddie had taken a few steps closer, like a moth to a flame when it came to his dad, but you had stayed exactly where you were, gazing absently at the television. Your usual excited greeting, the way you bounced up like a puppy when a Munson came home, was nowhere to be heard or seen and it caused similar looks of worry to cross the Munsons' faces.

"Oh, thank fuck! Dad!" Eddie was a blur of black and denim as he launched himself at Uncle Wayne, who only chuckled fondly and brought Eddie into his chest easily. It was a part of his come-home routine to catch his boy, literally; Eddie had always been fond of throwing himself out of trees, off benches, at his dad to say hello... "Thanks for coming home early," Eddie whispered, his voice a bit louder than a whisper was supposed to be, but you were still mindlessly watching television and paying little attention to your surroundings.

That was two strikes in both Eddie and Uncle Wayne's books; barely watching your favourite film, and you hadn't hugged the elder Munson within a millisecond of Eddie letting him go.

"'Course," Uncle Wayne smiled and ruffled Eddie's curls, his hand almost swallowing the crown of his son's head, fingers hot and grip firm. Eddie's ultimate comfort was his dad's touch, physical or otherwise. His dad's cooking, words, music, hugs, hell, even all the times he still crawled into his dad's bed after a nightmare (the most recent of those times was just last week), his music, all reached Eddie deep within, further than even your own touch sometimes. "I'd never tell my boy no." Not for something like this, especially.

Eddie playfully winced. "Ehh, once or twice."

Uncle Wayne nodded his head in agreement, crow's feet deepening as he smiled. He loved the banter just as much as Eddie did, found it invigorating to know that Eddie was now able to give as good as he got. He had never quite managed it as a kid or even as a teenager, but now at twenty, he could run circles around Uncle Wayne when he wanted to. And he did. Often. "Gotta keep ya' on your toes, son."

Eddie inched in for another hug from his dad, squeezing, and took the opportunity to say, "this is really bad, man. I don't know how to help." He let go and Uncle Wayne rolled his shoulders, kicked off his boots, and cast his blues over you again. Not in greeting, this time, but in searching. Figuring you out.

Uncle Wayne stepped away from the front door and toed off his boots, nudging them into line against the sideboard with his socked feet, shed his coat and hung that up. He was left in that flannel you loved so much and wore often, a dark blue shirt underneath, and some jeans which had seen better days and had obviously undergone several repairs.

"You all right there, Y/N?"

You gave Uncle Wayne a tight smile. "Yeah, m'fine. How was work?"

Eddie visibly winced for real. Rule number one with his dad: never brush him off or tell him you're okay if you're not. He had had to drill that into Eddie's head from day one and it had taken Eddie years to trust Uncle Wayne enough to be fully honest with him. Every sliver of truth he gave Uncle Wayne, even now when Eddie was living his fullest life, was very appreciated and reciprocated equally. Uncle Wayne tolerated many things, but his loved ones lying to him was not something he ever tolerated, not even a little bit and not for any reason.

Uncle Wayne inhaled deeply, shook his head just once, and then exhaled. Got down in front of you on his knees and took both of your hands in his. Eddie took the cue and sat down to the side of you which was closest to the door, and wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders, his fingers splayed across your upper arm to touch as much of you as he could in that one moment.

"Work was fine, sweetpea," Uncle Wayne's voice was gruff but again, you and Eddie heard all the kindness in the world. "But I ain't interested in talkin' to you about that, no offense," he chuckled wryly, "I asked you how you are, darlin', an' I want a proper answer. You got my kid all worked up an' that gets me worked up and m'too old and too tired."

"Dad!" Eddie hissed, but Uncle Wayne barely glanced at him. One kid at a time. Eddie had had his time and so now it was your time.

"Talk to us, Y/N. We ain't gonna' judge you here. Y'know that by now."

"Yeah," Eddie agreed easily, leaning his head on your shoulder, squeezing you into his side. You closed your eyes and let yourself sink into Eddie's warmth, "you're safe here, I promise. What's said in this trailer stays in this trailer, 'kay?"

"Mm-hm." You nodded, a stinging at the backs of your eyes and nose telling you that you were going to cry if they carried on. The weight of Eddie pressed against you, the sight of Uncle Wayne on his knees before you, eyes level with yours, tender blues and chocolate buttons giving you equally weighted gazes, Uncle Wayne's hands holding yours tightly, calloused and warm, Eddie's hand rubbing up and down your arm slowly... it was all too much and you almost felt the urge to run away, and yet... this was all you had been wanting.

Uncle Wayne and Eddie.

Eddie and Uncle Wayne.

The Munsons.

The most amazing package deal you had ever received and would ever receive in your life.

"Let's try again." Uncle Wayne squeezed your hands in encouragement. He really wanted to help you, to do the best for you that he could. He loved you like you were one of his kids, and though Eddie would always be his number one, his absolute top priority, Uncle Wayne had a heart bigger than the size of Hawkins and he had room for any kid and every kid who wanted in on his heart. You just had to be open and honest and kind, and you were a part of the family. It was just how Uncle Wayne was, and it was the way Eddie had been raised to be, too. One look at Hellfire Club and Corroded Coffin and anyone could see that Eddie took after his Uncle, his dad, beautifully. He had been raised so magnificently given the circumstances but only the most important people got lucky enough, close enough to see that.

Seamlessly, Eddie picked up his dad's sentence, "you okay?" They knew you needed both of them, and without any foreplanning between them, they were giving you everything you needed and more.

"No," your voice cracked, "No, Eddie. I'm not okay." You risked a glance at Uncle Wayne and that was when you broke. "I'm not okay at all," You hiccuped and then immediately burst into tears. It scared you, your sudden intense display of negative emotion, and that made you cry harder. All those days, weeks, of suffering in silence, trying to do your best while destroying yourself in the process, all that effort and work to keep yourself together when you barely realised that you were falling apart, and all it took in the end to bring you down was the sight of Uncle Wayne looking at you with those eyes you loved so much.

If one look could kill, then another look could save, and between the two Munsons, you would be lifted high above the clouds so that you could see the forest for the trees and thus, find out where to go from here. But not alone. Never alone.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, hey," Eddie cooed, squeezing you tighter into his side as Uncle Wayne raised one ofyour joined hands so that he could use the back of his to dash your tears away. "It's okay, Y/N, we're here, you're safe." Eddie felt guilty about feeling relieved that you had finally shattered.

"I just don't know what to do," tears dripped sore and Uncle Wayne kept his hands in yours as he used the backs of his hands to dash them away; though they were falling faster than he could move but he persisted, kept at it. He never gave up on Eddie, he never had and he never would, and he wasn't about to give up on you either. "I can't do this anymore. M'fuckin'... treading through water, running uphill, walking on the spot... trying so hard and goin' fucking nowhere and I'm sick of it. I don't wanna do this anymore, there's no point and m'tired."

"Storm's ragin' pretty hard, ain't it?"

Your eyes focused in on Uncle Wayne, though you couldn't see him for the tears, and you squeezed your hands inside his unwavering grip. "Uncle Wayne, please." What you were asking for, you knew not, but Uncle Wayne had a wealth of life experience, he had been around and seen a lot, and even with his boy smushed against your side did Uncle Wayne manage to give you a proper hug. You were able to rest your head on his shoulder and Eddie, though he grumbled some, followed you so that he was hunched over next to you, his head on your shoulders, the both of you oneshift away from collapsing atop Uncle Wayne from where he knelt on the floor, but none of you wanted to move. You would follow the Munsons anywhere and that included the floor of the trailer, so long as they kept holding you like they were.

"You're enough, darlin', believe you me. Don't destroy yourself no more, that point you're tryna' make ain't worth it, y'hear?"

"But I - " You straightened up, your back beginning to ache, but Uncle Wayne kept his hands and yours together, his touch your grounding just as much as Eddie's touch was.

"Nope, nope," Eddie waved his hands emphatically, situating himself correctly once more as well on the sofa, "absolutely not. You've been hurting yourself for a month, not letting me in, not taking care of yourself... and for what? I can't watch anymore, Y/N. M'worried and dad is too... just, please, talk to me. I wanna help. No buts." Eddie swept his hand through his hair, his dark curls snagging on his silver rings 'til he got frustrated and yanked his hand free, wincing but paying himself no mind. Eddie was used to rough treatment. "Look, I get it. The Shire is burning, right? Ground's too hot and you can't go up in the trees because they're on fire too and everything's on fire and it feels like you're in Mordor but, sweetheart, you're not. You're here, with me and my Uncle, you're safe."

Eddie's voice was soft, his tone was quiet, his arms back around you, holding you to his side. You rested your head on Eddie's shoulder and turned it to the side, hiding your face in the part of him where leather collar became bare skin, and Uncle Wayne squeezed your hands once more before he let you go, slapping his thighs as he stood up with a suppressed groan. He was too old for this shit but did it anyway because that's who he was. Eddie shushed you when you made a quiet noise of protest at how cold and empty your palms felt without Uncle Wayne's to keep them company, but you felt that same touch on the top of your head; I'm here, Y/N.

"You ain't alone, kid. We're gonna help you, any way we can. But you gotta help us to help you. Talk. Tell us what you need. Hell, show us or write it if you can't say it. I get it," Uncle Wayne shrugged easily, the look on his face one of, what can you do? as he moved through the trailer to go and make some dinner for the three of you. Indeed, he paid neither you nor Eddie any further mind as he set about cooking something and the two of you saw the dismissal for what it was; moving into Eddie's room without any words having to be spoken.

You just knew each other.

It was only when the door was shut behind the both of you that Eddie's bravado dropped, and his hands and lips began to tremble at almost the exact same second as he looked at you, his chocolate eyes glassy with tears.

"You - you had me scared, Y/N, I thought you - " Eddie sniffled, "well, I don't know what I thought, not really, but I've been so worried, sweetheart."

"Oh, Eddie, baby," Your own eyes stung with tears anew as you grabbed Eddie and pulled him into a tight, tight hug, every planes of your bodies aligned as you held each other. One of your arms was around Eddie's waist and the other was around his broad shoulders, your fingers flexing in those dark curls you braided most nights, and both of his arms were locked around you. But his embrace felt less like a cage and more like security. Even at your worst, Eddie loved you as strongly, as fiercely, as he loved you at your best. "M'sorry, honey, really, I - I don't even know why I've been - " You sighed, no longer able to speak. You didn't know how to explain it even to yourself, so how could you explain it to someone else? "I'll try to be better, and talk to you." Eddie nodded and you noticed that your shirt was beginning to feel wet where his face rested against the material, but you didn't call him out on the way he sniffled and stepped ever closer to you, though not even a sheet of paper could have gotten between you at that point. "I love you, Eddie, so much, and I'm sorry I shut you out."

Eddie shook his head, his curls tickling you, and he sniffled. "No more, Y/N. Just promise to talk to me, 'kay? There's no shame in needing help. You're strong enough to weather any storm, I've seen you do it. Every time you thought you couldn't get to Mordor, you did, and putting out the flames in the Shire so you don't have to go anywhere won't be easy, but I can help if you let me, yeah?"

You squeezed Eddie, breathing him in, and the two of you stood there hugging each other in the centre of his messy but clean room like there was nowhere else you would rather be and no one else you would rather be with.

At least, until Uncle Wayne called the both of you through for dinner.

You loved his cooking almost as much as you loved Eddie.

Almost.

You weren't okay, you were a mess. You needed sleep, you needed food, you needed to drink properly, you needed to take better care of yourself so then you could more effectively and efficiently manage your responsibilities and take better care of your mental health by way of being significantly less stressed. It was overwhelming and you wanted to give up before you had even started, but you had the Munsons to guide you through situations you got yourself into, whether they were or were not your fault, and they would do their best to help you no matter what it took. For you were a Munson, and Munsons never quit.

Even and especially when they most wanted to.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson comfort #eddie munson soft #stranger things 4 x reader #stranger things x reader #uncle wayne #wayne munson #eddie munson

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feral-fae-writes · 2 years ago

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Remove with a Cleft, Rewire the Dread || Trompe l'oeil

A/N: I was peer-pressured into posting this. Just as well, because lighting a fire under my ass is the only way to get my brain to cooperate. This was difficult for me to write, but nothing easy is worth doing. Features my OC and @anotherdayinchuckletown's OC, Olivia. As always, enjoy, or don't; I don't know how fucked up y'all are. Again, Minors DNI, please.

Fandom: The Gray Man

Pairing: Courtland Gentry x Female!OC, Sierra Six x Female!OC

Wordcount: 6,508

Type: Multi-Parter

Rating: Mature Content / 18+ || tw: whump, injury, torture, non-con, imprisonment, sexual assault, hospitalization, homicide, evil doppelgänger, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

Summary: Creatures of the ash, ghosts he thought were long dead, come back to haunt Courtland Gentry. It was foolish to think that he could run — ironic, given his line of work — and it was foolish for him to not trust his instincts, and now the consequences were rippling out, and blood was mixed with water. And it was all because of him, and she could see no one else.

Trompe l'oeil

It wasn’t meant to happen like this. She wasn’t supposed to get hurt. Six was the one that always got hurt, that was his role. An asset, a weapon — a grey man. Disposable. All he could do was wait; he’d fought to keep her with him, but she’d been dragged away to another part of the damn prison compound, and it was like a maze race, and Six was Algernon, and he couldn’t even get to the starting line.

Shit. Shit!

Six slammed the weight of his whole body against the bars of the cell, and let out a scream of rage. He was bloody, and — he had to admit, beaten — and he didn’t even have his usual ingenuity on hand. He knew how he thought; it was in his blood. He’d taken her, stolen her senses from her too, and was doing God knew what. He hoped, he prayed, but he knew how deep the poison ran. He could only imagine — and imagination was often so much worse.

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He’d removed her blindfold. His painfully iron grip around her was secure, and still familiar; it looked like him, but it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him at all — but it was his touch, it was his lips, his hands, voice, body… but it wasn’t him at all. She didn’t know what to think anymore.

“Please…” She whimpered, nails digging into his arms, “please stop…” “I thought I said you weren’t allowed to talk. I’ll have to torture you more for that.”

She vehemently shook her head in abject fear, then, in spite of herself, the begging fell from her lips.

“No, no, no, no…”

“Punishment it is, then.” Her cries of agony echoed throughout the entire building, pure anguish given a pitiful, hoarse voice. Thinking wasn’t an option. She had to retreat within herself, had to find some way to cope, to survive. The pieces of her could be picked up later.

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When she was finally thrown into the cell beside him, in the dim light, he breathed a tentative sigh of relief. At least she was within his line of sight. He’d heard everything through the walls, faint echoes of every moan and sob and sound of pain from her mouth. He felt a strange sort of shame; even though he knew he wasn’t the one responsible, his expression crumpled. He never wanted to hear that pain coming from her mouth, but he had no choice but to listen.

Now, she was completely silent, her eyes glassy and dissociative. Unresponsive. She pitifully crawled to one corner of her cell, dragging one leg behind. It wasn’t broken, as far as Six could tell — god forbid — but she certainly had a limp. He couldn’t bear to look, but couldn’t look away. The anger settled further underneath his skin, intertwining itself with every fibre of his being, as he took in her condition. Among all the signs of physical torture, the bruises and the cuts, the wound at her neck — as if a creature had tried to sink its nails into her throat and never let go — the one thing that didn't escape him was how wet she was, soaked through, arousal crawling down her right leg, slightly pinkish from her own blood.

He’d left his marks: several royally purple bruises and animalistic bite wounds at her inner thigh, groin, and just shy of inside her. He’d tried to force his way with almost every part of her… Six would kill him slowly, then. He wasn’t usually one for making things personal — his work demanded that — but this was from the moment he premeditated. Deep down inside, Six was horrified, too. He knew why she’d been so violently raped, that Caleb wanted to fuck with him, knew it’d fuck with him. A faint whimper of fear snapped Six back to reality. She was curled up, trying to make herself as small as possible, her eyes huge with panic. And she was trying to get away from him. Her lip was split. He wanted to comfort her, but he had no idea what to say. So he just whispered.

“Fiona.”

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She froze, zeroing in on her name in the darkness. It was his voice. For just a second, she relaxed, but the creeping anxiety and fear were hard to fight. She wasn’t safe. She would never be, or feel, safe again. But she had to be strong for both of them. She had to.

“S’okay,” she slurred, distantly. But the word was a flat, monotonous thing, falling from her tongue like lead. It was a lie: a big, ugly, stupid lie that was betrayed by her blood, and the streak of wet, and the smears of shame, and the angry, purple blotches on her battered skin. She was numb, so very numb. Too numb to feel much of anything, now. Just a creeping sense of caustic shame that made it impossible to meet Six's eyes.

A choked sob escaped her shaking body.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I... I couldn't fight; I— I... didn't want to— I'm sorry..." She cracked then, incapable of saying anything more, and broke down, sobbing in confusion. When he tried to reach through the bars to comfort her, she couldn’t stop herself from pulling away. It was instinct. It was him. She knew she was shattering his heart with every word, but she couldn’t repair the damage, nor could she live bandaging open wounds.

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He heard his twin brother’s footsteps before she did. Six slammed himself against the bars, prompting, regrettably, a flinch from Fiona, but now was not the time to waste time pondering this turn of events. He was going to kill — no, violently murder — Caleb. He rattled the bars, tried to brute-force his way out, to no avail. The eventual realisation sunk in like dead weight, which he was in this situation. He was helpless.

He was helpless as Caleb picked her up like a ragdoll — a scared, limp body who reflexively curled against a monster who looked like the person she loved. She didn’t fight. He could tell she had no fight left in her, not anymore. She couldn’t even pick her head up as he shifted her weight in his arms, only letting out a pitiful moan of fear.

And what could he do? Nothing.

Caleb was smiling like he was insane, a hell-bent thing that only wanted revenge. It was disconcerting, seeing his own face wear such an evil grin. And then he laughed, like nothing was wrong. Like he didn’t have their lives and their love in the palm of his hand.

“She’s so pretty, Court. Pretty fucking fragile, too,” he hummed, tilting his head. “How do you feel right now?”

“I feel like kicking your ass,” Six replied immediately, tongue darting out to lick his own lips. Reflexively, he clenched his fingers into a fist. He was ready to fight to the death if he had to. He’d done it before, more than once, but he’d never had to fight himself. This was just another Thursday. It had to be. “Why?” he asked, voice measured.

“‘Why?’ ‘Why?’” Caleb repeated, tone burning with rage. “I don’t know, asshole, maybe because you fucking betrayed me! You left! I was shoved into foster for three damn years, then orphaned and homeless once I aged out of the system, and it was hell on earth,” he finished, laughing shakily. “I saved your life,” Six growled.

“Only to leave me to fend for myself,” Caleb shot back. “I was in prison. You were there when I was on trial. In fact, I think you belong behind bars, not me.” Six replied, spitting through the divide between them. The spit landed on his twin’s right shoe, exactly on target. Caleb didn’t continue to verbally spar. He had no more words. The sound of a switchblade was audible in the proceeding silence. He put the blade to Fiona’s already wounded throat, and gently pressed, letting a few droplets of blood. When he spoke, his voice was turbulent, unstable, a hiss through twin teeth. He was taunting his brother.

“You didn’t save me. You killed me. And now I’m gonna do the same to you, from the inside out. It would be so easy to just… take her apart now. Wanna see how?” He asked.

“No, Caleb. I don’t.” Six fell quiet, then, blue-grey eyes suddenly burning with tears. Caleb continued as if Six hadn’t replied, left brow raising in mock-curiousity.

“No? Hey, how about this: if you don't comply exactly with what I want, I might get bored of our little game, and decide to end it — and her — for good! So if you care at all, you better not take your eyes off her for a fucking second.”

Six roared in pure rage. It was all he could do. He didn’t want to beg, or plead, or stoop to his brother’s level. He was beaten by the person who knew him best: himself. When he finally replied, voice raspy, it was with more strength and composure than he felt.

“Fine.”

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The twin’s black-gloved fingers cruelly dug into her chin, as he turned her face towards Six; he wanted his brother to see everything as she came undone, weeping and whining. She struggled in his grip, to at least turn her face away, but the twin — Caleb — didn't budge.

“Don’t look,” she whispered, pleading to no one. “Don’t look…” she repeated, meeting the grey gaze she knew so well. Caleb’s expression turned dark, he dug his nails in further, and she yelped.

“That’s not how we’re playing our game. Let him see you, doll,” he said scathingly.

“I’m— not your…” Doll.

Fiona couldn’t finish her sentence, instead letting out a mournful gasp. Again, she tried to struggle out of his grip to no avail.

“Au contraire, if you’re his, which I can tell you’re all too happy to be, you’re mine.”

Fiona shook her head weakly, breathing shallow and fast. He was waiting for something. She craned her head to look at Six, tried to twist away from him and towards him; the shame in her heart stretched out into her limbs, but there was nothing left for her to hold onto.

“Please, Six—”

“Watch me fuck your girl.” Caleb said, cutting her off. She heard a short, tiny gasp from between her own lips, before the pain of forced entry bloomed between her legs. That didn’t sound like her, and this wasn’t Six. The gasp turned into cries of pain. She couldn’t speak, but her sobs said everything without words behind them.

“That’s right, doll. Beg for this to stop.”

This wasn’t Six, but his hands were cradling her jaw, were combing her hair back — his hips were angling to kill, peeling back her defences like the smoky curl of a burning cigarette. This wasn’t him. He was pistoning into her, tearing her apart, but she was only conscious of him — in that messy, disparaging, desperate way that the body understands more than the mind. This wasn’t him. Through the haze and the tears, she tried to crawl towards that thought, but it kept slipping just as her fingertips ghosted the grey.

Fiona felt hot liquid inch down her leg. Was that blood, or her body betraying her again? She didn’t want this. But the tiny knot in her abs was there regardless. It would unwind itself eventually, but, for now, it coiled tighter and tighter.

“Beg!” he growled, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust. She felt it on the inside, hitting against her cervix. She saw white. Beg. She couldn’t stop the sounds of both pain and pleasure leaving her lips. She didn’t want to beg. She just wanted to return the pain somehow, and that need crystallised into a not-so distant plan.

Her hands found his throat, weakly scratched for attention. His eyes were on hers. Perfect. Gasping and moaning as if in desire, she reached up and kissed him, then bit down on his lip in retaliation, as hard as she could. She wasn’t necessarily thinking. She knew what it looked like.

Six… The thought trailed into an unspoken apology.

The monster who looked like the man she loved let out a scream of pain, pulling back. It did not equate to hers. His bottom lip was bleeding, two vampire bites leaking his own blood. He spat it back into her face. She flinched, losing her nerve, and the knot frayed. She came on herself, a weak orgasm rippling through. She felt cold. “You— you bitch!” He yelled, breathing heavily, before pulling her off him, holding the girl up like a kitten. He threw her to her knees, and she didn’t move a muscle, looking up at him. Her eyes were glassy. That last ditch effort had been just that; she didn’t know why she did it, but he was only observing her like a predator, one gloved hand covering his wounded mouth, before something dark — something devilish — appeared behind his eyes. He lowered his gloved hand, and smiled. His voice was soft, almost comforting. “I made your girl cum, Court,” he goaded. “She’s my tortured sex doll, and she’ll never be anything else. I won. And now, just to rub it in, I’m gonna make her suck my cock.”

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As much as it pained him, Sierra Six — Courtland Gentry — didn’t look away, even though hot tears were trailing down his face and into his beard. He was too strong for her to fight off, and he knew that, because she was against him — those same arms that always held her securely were now a selfish vice, treating her like an object. She was on her knees now.

He kicked her closer to him, and shoved himself down her throat. She’d already been crying, but now she was too fragile to even react, reflexively gagging with that same numb stare. Out of the corner of his eye, Six watched more wetness escape between her legs, before Caleb demanded his attention. “You’ve trained your bitch well, haven’t you?” Caleb asked, laughing. It was more of a bark than anything, bitter and vindictive. “How much do you want to bet I can make her cum again?”

Six’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t going to give his brother the satisfaction of getting a reply, but the tears continued.

“Suck me off, darlin’,” Caleb commanded, a self-satisfied southern drawl creeping in on darlin’.

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Numbly, Fiona did as he asked, like a robot. The growly moans that left her torturer’s mouth— God, she knew them. She’d heard them vibrate against her own chest, shaking her whole world and the body that belonged to it. She wasn’t really there, not anymore. He’d already tortured her, used her, and there wasn’t anything left behind. So when he shoved her off him, just as he was about to cum, she was both confused and indifferent. He was breathing heavily, ragged and taut. The twin’s gaze drifted to the ghost in the metal shell, and he tilted his head. Another idea had occurred to him, darker than the last. She saw it in his eyes. “No!” The scream that left Courtland Gentry’s throat was one possessed. Fiona felt more than heard his heavy body sliding down the cell bars, but his eyes never left hers — both pairs of them.

He picked her up again, and she didn’t dissent. This time, he flipped her over, onto her stomach, positioning her on her hands and knees — a bruised Barbie to his killer Ken. She was staring into his eyes, but he was behind her, and she was so lost and confused and afraid, and he was enraged and afraid, and there was nothing but fear and pain within that moment of waiting for what they both knew was about to happen. I’m so sorry.

She screamed.

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She screamed, just like he knew she would. She screamed, despite the fact that he was lubed from her own spit, despite the fact that every movement against her body was familiar. She screamed, because they’d never done anal; that was her line, her hard No, Never, Not For Fifteen Million Merits thing, because she was terrified of the pain.

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And, God, was it painful. It was worse than when he’d rammed against her cervix; she was no longer seeing white, she was seeing static grey blooms that were the precursor to unconsciousness. She was too weak to move, to speak, to feel.

But he didn’t care. The distant, hyper-aware part of her knew that. All he cared about was ensuring the three two of them knew that he unequivocally owned her now, that he’d ravaged and forced himself into every part of her, taken up the space where her heart used to be and replaced it with absence.

He broke her. ------------------------------------------------------ She hadn’t moved after his brother came inside her ass. She was gone. In the moment he came and she left, Six had made a plan. His brother didn’t bother to clean her up, but he did have the grace to dump her in the corner of the cell beside him. She was in a tangled heap in her own wetness, his cum, and her own blood. Her breathing was so shallow, her chest was barely able to rise and fall.

Six scanned his cell, scanned Fiona’s and Fiona herself, before spotting the ring on her left hand. Her ring. It had been Dani’s idea, and he’d had it custom-made: the band could lock and and unlock, splitting into two halves to reveal a blade that could cut through most anything as if it were a hot knife through butter. He prayed it could melt through steel beams. Stretching to reach her hand, he ever-so-gently slid it off her finger. She didn’t respond, but he could see in her eyes that she was afraid, not of him, but of him, and he could do nothing except watch from the outside as she fell apart within. He got to work, fingers and hands delicately breaking one into two. The blade was as precise as Six was lethal. He slipped it back onto her finger when he was done.

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Caleb knew as soon as Courtland managed to escape, the latter would go after him, and Courtland knew he knew. They cornered each other in the stairwell, below fluorescent red light. Neither twin spoke, waiting for the other. Caleb was the one who eventually broke the silence, his words slurred from a wounded mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, panting, but he looked violently alive.

“What do you say, Six, you wanna dance?” He asked, swallowing his own blood with a gasp. Six must’ve betrayed something within his expression, because Caleb began to laugh. “Yeah, I know all about you — the infamous Sierra Six…” Caleb said, trailing off to breathe, panting a bit before he continued further. “She doesn’t even know your real name, does she?”

Courtland Gentry — Sierra Six — didn’t reply, only let out a small sniff. His right hand clenched into a fist. “She does,” he whispered.

“Does she call you Six in bed, too?” His brother asked, mocking.

“No, she doesn’t,” he replied, expression turning grim; his jaw clenched in barely withheld rage.

“Do you even know who you are anymore? More importantly, does she?” He pressed, a low, gurgling chuckle escaping his throat.

“Shut up!” Six roared. He threw the first punch, which his brother ducked. Six grabbed him with his other hand, using his brother’s momentum against him. He threw his twin down the stairs, and they rolled together, Caleb spitting blood into Six’s face; they both groaned in pain when they hit the basement floor. Six got to his feet first, offered out a gloved hand to his brother, only to throw his weight back to the floor. Caleb swung his legs outward to trip Six, who fell face-first onto concrete. The sharp sound of breaking bone echoed outwards, but he wasn’t going to waste time. Six dizzily got to his feet, adrenaline keeping him up. The blood from his nose trickled into his mouth. It tasted of iron, and regret. They were evenly matched, and circled one another like vultures would the twin corpse.

He tasted blood, but his brother would choke on it.

This time, Caleb was the one who swung — a left hook, which Six blocked with his right forearm, twisting around to capture his brother in a headlock. Caleb began to laugh, spitting his own blood onto Six’s arms. He wasn’t fighting back. Six began to growl, a deep thing from his ribcage, before he gasped. He felt the shot before he heard it, stumbling back with a grunt as the bullet grazed his side.

“You’re a shit shot,” He managed to quip, ducking as Caleb let off another. “Who brings a gun to a fistfight?”

“What makes you think I’d give up a loaded gun?” Caleb asked.

“Nobody throws a loaded gun, Caleb,” Six gasped in reply, gritting his teeth against the white-hot pain blooming from his side.

“My point exactly! You know me so well,” Caleb replied tauntingly, as he removed the shells and tossed the pistol aside. “Happy now?”

Six paused to catch his breath, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Like hell he was going to walk away.

“What do you think?” Six asked, a ghost of a grimace on his face. “Probably not,” Caleb replied, chuckling weakly, shaking his head. For a second, the ghost of who he used to be came back to life.

With a roar and tears biting at his eyes, Six ran full-tilt towards his twin, tackling him against the opposite wall. Caleb landed on hard concrete with a heavy thump, groaning as more blood escaped his mouth, spraying Six in the face with dark red droplets. Six saw nothing but red, in more ways than one. The pair stood there, grappling, breaths ragged and heavy and wrapped in the grey, each trying to find purchase to hurt the other. Caleb tried to gouge Six’s eyes out, failed, gouged the skin of his temples instead; Six pressed his palms flat against his brother’s windpipe in return, gradually collapsing the airway. He watched the light leave his own eyes, and Caleb’s hands fell away.

The asphyxiation was quick, as much as he’d intended otherwise. Sierra Six had saved his brother, and now, he had killed him. Revenge was a hollow thing; they’d both suffered enough, and he couldn’t bring himself to continue it. After everything, he had been merciful. Neither of them deserved mercy.

The door to the basement stairwell slammed shut before the body hit the floor. ------------------------------------------------------

Fiona heard the basement door slam from two floors above. She flinched, jolting out of her dissociation with a whimper. Pulling her knees to her chest, she could only stare at her condition, limp limbs tangled up. She could still feel his cum dripping out of her, and feel her own sticky shame. She pressed her thighs together.

She didn’t want to feel the mingling and swirling around underneath her. It was already shameful enough that she was collapsed there, in that pool of cum and blood, curled up in the corner of her cell. She began to wail. No one answered. Eventually, she exhausted what little energy she had left.

She passed out, holding herself for comfort.

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Sierra Six — Courtland Gentry — took the time to find clothes and patch himself up, courtesy of the abandoned prison compound’s amenities and the retrieval of his backpack. There was no running water, but he wasn’t focused on looking nice just yet; he had to get Fiona gone. He’d found a janitorial cap to hide his face, and a jacket to cover and staunch his wounds. That would do.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to touch her. He had to find something — anything — to wrap her in, assuming she still wasn’t responsive. If she was, he just hoped she wouldn’t gouge his eye out. He ended up finding a spare tarp — presumably to protect the front lawn foliage against heavy rain — buried behind the linens in the janitorial closet. That would do.

God, would he kill for a honey bun right now.

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She didn’t hear his footsteps, but she saw them, out of slitted, barely open eyes. Maybe he was Death, here to claim her, too. He kept his head low, a dark brown baseball cap hiding his face, but she recognised his build. She tried to play dead, but he must’ve seen her flinch back, because as soon as she shifted, he froze, hands up.

“Get away from me, you monster,” she croaked, but nothing came out from between her lips, besides a weak mewling.

“Fiona,” he whispered, stepping forward a few paces. “I’m here to get you out of here. Get you gone. Okay? We’re gonna get you cleaned up.”

“Don’t— don’t touch me,” she tried again. Again, no words left her mouth. She was effectively mute. She stared at him, eyes big orbs of fear, as he knelt down and gently picked her up. She flinched again, more violent than the last, in his arms. She knew those arms… But there was no torture this time. He just wrapped her up in a giant, plasticky blanket. She had a hard time believing it, but she could barely move, let alone escape his grip. She could barely see under the cap — he kept his face carefully angled away from her field of view — but she knew. His face was already burnt into her brain as the face of the man who hurt her beyond belief.

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And Six knew this. He heard and saw it all — both when it happened, and, currently, in her eyes. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she was right back with his brother with every attempted glance towards his face. And it broke his heart.

He was Sisyphus, punished by the gods, but here he was a pantheon. He walked out of the compound and out of hell, silent as Death but as determined as Hades, his Persephone in his arms.

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He took her to a hospital. It wasn’t a normal hospital; she could tell that solely based on the atmosphere. They went into an elevator, down, down, down. She watched him tap his ear, and then he spoke, voice still quiet.

“I’m here, Dani. Is Claire safe?”

They must’ve spoken before. She didn’t know anyone named Dani. Did she? “Things got loud, that’s all. Be glad you’re not going to either of our funerals.”

Fiona didn’t want to die, not yet. Sometimes, she felt like she was — like ghosts and ghouls were wrapping around her head.

“Fiona… Fiona’s been better.” His voice broke slightly, on better, but he continued. “You know what, Miranda? I’m trying to figure out what answer it is that you want.”

A pause in the conversation, as she responded.

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He asked. He hung up on Dani, whoever she was.

The elevator doors opened up into an emergency wing. There were soldiers stationed at every corner, in every hallway. He took her to a room at the end of the main hall. It was empty. He opened up the plastic blanket, peeling back the bedsheet at the same time, and laid her down. She wanted to fall asleep right there, but she couldn’t. She stared up at the ceiling, and watched him out of the corner of her eye. He couldn’t look at her; instead, he pressed the button that called for a nurse.

His hand shook, ever so slightly.

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When the nurse arrived, Six stepped out of the room. He stayed by the doorway to keep an eye on Fiona, but kept his eyes to the floor and his head low. He spoke to the nurse in a whispered tone — not to hide anything, but to spare Fiona more pain. The nurse, Maggie — Six felt a pang of sorrow, remembering Cahill for just a moment — listened with a sympathetic ear. She couldn’t understand what had happened during the op, not really. But she did understand the situation. She knew the line of work she was in.

“So you can help her recover?”

“Of course, Mr. Gentry.”

“Thanks,” he replied. The exhaustion settled in then, along with the relief, but he had something left to do. “And where can I get cleaned up?”

“You don’t want to use the patient restroom just in here…?” She paused, glancing at Fiona’s prone form in concern, before the realisation settled behind her eyes. “Ah. I understand, Mr. Gentry. I can direct you to a guest bathroom,” she whispered.

“Thanks.” ------------------------------------------------------

A pair of female nurse examiners came in, asking permission to spread her legs apart. Fiona let them. When they examined the inside of her mouth, her vagina, and her asshole, she let them. When they combed samples of hair, spit, blood, cum, and sweat off her body, she let them. When they took forensic images of her sore skin and bruised body, she let them. When they traded her clothes and lace for a hospital gown over clinically white underwear, she let them. She accepted whatever they wanted to do to her without question. It’s not like she could’ve disagreed. It’s not like she could’ve fought them.

However, when they asked her questions, she could say nothing. She couldn’t move a muscle. He’d left. He couldn’t speak for her, and nor did she want him to, but at least he could explain himself. When they left, promising to come back when she was ready, he still wasn’t back. She saw them exchange a look on their way out.

When the orderlies came in, they took her out of bed and into the bathroom. They bathed her under the spray of a thin, hard-water antiseptic shower. She let them. She listened to them arrange follow-up procedures for preventative care, their voices echoing around the bathroom, though none of it mattered to her. She watched a fly buzz on the mirror light. When they took her back to bed, Fiona just laid there. They’d turned the television on, but she had no interest in it. She kept her eyes on the triple-padlocked door and the red keycard light above it, and simply waited for red to turn green.

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Under the yellowish glare of the locked guest bathroom, Six finally removed the janitor’s cap. He scanned himself in the mirror, angling his face this way and that, fingers pressed to his throat, then nose. With a grunt, he set the broken bone back into place. More blood gushed over his lips; he coughed as dark blood splattered white porcelain. “Shit,” he gasped. The word came out a reaction instead of a response. He’d never broken his nose this badly before. There was dried blood on the left side of his face, rivulets of red like rain down a car window. He combed back sweaty, dirty blonde hair, then turned the tap, as far as it could go. Cold water gushed, turning redrum into pink — under the light, his blood could’ve been mistaken for too-sour lemonade. He took stock of the tiny half-bath. It'd be another shower with a washrag. Fine by him. His backpack was in the corner; he knelt down with a small groan, unzipped it. He took out what he needed, methodically laying everything out on top of the toilet’s tank, then tossed the jacket and his black shirt to the floor. It took all of five minutes, washrag tap bath included, and then, when he was dressed again, he picked up the razor.

Always look like shit, always clean up nice.

Six stared at himself in the mirror, letting out an exhausted sniff. The soreness was really settling in now. He lifted the razor to his right cheek, then his left, going with the grain and trying to be as careful as he could on each side. He had no shaving cream, so when he eventually nicked himself, it was a sharp stab of dull pain. He sucked in a hiss through his teeth, let out another sniffle, then continued. The cut was a small and shallow one, along his jaw. It didn’t bleed, just glistened, mocking him for being unable to cry.

When he left the guest bathroom, the janitorial cap was back on, along with his shirt, jacket, and backpack. He kept his head low and his hands in his pockets.

------------------------------------------------------- When the keycard light finally turned green, Fiona braced herself for the person that would walk through the door. She knew who it would be. She was scared of who it was.

He opened the door with a click-click-click; it swung inwards, then back. The door locked itself. Green turned red. Fiona followed him with only her eyes. He walked past her bed, into the opposing bedside chair, head low and hands in pockets.

He’d shaved. There was a skin-deep cut along his jawline. She could see just slightly past the brim of the cap, too; his nose was bruised.

He adjusted in his seat, pulled the cap lower over his face, and attempted to sleep, assuming he wasn’t pretending. Fiona let out a held breath. Her bangs fluttered in front of her face. She could escape, maybe, but that would require stealing his keycard, and she didn’t want to risk that.

He’d rape her again.

The television, though its volume was low, felt loud. It was the elephant in the room, taking up silent, empty space with its sound. Fiona refused to look away from him. She wouldn’t take her eyes off of him for a goddamn second.

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He could feel her distrust. It radiated off her in waves, her eyes fearfully baleful as she stared a hole into his janitorial cap. On the T.V. was an old movie, from a few years after Courtland was born; he knew it, but he had no idea how. Three boys were in an old beater; all three were greasers. Two were eating like they were starving, one was smoking. The smoker took a drag, then laughed grimly.

“Man, that broad sure does hate me. I offered to take her over to The Dingo for a Coke, and she told me to go to hell.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that — a dark, bittersweet, wounded thing — from underneath his cap. Even to his own ears, it sounded weird. He felt hollow.

A second later, her heart monitor flatlined.

No, no, no…!

Shoving down his panic, Courtland rushed towards the door, keycard already in hand. On his way, he punched the button for the on-call nurse.

As soon as he was out the door, the heart monitor peaked from nothing and returned to normal, as if she was coming back from the dead. He wasn’t around to hear it. The door was already locked behind him: click-click-click.

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“Aline! Que fais-tu, ma fille?” “Rien! Je promet!”

“Non, non, tu fais quelque chose,” her father replied, teasing her.

Aline pouted. “Qu'est-ce que je fais, papa?”

“Tu es... trop adorable!” Aline’s father said, going in for the kill; he began to tickle her. In spite of trying, Aline couldn’t keep a straight face, and fell into a fit of giggles.

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Courtland ran past the nurse that was going in the opposite direction. He didn’t know exactly where he was headed, just that he needed to find her records. He was listed as her emergency contact, so he had access to them, within reason. He just had to talk to the right people, pull the right strings. He would wait. He had no choice but to wait, but he would wait for her. Someone grabbed him by the shoulder. He resisted the sudden urge to retaliate and fight back; it was only a doctor.

“Mr. Gentry?” The doctor asked. After a moment, Courtland recognised her as the residential physician for the floor — her name card said as much: Dr. Olivia Holland.

“Dr. Holland,” he replied, catching his composure in his throat.

“May I speak with you for a moment? Concerning your fiancée?”

Courtland blinked, taken aback for a moment. He suddenly felt so juvenile, and in a few ways, maybe he was. Growing up in a jail cell made you tough, but in none of the right ways. He’d had no say in his life.

“I was just—”

“Going to find the patient records room?” Dr. Holland asked in reply, raising an amused brow. “You know you need only ask. You have prior authorisation.” She reminded him, giving a wink. He did not have prior authorisation. Dr. Holland was only a handful or two years older than him, yet it was as if she knew something he didn’t, or that they shared something unsaid.

“I know,” Courtland exhaled. The exhaustion was in his bones. “I just don’t have time to ask.”

“Come with me, then.”

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Fiona came back to herself in the same white hospital bed. Her eyes flickered to the door. The keycard light was red, and the door was locked. Her eyes moved to the bedside. He had left. She was alone. Her eyes flickered to the television.

“I liked you from the start. The way we talked. Wouldn't you try to help me if you could?”

“Can you see the sunset from the Southside very good?”

“Yeah. Real good.”

“You can see it from the Northside, too.”

“Thanks, Ponyboy. You dig okay.” Fiona let a whimper out into the silence. She felt so faint, so fragile, but there was nowhere she could go. Where would she go? She’d left her papa across the ocean, and her mama was in the grave. Her papa probably was, too, at this point. Fiona heard a small beep. A machine had picked up some response from her internal system. Was she panicking? She only felt numb and so, so sleepy. She saw the haze crawl over her eyes before she fell back into memory.

“You want to go to America, ma cherie? What for?”

“I want to live, papa! I don’t want to stay here and rot, you know. Mama said—”

“I don’t care what she said. You think America will give you excitement? That it will give you an adventure? C’est dangereux!” He wasn’t angry; rather there were tears in his eyes. He wanted to respect his wife’s dying wish, but he couldn’t let his Aline go, he just couldn’t. She could see it in his eyes; that was precisely why she was being so adamant.

“I will go; Mama wished for me to go, and I am going to fulfill it, whether you like it or not!”

“Then go. Don’t come back here, ma fille. I will not be here when you come back.”

He wasn’t angry. Aline almost wished he was. Even so, she turned and walked away, bags and luggage on her arm, and began the long walk to the airport. She was going to fly to America.

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