#bdrppongo

[pretty-perdita]

How to Get Away with Suing a Mermaid *|* [Fate]

@paul-patts

Perdita was full of vengeance. She could taste it behind her teeth, she could feel it in her bones. It coursed steadily through her, like a poison in her blood. Only, it didn’t weaken her, it strengthened her. She felt a renewed sense of purpose. That purpose?

Fuck the shit out of the Triton family.

Of course, if she had it her way, well--she wouldn’t be opposed to sliding a tip towards a few poachers. She had the connections, working for Duchess LaBlanc, who didn’t use mermaid scales in her own work, but there were plenty of designers that did. She didn’t see anything wrong with this. Mermaids were animals after all. It’d be the equivalent of a nice mink coat. Not to mention, they had attacked her first--they were vicious, unfeeling creatures.

But, Paul was too good for that. Noble Paul Roman Patts. Oh, the Tritons were lucky that Perdita loved and was loyal to him and let him seek the vengeance that he wanted. 

She had said “something”, though. If you don’t, I will.

Paul had come home with a stack of law books and a look of determination on his face and said “we’ll go through the law.” Perdita had grinned and kissed him and then, called a lawyer.

That lawyer was Felicia Coleman--one of the best lawyers in the country when it came to magical assault. Perdita had spared no expense, getting them an interview as soon as possible, up in London. They had come with the babies, though when paying a thousand dollars for a consultation, she should be able to bring a bloody dog along. 

Finally, they were called into the back room. The babies were on their best behavior, thankfully. Curious about what was going on around them, but mostly silent--except for Patch’s loud crunching on pretzels. Perdita smoothed her dress when they were called back and perched Penelope on her hip, her other hand reaching for Paul. So that they presented a nice, united front. A family unit struck by unfair tragedy.

“Ms. Coleman,” she greeted the sharply dressed woman, “thank you for seeing us on such short notice. We appreciate it.” 

“Of course, Mrs. Patts,” Felicia said--Perdita did not correct her. “Please, come in, I’ve been reviewing the notes that you sent along, but I would like to hear from you what happened. And what you might want to get out of this meeting.” 

[pretty-perdita]

The Faye Family of 53 West 71st Street |*| [Fate]

@paul-patts

The flight had been long. Too long for two toddlers. Perdita and Paul had had to take turns walking with them up and down the aisles so that they could tire them out. Patrick had cried for the first hour and a half almost nonstop, his ears probably popping as the plane reached altitude. It was fine, though, even if Perdita’s nerves were fried. She had her medicine, and she had Paul—who she knew was excited, his eyes lighting up wide when Perdita had told him she’d booked a window seat. She’d booked the whole row, all three chairs, so that they could spread out properly and not have to worry about someone glaring at them for having a toddler on a redeye flight.

Though, that was not to be said that Perdita was not above snapping: my mother died, fuck off, if anyone got huffy or annoyed with them.

They read stories and Perdita laughed and smiled at Paul’s enthusiasm. She had reached over while they had sat at the gate and put her hand on his bouncing knee, smiling at him a little. “You can be excited,” she told him. She’d given his knee a little squeeze, their eyes meeting before Patrick stole Perdy’s attention away again.

Despite how exhausting the last twelve hours had been, as soon as the pilot announced they were starting their decent into LaGuardia, Perdita sat up, turning to the window. The sky was blush pink, bright and soft with sunrise. She leaned over Paul, their shoulders brushing as she pointed out the Empire State Building and Central Park, roughly the spot where her house was, there along the edges of the park.

Her own foot started tapping as the plane landed, and for the first time in a very long time, she was excited. Penny bounced on her knee and giggled. Perdita nibbled at her daughter neck to make her squeal and push her head away.

“Mama, no!”

Perdita chuckled a little. “Are you ready to see Mama’s home?” she asked her little Penelope.

Penny clapped her hands together.

They got their overhead bag, which was really nothing more than a diaper bag and started down the plane aisle, off the plane, grabbing the stroller and started towards baggage claim. She dialed Edmund and held the phone between her shoulder and ear as she fiddled with putting a few things in her bag.

“Have you sent the car?” she asked him.

“Yup, it’ll be there,” Edmund replied cheerily.

“Thank you.” She hung up the phone as they entered the busy baggage claim, people coming back from the holiday, people leaving after it. They shuffled through the crowd, Perdita glancing at the monitors briefly.

“Looks like we’ll be at baggage claim 4, right over there—” she shifted Penny in her arms to point and then, she stopped dead in her tracks, breath sucking into her lungs before a smile broke out over her face.

“Eddie!” she squealed above the crowd—she’d recognize that golden head of hair anywhere.

He turned around and spotted her, began weaving through the crowd towards her, and she towards him—leaving Paul and Patrick behind. When she got close enough, she threw herself into her big brother’s arms, pressing her face against his neck. He smelled exactly the same. She let out a little hiccupping sob as she clutched at his shirt. She didn’t cry though, not a tear fell from her eye. He lifted her clear off her feet for a few moments before setting her down again as Penny squirmed in between them.

“Gosh, Perdy, she looks just like you,” Edmund laughed in delight, holding his hands out for the little girl.

Penny pouted at him and turned her face against her mother’s neck, peeking out at him from beneath Perdita’s unkempt hair.

“She’s a bit stranger shy, but she’ll warm up. Penny, that’s your Uncle Eddie, can you see hello?”

Penny pressed her face closer to her mother as Edmund smiled at her.

“Don’t you have two of those?” Edmund said, looking over her shoulder. “Ah,” he hummed as he spotted the little boy, who was unmistakably Perdita’s. She saw him stand up a little straighter, that soldier’s pose impossible to miss as Edmund caught sight of Paul. He keep the easy smile on his face though as Paul stopped near them.  

Perdita took a step back, so she was at Paul’s side. She looked at him briefly, trying to read his expression. She knew Paul probably had no affection towards Edmund—he was the one who had warned her after all, encouraged her to run when their mother had found out about the babies. Take the money and go, Perdita.

He had just been trying to protect her.

“Edmund, this is Paul. Paul, this is my brother—”

“How’d’ya do?” Edmund said, reaching out his hand to shake it with Paul’s.

“And this must be Patrick, eh little man?” Edmund said smiling down at Patrick in the stroller.

“Hi!” Pat responded, smiling wide.

[pretty-perdita]

Aninut -- Intense Mourning |*| [Fate Calls]

Perdita: stood in the kitchen still, her phone she had set on the counter was now in her hand. She opened her recent calls. There, underneath her brother's name, which appeared no where else, was Paul's. She had called him last night before she had put the babies to bed so that he could say good night to them. They had said nothing to each other.

Perdita: It rang and rang, Perdita clicked her manicured nails against the counter in agitation, but was otherwise perfectly still.

[pretty-perdita]

Cold War |*| [Fate]

In which Paul reveals a secret he’s been keeping...

@paul-patts

[tw--uhh talk of self-hate, thoughts of suicide, talk of thoughts of suicide, confrontation, thoughts of violence, etc etc nothing super triggering but just be cautious friends]

PAUL: Paul had a plan.

It was a good plan, a brilliant, foolproof plan, which was Roger-approved and guaranteed to get Paul what he wanted, i.e.-- Perdy-slash-his-kids meeting Attina and no big blow-up fight in the way of that goal. In retrospect, Paul would realize that it wouldn’t have mattered how he did it, that a big blow-up fight was gonna happen eventually. In retrospect, Paul would realize he was deluding himself.

Maybe that’s why he sabotaged himself before actually going through with said brilliant, foolproof, Roger-approved plan. Because he’d known deep down and he was a coward and he wanted the buffer time.

That’s why Attina had come up when Paul was on the phone with Perdy, discussing the schedule for the twins’ over the next week.

In Paul’s defense, the window appeared to open. It seemed like-- it made sense to say it then, on the phone, rather than to wait for later that afternoon when picking up the twins. He had his cell pinched between his ear and his shoulder as he and Perdy talked and Paul did some of his dishes after several days not doing them, and the conversation steered toward the weekend, and Paul reached forward and shut off the faucet.

“Oh, I was uh-- hoping I could take them for all Saturday for the carnival-”

And see, here it was. Here was the opportunity. It’d be weird not to say it.

“Because um. I was actually gonna…” he cleared his throat and grabbed at the phone with his free hand now, looking toward the balcony where he and Attina had had their dinner together a week ago. His other hand perched on the counter. “I’ve been seeing someone,” he said. “And I was hoping that she could meet them. The twins, I mean. If you’re comfortable with that. ‘Course you could meet her too, first, she’s uh-- she’s up for that, we talked about it and she’d like to meet you…” rambled Paul, then trailed off.  

PERDITA: This had become routine. At this point, it usually went rather smoothly. Perdita’s schedule was flexible, and if worse came to worse, Duchess didn’t mind if Perdita brought the babies with her to her house, so long as Perdita didn’t have a million errands to run that morning. Which was--well, honestly, Perdita didn’t know how she had lucked out with this whole gig. But, Duchess was a great boss (if not a little flighty, Perdita had insurance on that though, and she would take her to court if it happened again.)

It normally went: Paul told her his schedule for the Deer, Perdita checked that against her calendar of Duchess’ various events and they decided who had the twins on what night and what days. Sometimes, it would get awkward if things didn’t overlap properly, but there was always Anita and Roger and Stanley and the Grants to pick up the slack (and Sarabi, who was a very last resort if absolutely no one else was available.)

It worked for them and there had yet to be an argument about who got them when. (Though, with the holidays coming up...they were civil enough to...spend them together...weren’t they? With Roger and Anita as a buffer, perhaps.)

Anyways,

It was going perfectly fine, as usual, until Paul’s voice got nervous out of the blue. If he’d just said “I’d like to have the kids Saturday to take them to the Carnival” Perdita would’ve said “sure, fine, that sounds nice”. But, she got suspicious immediately, suspicions confirmed in the next second.

There was silence on the line. Perdita felt a storm brewing in her chest--it’s intensity terrifying, especially considering that her anti-depressants made her feel like there was a fog inside of her most days, dampening any emotion--sad, tired, hungry, happy, furious.

Her hand gripped the phone tight and the silence extended and extended--she almost wanted Paul to say something else, to continue to babble and just make all of this worse.

She didn’t know what to say.

Perdita hated that. She could say no or she could say fuck you or she could say fine, whatever or what the fuck?

But, she--couldn’t.

The phone line crackled in the silence.

PAUL: The line went dead and for a second, Paul really did think that Perdy had hung up. But he could hear what he thought was one exhaled breath-- a sign that she was alive, and yes, Paul had really said that, and maybe that made him an idiot and he should have waited to do all of this in person, because at least then Perdy couldn’t hang up on him. Was she going to hang up on him? 

Why would she hang up with him? What was there to be angry about, really? That he-- that he hadn’t told her at the beginning? Was that it is? And Paul got battered over the head with guilt, the feeling twisting his stomach and ducking his head there in the kitchen as though he could feel Perdy’s eyes from here.

But why did he feel guilty? He did nothing wrong. He swallowed roughly on the phone, trying to remember that his crime wasn’t a crime at all.

He and Perdy-- they weren’t a thing. He wasn’t cheating. He’d just found someone who made him, god forbid, happy, or happy-ish at least, and if that wasn’t a goddamn miracle after everything in his goddamn life, then--

But if he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, he could imagine Perdy on the other side of the counter, staring at him, just staring at him. 

The line was still eerily silent. He knew it was a battle tactic. To force him to speak. 

So fine, he’d speak, and he’d try even if Perdy didn’t because unlike her, Paul didn’t want to go to battle today. 

“Perdy,” said Paul. “I know-- look. The only reason I didn’t tell you before this was I-- I didn’t even know if it was gonna turn into anything. I was gonna mention it this afternoon when I came to pick up the kids, but it just seemed-- better to do it now, I mean-- we can, we can talk, if you want.”  Still nothing on the other line. The guilt rankled and crawled up his spine-- he blurted, “Perdy, jesus christ, say something.”

PERDITA: I didn’t even know if it was gonna turn into anything.

He said this like somehow that made it better. It didn’t. If anything—it made it worse, because all the opportunities flashed before her eyes. All the opportunities for them. Times that they could’ve clung to each other and apologized or screamed at each other until they were hoarse (which yes, was a good thing, which meant all the ugly was out in the open), flitted behind her eyelids as she closed them for a beat. For one, steady breath. The anger was pushed back then, for just a moment, as the guilt and the sadness swelled.

Perdy, Jesus Christ, say something.

And just like that, that moment of—regret?—swept out again and the anger replaced it.

How dare he try to tell her what to do.

She didn’t even think, just removed the phone from her and clicked it off. The line went dead and she threw it in her purse, grabbing her sunglasses off the counter.

“Anita? Anita, dear? Will you watch the babies? Something has come up and I need to go take care of it. I’ll be back in an hour.” Her voice was a bit shriller than normal, but as she peeked out of her room where Anita was already sitting with the babies taking their afternoon nap in the pack-n-play, she smiled. Once she got confirmation, she zipped out the door without another word.

She was in a pair of sneakers, which she was grateful for. As excellent as she was maneuvering in heels, even she couldn’t walk with the proper fury and urgency in every step that she needed to. Part of her was hoping that she would walk all that energy off, so by the time she got to Paul’s door, it would be gone and she’d stare at the golden number on his apartment and then turn and leave and he’d have no idea she was even there.

That didn’t work.

When she arrived at Paul’s door, she didn’t even hesitate, her fist raising to pound on the door. She pictured that it was Paul’s chest, her lips twisted in a snarl.

“Paul! Open the door. I know you’re in there.”

PAUL: She hung up on him. Soon as Paul said what he said, there was a split second, and then a tiny click, and the line went dead. Paul pulled the phone from his ear at once and he stared down at it, at Perdita’s name looking right back at him and he thought--

For a second, he thought of calling back, starting over. He could say he was sorry. 

But what the fuck would he be apologizing for? 

What the fuck did he need to apologize for? For holding her hand in the hospital, for showing up, for staying beside her? For taking the babies for weeks while Perdita started therapy and got a handle on her medication for her post-partum? For waiting, for being patient, until she was ready again? For-- jumping through hoops for her schedule, for accommodating her new job? For telling the bloody truth?! For going out of his way-- AGAIN-- to be honest and fair and to give Perdita a chance-- 

A chance. Always another chance. Oh, she thought he was some cad for finding someone who actually made him happy for once, she probably thought he had gone behind her back or something. She was going to snark about him to Anita and this afternoon, when he saw her, she’d look at Paul with her cold eyes and try to make him feel small and insignificant. Like he had never mattered. Like he never would.

Attina made him feel the opposite of that and she wondered why he would want to keep that-- her-- all to himself? 

Paul clicked off his phone and tossed the fucking sponge back in the fucking sink. His phone clattered onto the counter too. He turned to the fridge and yanked it open, snagging one of his beers out. He got the top off and paced all the way cross his flat, all the way to the balcony, flinging the doors open and letting in all that September air. He slumped over the railing and took a swig of his drink. And oh yes, this was familiar. Last September was just like this, wasn’t it? Paul calling Perdita, rambling to Perdita, waiting, desperately, for something in return. And time and time again, the line would go dead. And Paul would get himself a drink. 

He should probably go back inside and text Roger, tell him to get his arse down to the Deer. Or maybe see where Stan was, or ask Jim if he was available or -- no, he couldn’t text Attina. He wanted to. He wanted her to be here so she could smile at him. Listen to him. But it wasn’t fair. 

Paul was nearly done with his entire drink when the pounding started, making Paul jump outta his skin. He turned around, brow furrowed, and heard Perdita barking at him. A scoff left his lips. Now this was new. 

He stalked back the other way, leaving his bottle on his kitchen counter and yanking open the door. 

“Forget how to use a phone, Perdita?” he sneered at her.

PERDITA: There was Paul looking as angry as she felt and Perdita’s heart twisted in her chest. Which only served to make her angrier. How dare he look at her like that? Talk to her like that? She was the mother of his children. Where did he get off thinking that he could—he could—

Move on.

Didn’t their talk in the hospital mean anything? Didn’t all those practice kisses for Romeo and Juliet mean anything? He must’ve felt what she felt. When their lips touched their circuitry had jumped back into place. They made sense again. Everything made sense again. Because the world didn’t make sense without Paul. Perdita had always found the world a big, terrifying place. Which was why she did her best to be bigger and more terrifying than it. That was her only defense. But with Paul, the world got softer and smaller.

Until it was just them.

It was just them now. It was just them and this girl that Paul had been seeing, right under Perdita’s nose. The thought spiked sharp in her brain, stabbed at her heart and her lip curled up as she pushed at Paul’s chest.

“How dare you tell me over the phone!” she snapped at him. “When did you turn into such a coward?”

PAUL: “Me?! A coward-- me?!” snapped Paul at once, though he actually moved out of the way so Perdy could storm in-- though why, he didn’t know--

Well, he wasn’t thinking, honestly. He wasn’t thinking and this felt familiar. Like just another blow-up argument from a long time ago, when there had been a them. A reason to argue.

There was no reason to argue now. It was simple: he was dating Attina. Perdita had to get over herself.   

“You’re a bloody hypocrite, Perdita, calling me a coward when you’re the one who picked up everything and took our kids and ran away! And noooooooooow you’re mad at me because I was trying to be honest with you?” He said, whirling on her as he slammed the door shut. “And that makes me a coward?” 

PERDITA: Perdita stormed in without even thinking as soon as Paul took one step to the side. She’d never actually spent an extended amount of time in Paul’s apartment. Usually she just handed the babies over, turned on her heel, and left. And this was because looking around—all she could think of was their apartment. Their home.

Which she ruined.

Which Paul was bringing up now. That made the fire inside her chest roar brighter, and she had to let it out, or it’d burn her alive.

“That wasn’t my fault! How could you throw that in my face?!” she barked at him, her arms crossed over her chest, her face slowly growing redder.

“I’m not mad at you for being honest—which by the way, how long has this been going on for? How long have you be lying for about it? Keeping this bitch from me because you were scared? I’m mad at you for—that. For doing it in the first place. You don’t see me dating anyone!”

PAUL: Ah yes, that was right. Wasn’t Perdita’s fault. How could anything be Perdita’s fault?

It was Paul’s fault. It was Paul’s fault for probably forcing her to have their kids in the first place, it was Paul’s fault for getting a different job to try to make more money and therefore not being around enough, it was his fault for not realizing that something was wrong, and then it was his fault, his fault, that when Perdy ran away--

He hadn’t figured out the right string of words to convince her to come back.

And he’d tried. Phone call after phone call, he’d tried. He yelled at her, he begged her, he cried on the phone to her. He bargained, he bribed, he threatened-- he called at least once a day for over a month and sent her texts and didn’t go to the police because, stupid Paul Patts, he thought there was no way that Perdita wasn’t gonna come back to him. She deserved a chance.

So yeah, it was his fault, it was Paul’s fault for not going straight to the station and getting the police to drag her home.

And it was Paul’s fault now for trying to be happy while the mother of his kids struggled with her mental health, yeah, he knew what it looked like and he was tired of hating himself for his mistakes-- or his not-mistakes! Because Attina wasn’t one of them.

“I’m allowed to date whoever the fuck I want and I don’t have to tell you about it, and you wanna know why-- YOU LEFT ME!” The words thundered from the chest and he jabbed his finger in the air at her, taking a threatening step forward. “YOU. LEFT ME. I-- “ and the anger broke into some mad half-laugh as he ran his hand through his hair. “I have been so careful not to piss you off, Perdita, I’ve done everything you asked me to. I didn’t push you with the kids, I gave you time, I gave you space, but no, Perdy, I’m-- you don’t get final say over my love life anymore because YOU TOOK YOURSELF OUT OF IT.”

PERDITA: Perdita jumped.

It was just the volume of his voice more than anything, because Perdita wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t afraid of Paul, especially. Well, none of that was true. There were a great many things that Perdita was afraid of. Paul was one of the biggest. But, not in this way. Not in a way where she was afraid he’d—hit her or anything like that. She was afraid of him because of what he could do to her heart. Around Paul it was a fragile, vulnerable thing. Paul was the only person who could do any real damage to it.

Her mother had done enough already. When it came to her mother, Perdita’s heart was as tough as scar tissue. And Perdita’s siblings would never hurt her. Anita would never hurt her. Her father would never hurt her.

But, Paul—Paul was the only one.

She hated him for it and she loved him for it. She wanted to spill her heart back into his hands. It was all she wanted since he’d shown up at her doorstep. Take it! she wanted to say. But Paul was right, she was a coward.

So, she flinched from the words, her eyes darting about the room before she looked back at Paul’s laugh. Her brow furrowed as she looked at him and—

She felt the dissonance. They’d always been on the same page, her and Paul. From that first moment when she’d whistled at him and he’d snapped his head up like a hunting dog waiting for a command. Now—they weren’t because didn’t he—didn’t he realize?

Perdita let out a huffy-laugh herself, in disbelief, shaking her head. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes but she didn’t let them fall as she looked back at him.

“I left for YOU, Paul. Don’t you—don’t you get it? I-I left because I was—I was broken. And I was broke. My mother drained all of my accounts. I had NOTHING. I had NOTHING to give you. I-I had the babies, I went through ALL OF THIS because I-I wanted to, but also because we could. With my money, w-we could. But it was GONE and I wasn’t going to do that to you. Don’t you—didn’t you—it was for you,” she told him, taking a step forward, her hand reaching out for just a moment before she dropped it down to her side.

She was wasn’t angry anymore. She was—confused and—desperate for him to understand. For so long, Perdita hadn’t even understood herself. That time was like—some kind of fog. But at least she knew that that was true, in her sick, twisted, fucked up head, she’d been trying to help him.

PAUL: Paul laughed. It was a higher pitch than normal-- just one laugh, like the air was exploding from his chest, like it had to get out. And oh, it was hilarious, what Perdy was saying. It was hilarious and just so like Perdita Faye, who could never be in the wrong, who knew how to twist things up so she could get off scot-free. That was her superpower. Patch must get it from her, that shield of his-- everything always bouncing off. 

Hitting Paul though. It always hit Paul. 

He had tears in his eyes too, and his whole chest was burning hot and he wanted to just take a seat and let out a giant sob. Because he’d wanted an explanation for months and months. That was part of the phone calls and the texts: the unknowable why. Why would she leave him? Why wouldn’t she just tell him?

After a while, those answerless questions, they destroy you. You have to move on. 

But Paul was pretty bad at moving on. And now he was finally getting his answers.

They took him right back to day zero, and he felt doused in gasoline, Perdy holding the match that threatened to ignite. Her words didn’t do much to comfort him because he couldn’t believe them. Perdy might mean it. She could have convinced herself of that. But that didn’t make it true. All it did was make Paul feel like a fool who was still not good enough. If he’d had the money, if he’d had a better job, if she’d trusted him-- 

So not the point. 

“No, you don’t get it, you can’t genuinely believe that you leaving and taking our babies away from me was something I was supposed to THANK YOU for--” his voice was twisted and hoarse now, tears blurring in his eyes.

“Because if you really believed that Perdy, that means you didn’t hear alllll those phone calls where I was begging you, so drunk I could barely walk, to come back to me. You would have called me back or left a fucking note or broken up with me like a normal person, instead of leaving me to ROT. That means when I showed up here, you would have told me the goddamn truth and apologized, but it took you-- it took you four months and a nervous breakdown to say those words and oh I know, I’m the asshole here for throwing that in your face, I’m the asshole who is pissed at my ex-girlfriend with post-partum, and you’re-- you’re right, it’s not your fault--!” he said, laughing again. “How could anything be your fault when you were just doing it all for me!”

PERDITA: Perdita hadn’t listened to a single one of Paul’s voicemails. She saw each and every one of them pop up on her phone screen and she’d deleted them all. She knew it was the only way to stay strong enough. To keep Paul away, so he could move on with his life—do something better than be a factory worker from the East End, from the “bad” part of London. He deserved so much more than that. Perdita had just been trying to give him a chance.

That’s what she’d told herself as her thumb had pressed delete, delete, delete, over and over, until she was numb from it, until it didn’t hunt anymore. Until it just—felt like a routine. Change the babies’ diapers. Cry. Feed them. Cry. Delete Paul’s voicemails from the night before. Cry.

And honestly, she hadn’t thought about what she might’ve done to him. Oh, yeah, sure—that sounded selfish, it did. But, her alternative was better. The one where Paul was sad for a while but then he pulled himself up by the bootstraps and made something of himself, just to spite her.

That was what her broken brain had wanted. So that was what it saw.

And she knew—part of it was her. Though, if she hadn’t been sick, Perdita would have let all the money drain, watching every dime slip away, in secret, before she told Paul. Because she was a coward.

Either way, it would have ended like this.

For a moment, there was silence. Both of them were breathing harshly and part of Perdita wanted to claw at Paul’s face, rip him open like he’d just ripped her open, because she hated the way he was making her feel. Like she was—like she was—

“What? What did you want to hear from me? Sorry? Was SORRY going to fix any of this? It wasn’t. It’s not like you would’ve believed me. I didn’t know what was WRONG WITH ME. My whole brain was a—a FUCKING MESS, Paul. I wanted to die. You know how many times—”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I knew the second I walked out that door sorry wasn’t going to do anything, no matter how sorry I was—how sorry I am. But it was my only option. It was the only thing I could see. I-I’d rather you hate me than take you down with me.”

She sucked in another breath and two tears fell from her eyes. She gritted her jaw hard so her teeth ground together and wiped the tears away.

“I’d rather I love you all alone than condemn you to a life you hated.”

PAUL: There was an alternate version of this story. Paul could see it like one of those choose-an-adventure books he so loved as a little boy. He poured over those books, navigating his way through ending after ending, trying to find the best one where he was the hero with all the chips, all the glory.

He could see that ending now. He could see himself closing the divide between he and Perdita like it had never cracked open. Taking her hands, touching her cheek. 

In that ending, he wasn’t angry or out-of-control. He told Perdita that she should have just told him. That she was so, so wrong in so many ways--

That yes, an apology would have meant something to Paul because he loved her. And he knew her-- he knew Perdita would never actually say those words unless she meant it. 

And yes, if she’d just come back-- if she’d come back, that would have meant everything. 

Paul was not like Perdy. He didn’t have ice in his soul, he had fire. It could burn and bite, yeah, but it melted him quick when it came to the people he loved. Paul wished, right now, that he could lean into it and be melted down into that kind, soft, forgiving version of himself, that he’d be all polished and handsome and brave and true. He wanted to choose that ending. 

But this fire was just gonna burn him to ash. Perdita hadn’t apologized. Perdita would never have come back. 

Even now-- she was more concerned with defending herself. She cared more about her pride than him, than-- than just--

He had tears in his eyes, thinking of that big, incomprehensible just and what came after it. All the things he wanted and couldn’t want, even now. 

His whole chest was so heavy, his stomach felt mangled, he stared at Perdita through a veil of his tears, hot in his eyes,  and he wanted to hurt her all over again. His brow creased as he struggled to hold them back, even though she had been the first-- for once-- to cry. 

“Then you-- you should be happy,” he forced the words out of his throat. “You should be happy because I hate you. I do, Perdy, I hate you. You broke me, and I hate you--” 

And then before he could stop himself, he reached out to her, pulled her toward him, and kissed her on the mouth.

PERDITA: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

Perdita prided herself on being someone who didn’t care when someone said they hated them. She kept her head up and she iced her heart over so she could chip the part of it that housed her affection for that person out. Crack, it was gone and she didn’t think twice about it. It was what she’d done with so many people in the past. It was what she’d done with her own mother in a lot of ways. Her mother—who she blamed for all of this.

But, Paul. He was her whole heart. If she tried to cut it out of her chest, she’d stop breathing. Instead, the words just cut through the ice, chipped it away until the red muscle beneath was exposed, and then it pierced there too.

If Paul thought Perdita used love as a weapon, she had nothing on Paul. Paul who loved with his whole soul, who hated with it too. It always astounded her how warm he was. How he could smile and charm even with everything he’d been through. If Perdita was Paul, if their fortunes had been reversed, she couldn’t imagine how twisted she’d be, if having a relatively cushy and happy life had made her the way that she was now. But Paul—he stayed warm, he stayed good. And most importantly, he loved with everything and wasn’t afraid of it when it happened to him. Not like Perdita. Not like Perdita who acted like it was a plague infecting her body that she had to get rid of.

And here Paul was, infecting her with it again as he grabbed her bicep and jerked her towards him.

Their lips, teeth, collided sharply, Perdita sucking in a breath of surprise through her nose. She stood for just a moment, shocked but then—

Her nails were raking through his hair and she’d pressed her body right up against his, mouth hungry, body quaking with anger. She bit his lip. He bit hers. The whole time, she wanted to hit him. Slap him. Bang on his chest like a drum. She wanted to wiggle away from him, because he was dangerous. He was a pyre she was going to burn herself up on. But, she also didn’t care, because she was kissing Paul and he was kissing her and both of their mouths tasted like tears, but she could taste him too.

They weren’t Romeo and Juliet. They were just Paul and Perdita. Except Paul and Perdita were so much more than just Paul and Perdita, weren’t they?

PAUL: His lips moved roughly over hers, even while she stayed still. And Paul could taste her shock and feel it in the way Perdy swayed, like a tree bending in the wind. And Perdy, she didn’t bend. She snapped. Like him, she snapped, she broke, and then with her edges sharp, she cut whoever broke her in the first place.

Paul knew that was coming, but for a moment, he held her and she was soft for him and it was all he wanted.

For a moment, she didn’t fight, snarl, bite, claw, or hurt him. For a moment, he moved his lips over her own, his eyes squeezed shut so he could pretend. Smell her hair and realize it was the same shampoo as before. Taste her, and it was the same too. For a moment, time twisted back on itself like Paul was opening a rift and stepping back before all this bullshit had started. It was a long and beautiful and wretched moment, in which Paul was selfish and he loved her again. He kissed her like he loved her.

He never stopped-- he didn’t know how.

Then time snapped back into place like a rubber band, and Perdy’s hands raked in his hair. Her lips opened, and he could taste her breath, right before she bit down into his lip. It was all electricity and dynamite, both at once-- an explosion in his gut, a shockwave down his spine. Paul moved back, shoving Perdy against the door. Hard. It rattled in its frame and Paul bit down on her bottom lip too, hard enough to make her gasp for him. His own body shuddered, remembering all the time she’d made those noises before. He knew each one intimately. He knew Perdita.

Through the kiss, he could taste salt-- and he didn’t know which one of them was crying. Did it matter? No.

He didn’t care. His hand moved down her body, grasping at her waist. He gripped her like he wanted to press his thumbprints into her as he kissed her hard and sloppy, wanty and needy and dirty and angry. All those things, one kiss. Their other ones really had been make-believe-- two people following a script. But this was real.

PERDITA: Paul pushed Perdita against the door and she felt the explosion in her gut, it spread through all her limbs with an intense heat that made her toes curl and her heart skip a beat. He bit her lip, hard enough to make her suck in a breath and her fingers tangled tighter in his hair in response. Her leg came up, pressing her heel into his calf, trapping his hip with her thigh. She didn’t want him to go anywhere, she wanted to stay right here.

He grabbed her hard, Perdita felt her flesh press against her hipbones and she just moved her pelvis forwards, wanting him to press harder—to mark her up, so she’d feel it afterwards. She’d feel his hands on her no matter what, but she wanted the marks too. She wanted to see it—so that she would know that she wasn’t just making this up, which there was a danger of.

Perdita did this thing, apparently, called “disassociating” and she needed these details to ground her. To remind her that her body existed in this place. In this time. With Paul. And later, she’d be able to prove to herself that it happened, that it wasn’t just in her head. Because Perdita had thought about this exact scenario so many times. Every time she had looked at Paul. She’d thought about it every day that they’d been apart. She’d thought about Paul, angry, punishing her, but loving her, in the messy way they’d always loved each other.

Her heart was pounding hard and she had to break the kiss to draw in a sharp breath. Her lips were trembling from the emotion. She loved him, she loved him, she missed him. Her hand stroked once through his hair and she kissed him again—softer this time, but still pushing her lips rough against his, the kiss mostly breath, mostly lips, her tongue brushing his lightly.

“I-I’m sorry,” she said against his lips, like she could push the words into his lungs. “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.” She kissed him again and again, her leg notching higher on his hip, drawing him closer to her, like she could press him right against her heart and he would know just how sorry she really was.

PAUL: First, there was only the frenzied heat between their bodies. He felt it in the points where they met, where they smashed into each other: the weight of Perdy’s heel on his calf, the soft curve of her thigh, her hip bone jutting against his own. It had been so long since he was this close to her, so close he felt like he could melt into her. And he did want to melt into her-- to be inside her. His body burned for it, from his fevered lips as they sucked on her own to the heat boiling in his stomach and in all the places where she touched.

He wanted to fuck her. Hard. Maybe against this door, with his fingers between her own, hand pressed up against the wood. He’d sink into her and make this whole place rattle. He’d make her shout, he’d pull her hair, he’d bite her neck and suck bruises into her skin.

He wanted to make love to her.

He knew it was less than a minute between himself and his bedroom and he could pull Perdita in there and have her on his bed in seconds. He had the comforter from their old room together, the sheets, too. She’d picked out those stupid sheets. He should have burned them, but he brought them here to Swynlake, almost like he craved this--

Like he wanted the ellipsis of their relationship to end and a new sentence to begin and he wanted it to be like she never left and she’d hold him with her legs and arms and sigh tenderly…

He wanted to do a lot of things, but it didn’t matter what he thought, not at first, because at first, it was just about that heat.

That heat ballooned around them when the kiss broke, like it was released from Paul’s lungs. He felt his body more concretely-- his tight jeans,his hand bunching up Perdy’s shirt. Perdita kissed him again, and again, and again, and now Paul was thinking about those two very different scenarios. He wanted both and couldn’t have either. His desire felt like it was going to bury him. His broken, bleeding heart in his chest was the heaviest thing of all.  He felt the urge to break down-- to slip onto his knees and press his face against Perdita’s stomach, and hold her, and cry.

He still had tears on his cheeks.

Perdita was kissing him, did she even notice? Did she notice that he’d stopped kissing her back?

And then there was Attina-- she slipped in through the pain. Really, it was the pain in his chest that had stopped Paul first, see, but it also opened the door that let her back in. Attina kissed differently than Perdy. She was all soft, she liked to wrap her arms around his neck and giggled when he dipped her, like they was movie stars on a poster. He liked that about her, you know, he really did.

Paul panted and his hand moved from Perdita’s waist up to grasp at her shoulder and Paul pulled away.

“No,” he whispered it into the shared air between them. “No, Perdy--”

And he stepped away from her, stepped two, three, four steps back to return the safe distance. “No-- I shouldn’t have done that. You’re too late, you can’t-- you can’t wait until the second I dare to be happy again to decide you want me again. You had months. She’s my girlfriend, I asked her to be my girlfriend-- I can’t do this.”

And Paul had no idea if he was telling Perdita or telling himself.

PERDITA: Perdita knew. She knew that he’d stopped kissing. Perdita knew what Paul kisses felt like—how gentle and soft, how playful, how naughty, how hard. She knew all of them, in a way she didn’t know anyone else’s kisses. There was no one else she’d let kiss her as much and in all different ways. Only Paul. The language of his lips was the only one she allowed herself to learn.

She knew, but it didn’t stop her. It just made her more desperate. If she just kissed him enough, he wouldn’t pull away, even as she felt his muscles begin to tense. Her fingers curled, latching into his shoulder blade, but it was nothing in the end.

Paul stepped away from her as if it was easy. Stood there talking about his girlfriend and how she made Paul happy.

That was a load of shit and Perdita knew it. See, people like her and Paul—they used band-aids like they were prescription drugs. They popped kisses like Vicodin. They didn’t acknowledge pain, they covered it up with frivolous things. Perdita turned her words sharp and used the laughter at other people cowering around her. Paul used smiles—not his own, oh no. He collected them from others, like a sorcerer, he pocketed them for rainy days.

Someone like Attina, she was just like Vicodin—her sugar smiles numb Paul right up.

Perdita knew better, though. Because Perdita knew Paul. They were cut from the same cloth.

Does she know? Perdita wanted to say. Does she know about Lucas? About your mother? It’s not real, she doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know you like I know you.

She didn’t say that. Because Perdita and Paul were people who used band-aids. And Perdita’s shield was laughter.

With a scoff, she crossed her arms over her chest, pressing her back up against the door, staring hard at Paul. She’d just ripped herself open in front of him, but the second he’d stepped away, she’d stitched herself back up. Armor donned again.

“Well, you already did,” she reminded him, a wicked glint in her eye. This war wasn’t over. This had just been another battle. One which Perdita had won, and they both knew it.

“But, fine, play with your little chew toy.” She shrugged, flicking her hair over her shoulder. She sucked one of her plump, red lips into her mouth for a second. “We both know that you want this. And I do too, so—“ she shrugged again, smirking at him, feeling much better than when she’d first come by.

There was a beat and her face softened, just the smallest fraction.

“I do love you, Paul. And I am sorry.”

PAUL: The anger came back, though it was different this time, not a deep and twisted thing at all, but something bright and new. He’d carried all those other words he’d just shouted at Perdita-- tried to push into her skin and bite into her lips-- around inside him for a whole year. Those things had ripped out of his chest like some monster rising from the depths. Like-- like the bloody sarlacc from Return of the Jedi.

Yeah, Paul was comparing his year-long angst to a Star Wars monster. So?

Point was: this new anger was nothing like that. It didn’t make him want to break things with his hands. It made him want to pull on Perdita’s hair like a six-year-old. Push her down on the playground. Stick his tongue out at her. Call her a mean name.

That’s what Perdita was doing to him. They weren’t playing with fire, but with sticks and stones, Perdita sneering out insults like chewtoy at Attina. He should slap her for that. He wasn’t going to. No, he was keeping back. He was keeping back, and curling his fists and staring her down.

Perdita was going to be wrong about them. She was going to be wrong about him.

Paul decided, then and there, that he wasn’t going to love her again. Yeah, he was gonna make it that easy. All hot and angry like this, even with his blood still churning and his lips freshly bruised from Perdita’s kiss, it was easy to stare at her and hate her again. Even when Perdita’s face changed for that nanosecond. Even then, his heart was burning, and he knew it was all a trap that he wasn’t gonna fall into. 

“Well I don’t believe you. Someone who loved me, someone who was sorry-- they’d never act like you do,” he said in a cutting, cold tone (he learned that one from her). “So get out of my apartment. Attina and I will pick up the kids on Saturday.”

[pretty-perdita]

Have Not Saints Lips? |*| [Fate]

@paul-patts

So, today, they were rehearsing Romeo and Juliet’s first kiss. 

No big deal. Perdita had done several stage kisses before in her life, especially in high school. And it just came with the added bonus that she’d kissed her Romeo’s lips more times than she’d kissed any others. This would not be their first kiss at all. That first kiss had been bashful and happy, had been coming for three years. Perdita had practically dared him.

So, easy peasy, no big deal--not at all. 

Except it was. Because Perdita had not kissed those lips in almost a year. She had gone to sleep, exhausted, in pain, for almost a year, and every night she’d missed those lips, and the body that they were attached to and the soul that resided inside. She’d yearned for that affection and that warmth for so long it simply felt like a part of her now. 

Maybe she didn’t want to give that part of her away again--which was why they were standing on stage now, just a foot or so apart, and Perdita knew her lines, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this...

She swallowed a little and took a step backwards, jutting her chin out, she felt the directors watching, felt all those eyes crawling all over her. She didn’t want anyone else here. 

“I-I’m sorry, I was distracted by the people in the lighting booth--” she shot a glare towards said lighting booth, though, she really couldn’t see much besides silhouettes. Whatever. She’d play the diva if it meant covering up her nerves.

[pretty-perdita]

Truth is Often One’s Best Shield 💄 [Fate]

@paul-patts

So, her kid had magic.

That was a lot easier to say than actually wrap her head around, even though she’d seen it perfectly clear, with her own two eyes. She’d touched the shield and felt her hand bounce off of it as if she’d hit a solid wall. It’d taken the paramedics and police coming, and leaving, Chester packed up, still invisible and knocked out and handcuffed to a stretcher, and Roger--poor Roger--leaving a bloodstain on the rug, before the shield dropped and Perdita could scoop up her son again.

It hadn’t happened since then--the whole thing felt like a horrible nightmare. She hadn’t been back to therapy, but she just knew he was going to have something to say about it all. 

As of right now, Perdita was hardly sleeping, and she didn’t want to let her babies out her sight, even if Chester was assuredly in police custody. She felt paranoid, her chest tight. 

It wasn’t until a few nights later that Paul, exhausted and not sleeping well himself, said something about taking Patrick to the doctor.

Perdita hadn’t even thought of that, and the fact that she didn’t made her chest seize all those thoughts pushing in (badmotherterriblemothernogoodnogoodatall) and the fact that Patrick had to go to the hospital, again, for something that wasn’t normal or routine made the worry eat away at her. So, of course, she agreed, and they made an appointment.

It was a week after the initial incident that they stood in a hospital room, waiting on a doctor, who bustled in with a warm smile. Perdita thought he looked vaguely familiar.

“Hello, your--Mr. Patts and Miss Faye, correct?” He checked the notes that the nurse who had taken down all their information had probably given him. “And this is--little Patrick? I’m Dr. Sweet.” He held out his hand for Paul and then Perdita, who had to shift Penny in order to grab it.

“Now, I hear we had a little--magical incident? Would you mind walking me through it, please.” 

[pretty-perdita]

A Very Merry Unbirthday |*| [The Dalmatian Quartet feat. Chester]

In which Chester crashes a birthday party...

@paul-patts, @truly-aninspiration, @dalmatianplantationsensation, @chester-glass

[tw for mentions of suicide, contemplation of suicide, knife brandishing, baby kidnapping, violence, stabbing, some minor gore, it’s a while ride folks]

Chester’s plan had backfired. And to think, he’d been certain to plot it so well! You see, his grand plan on making Anita Dearly’s life miserable was supposed to culminate in a frozen-heart-punishment fit to make her stoic and barely-human-at-all. Or at least, that was Chester’s intent and so imagine his surprise when he saw his Sister Dearly strolling around Swynlake with a smile on her face. Further inspection revealed that not only was Anita Dearly unbothered by her condition—she /loved/ it. She liked being a heinous bitch. Now how was that for a plot twist?

Which just left Chester with one option and one option only: Kill Anita Dearly.

Now, murder was an awfully messy business. It was never Chester’s first choice, never really his intention, but sometimes the path grew narrow, the options limited. Chester’s options were dwindling the longer he stayed in Swynlake and the more terror he caused. He could smell the climax as it approached…feel it quiver in his skin.

And so when he heard about the Patts-Faye babies’ birthday, his plot senses began to tingle. He needed something to get the heartless Anita onto a ledge. In a room full of her friends, his options sprang wide open. And so it was on June 28th that Chester slunk into Anita and Perdita’s flat for the last time, while they hung their streamers and blew up balloons. Oh, it was going to be a party, alright.

Anita It had been several weeks now since the awfully annoying ‘intervention’ that her friends had staged and thankfully, things had more or less returned to normal. Perdita was still prone to give her strange glances and the cold shoulder, and she rarely went out with her anymore, but Anita had found other people to occupy her time.

In fact, she was planning to duck out of this baby shower thing as soon as she could so she might take advantage of her free time for a few cocktails at Pixie’s. For now though, she played the part of dutiful friend. /She’d/ even offered to pick up the cake and she put it on the table now, setting down the knife, the plates, and the napkins in the minutes before the party was to officially start.

“We’ll be eating this all /week,/” she teased as she looked back at Perdita, and for a moment it was like Anita could be herself again—all sugar and rosy cheeks. And then the doorbell rang and Anita looked toward it. "Oh, that'll be the boys, wouldn't it?" she said.

Perdita was in the middle of blowing up balloons and as her head dizzied from the massive intakes and outtakes of oxygen, she thought about how she got here as she watched Anita flit about the table. Anita with her frozen heart. Perdita, who just took her depression medication a few hours ago. Paul and Roger--the same as always, if not sadder and scorned by the women they loved. It could've all worked out peachy, couldn't've? Two best friends in love with two best friends? It was the fairy tale everyone wanted. Somewhere along the way it had gotten so fucked, but they were all still here in the end, and that made Perdita's heart light. Or maybe that was the lack of oxygen.

When the doorbell rang she set aside the gold balloon she was blowing up (gold and white with a little bit of sky blue were the party colors). "I'll get it," she said with a smile and flounced towards the door, opening it wide. She smiled wide too.

"Hey!" she greeted, reaching out for one of the babies. "Gimme. You two have got to hang the streamers and balloons," she told them.

Paul was bloody well-excited for the first time-- alright, since he got cast as Romeo, maybe it wasn't so far back after all. He'd been waiting for this day for a while is all. He couldn't believe that his kids were one years old today, that it'd been a year and his life had changed this much. Course he didn't linger on the specifics because he'd get sad. He just focused on the babies himself, little Penn and little Patch, lively and smart and friendly, who were gonna be speakin' any day now, who still had their mother's eyes.

So he was all smiles when Perdita opened the door, Patch in his arms (Roger had Penn). Patch immediately let out a gurgly happy giggle at the sight of Perdy.

"Yeah, that's Mum! Mum's gonna say happy birthday," cooed Paul with that big grin before he passed Patch over. He glanced over her shoulder into the room. "Blimey, you plannin' to float this flat away with all those?" he quipped, but walked in toward them. He smiled a bit stiffly at Anita.

"Hey Anita-- you mind taking Penn?" Anita nodded and went to go get Penn from Roger near the door. Paul swiped a bunch of streamers and dragged a chair toward the window, no idea where he was gonna be puttin' 'em.

Roger Penn wriggled a bit in his arms. She was excited. Even Roger was a bit excited, well, more than he'd been in a while. He'd sorta accepted a few weeks ago that he was going to be doomed to cash registers and dog walking for the foreseable future, so when literally anything out of the normal happened it was a welcome change. Not that he wasn't happy that Paul's kids were turning one--because that was wonderful. These two little critters that Paul (and Perdy) had brought into the world were turning into little people.

Roger bounced Penny a bit. "You excited? They've got a cake and everything. Well, I dunno if you can process the taste of cake--oh hello, Anita." He managed a warm smile, shifiting Penny a bit so that Anita could take her.

Anita did not want to hold the baby, mind you, but here she was: playing nice. She smiled at Roger-- a closed-lip smile-- as she took the drooling bundle into her arms.

"Hullo Rog-- oof, this one's getting rather heavy, isn't she?" Anita said and looked at Penn, who had her fingers in her mouth. "Fancy that it's been a year, hm? This time last year-- why, we were just getting used to Swynlake weren't we?" she said to him. "Now we're practically regulars."

Perdita "Yes, Mommy is gonna say happy birthday, isn't she? Happy birthday!" Perdita said, bouncing Pat on her hip gently touching her finger to his nose to make him giggle, which made her giggle. She couldn't even begin to wrap her head around the fact they were a year old.

Did all mothers feel like that? Or just the ones that had lost the first nine months of their babies lives to depression?

Wandering towards Paul, she hovered around the bottom of the chair. "We've got to tell Daddy to be careful," Perdita narrated to Patrick, but she was looking up at Paul. Patrick made a cooing, baby-talk sound. "Yeah, I know, he can be a bit of a klutz, can't he?"

Paul scoffed, tossing her a glance. "That's definitely not what he said. He's on my side. We Patts men--" he mounted the chair then "--stick together! Now where the bloody hell do you want me to put these things?" He lifted the streamers up, squinting at the doors.

Roger gave a little laugh. "Time passes, that's for sure," he said, shrugging and walking into the flat. "So where's this all set up?"

Anita walked in after Roger, pushing the door closed with her heel. "Er, well Paul's got the streamers so I suppose if you'd like to hang some balloons off the chairs perhaps? The table's already set up so really we're practically good to go, I'm sure everyone will be here soon," she narrated as her eyes flicked around the room. She frowned at her own open door-- she swore she had closed it, so she moved toward it to shut the bedroom door again. No need to go in there.

Perdita "Y'know," Perdita said, letting go of Patrick with one hand to wave her hand about. "Loop it across the doorway, separate the colors out, though, so they don't get all bunched and are more--layered. And don't wrinkle them."

Paul "Course, because /wrinkle the streamers/ was first on the to-do list," Paul quipped back but was facing the window, measuring out the streamer to see how big the "loops" had to be. He wasn't the best at this sort of thing, Perdy knew that. He was pretty sure he was gonna fuck it up and she'd tell him to redo it, but he leaned forward and taped the one end and did the first loop across the window. "Yeah, like this?" he said and looked over his shoulder at Perdy.

Roger scanned the room and found where the gold, white, and blue balloons were and grabbed a handful. "Er--ribbon...?" Anita had walked off to her room, Penny still in her arms. Roger found a spool of ribbon, then set the balloons on the table, tyin' 'em up behind the chairs, and arranging them all nice and stuff. He flicked the top of one of the balloons and continued around the table.

Anita "Oh that already looks lovely, Rog," said Anita when she glanced back at the table with the balloons and the ribbons. The colour scheme was of course all Perdita's doing, neither boy could be responsible for such important measures. But he had a good eye and Anita's still appreciated this kind of aesthetic thing. Everything needed to be perfect, like a magazine. "Maybe bring some of that ribbon to the door? What do you think, that might be nice for people coming in," she said, adjusting Penn in her arms. She was being awfully wiggly.

Perdita "Mmm," Perdita said, tilting her head and taking a step back, almost bumping into the end table of the couch which made Pat giggle in her arms. "A little to the left I think, don't make them too big or we'll only be able to fit one or two."

Paul snorted some air outta his nostrils but obeyed and shifted it to the left so the loop drooped more dramatically. "Yeah?" he said. A second or two passed as Perdy eyed it. "Oh /c'mon,/ Perdy, they're just bloody streamers."

Perdita "They're not /just/ streamers, Paul. If they're uneven they'll throw off the whole ro--you know what? Here." Perdita bent down and placed Penny on the floor. She immediately began crawling across the floor, towards the couch, probably so she could try to pull herself up with it. "Anita, Roger, can you keep an eye on Penn while I help this /klots/," she scoffed, but playfully as she went and grabbed another chair, plopping it down next to Paul's so that they were spread out across the double doors. She climbed up carefully. "Okay, hand me that end," she said, gesturing for it.

Roger continued to adjust the balloons, then glanced over at Anita. "Yeah--that's a good idea. I can hang a few of 'em around the door frame." He grabbed a few balloons, knotting their ends with string, and reached for the top corner of the doorframe.

Anita had already wandered Roger's way to inspect the ribbon-doorway-mission, which was truly of the utmost importance as the guests would see it first and so it needed to give off the best impression. She glanced toward Perdy now, long enough to see her bend down to put the second of the Patts children on the floor. Anita rolled her eyes a little. Wasn't one baby enough (Penny was already a handful as is) for a woman to have to keep an eye on?

She gave another cursory glance, figuring the request was similar to a stranger asking another stranger to watch their things in a coffee shop-- symbolic and nothing more.

Then back to Roger. "Yes, that looks quite nice, I think. For what it is," she said with a shrug. She glanced back toward Paul-and-Perdy who were bickering. Rolled her eyes. "I do wish they'd just sleep with each other and get it over with," she said half to herself, half to Roger.

And then she noticed her /door/ was open again. Anita scoffed. "I swear I just closed that--" Anita said as she swept back toward her bedroom to shut the door.

Paul "Oi, name callin-- we got kids in the room, Perdy," teased Paul with a mock-stern expression. He leaned over enough to hand her the other end of the streamer. "Right, so. Tell me how this is gonna work /oh streamer queen./" More mocking. Ah, felt like old times.

Roger heard what Anita had said and then just shrugged, not really wanting to get into the whole should-Paul-and-Perdy-sleep-together bit, especially coming from the girl who went off and froze her heart. He adjusted the balloons, glancing over his shoulder as Anita walked towards her bedroom.

Perdita "And don't you forget it," Perdita said playfully, taking the streamer from Paul, their fingers brushing over the streamer, making Perdita's heart squeeze a little. She hung it up, a mite distracted, and then looked over her shoulder to find the babies.

It was habit now, ever since Patch had fallen off the bed. If they were in the room, she could't take her eyes off them for maybe a few seconds. Anita still had Penny on her hip. Patch was--he should be right by the couch. She craned her head a little further, to try and see around the back of it, if he crawled off in that direction. It almost made her lose balance as her stilettos slipped against the finished wood and she ripped the fragile streamer still in her hands.

"Paul--do you--do you see Patch? Anita! Where is he?" she asked, her voice a little shriller than probably necessary as she began scrambling off the chair.

Anita had just closed her door again and looked up sharply at Perdita's voice. "What? Oh calm down, Perdy, he was right there," she said with an eye roll and she craned her neck too but didn't see the baby. "Or-- " she blinked. "Oh uh--"

Paul "What?" said Paul, his own head turning sharp at Perdy's voice. "Wait, what?" He dropped the ruined streamer anyway and hopped down from the chair, rounding along the couch in search of his son. But he-- wasn't there. "What the hell, where the hell?" He turned around, eyes scouring the room.

Roger turned around immediately, walking towards the center of the room, eyes scanning, on alert. "Er--did he crawl away maybe? Uh, under the sofa?" He dropped to his knees, looking around the floor.

Chester And it was then that Chester-- who had been there all along mind you, enjoying the silly drivel of the Mundus-- appeared sitting on the countertop, Patch in his lap and a knife in his hand. The very same knife that had just been on the kitchen table for that scrum-diddly-umptious cake of theirs!

"Oh, are you looking for this little tot?" He preened. Patch was giggling, reaching out his hand for that big, big knife. "Ooooh, no, no, little Patrick, that's not for /you./ Babies." Chester grinned and brought the knife a little closer.

Perdita No one could find him. Perdita stumbled a little as she got down off the chair, putting her hand against the wall as Paul and Roger frantically searched around. All she could think about was all the things he could be getting into. They'd babyproofed before the children had come over, of course, but Perdita's panicked brain wasn't thinking about that.

And then--out of nowhere materialized--"Ches--" she didn't get his name out before she saw the glint of the knife. Her throat closed up and she couldn't do anything but stand there, her heart pounding as if it was trying to warm her up enough to let her /do something/.

"Paul--" she managed to squeak out, though it was probably hardly loud enough to catch his attention

Anita started at the voice coming from behind, whirling around to see-- Chester Glass of all people on the counter. Her eyes stayed open, her mouth gaping in confusion. She held Penny a little tighter, making the girl whine. She was already upset by the rising voices and the stranger now in their midst. "Wh-- what--?" she breathed out the word, frozen otherwise, exactly where she was.

Paul was not frozen. Paul was the opposite of frozen. His blood turned to fire at once, moving several steps closer like he was going to lunge. He only stopped when the knife in Chester's hand slipped closer, and even then, his body trembled, unable to simply /stay/ still.

"What the hell are you doing? Who the hell is this?" he said hoarsely, glancing fast at Perdy and Anita who seemed to /know/ the man with /Paul's son./ "Give my son to me right now!" he yelled before any of his shellshocked mates could give him an answer. Penny, in Anita's arm, began to cry.

Roger nearly knocked his head on the coffee table, but stood up, instantly on defense, Paul's shout riling him right up. Penny was crying, the girls silent and frozen. Roger glanced from Chester Glass to Patch to the knife gleaming in Chester's hand and his own heart pounded, ready to jump into the fray at a moment's notice, but for now--he was on guard, didn't know what someone like /Chester/ would do with Patch.

Chester glowed after every single reaction, his heart pounding bright and hot in his chest. Nothing like a good surprise, was there? No, nothing. It was worth it-- all this hiding these past few months, being invisible more than not. All the terrorizing he'd caused without anyone to give him due credit. All of it had led up to this moment right here. And all eyes were on him. He was the star, the center of attention. He was the puppetmaster, and the show was going to go according to plan. He adjusted the tot in his lap, the little buddy still trying to grab at the knife.

"Oh /hush,/ handsome male lead, you're making the other one /cry,/" he said with a fake pout. Then smiled again. "We haven't met, have we? You're Paul-- I'm Chester. Well, that's not entirely true. I'm Alfred Dearly. Ooooo, spooky!" He giggled. "Not the dead one, the alive one. I'm his son. Anita, darling, so glad to finally make your acquaintance."

Perdita Paul's shouting only made Perdita's blood chill faster. She hated that. She hated the yelling, the knife getting closer to Patrick's neck. Penelope crying. She'd only put him down for a moment--just a moment. She wanted her baby in her arms more than she ever had. Either of them, both of them. The urge was so strong she wasn't listening to a word that Chester was saying, she didn't /care/ what he was saying. She just wanted her baby back.

Anita 's head spun, her face twisting with every word he said. None of that made /any/ sense. She had known Chester Glass. He was a prankster, yes, but not malicious. And he'd not been in town. Hadn't he moved away or something? She had no idea because he had just been a tiny blip on her radar, and certainly not-- not what he claimed to be.

"That's not /true,/ I -- I don't have a brother," she said with her voice high but sharp. "You're lying, you're-- you're /insane./"

Paul inched a tiny bit forward, eyes darting from Chester to Anita. "What's it matter anyway? Got /nothing/ to do with Pat," he said. "Leave him out of this, he's just a kid."

Roger nodded along with Paul. "Yeah--it's not him--he's got nothing to do with this."

Chester "Oh /I/ know that, he's just a hostage. Of course I don't want to hurt the little bugger, but I will if I have to," Chester said quite amicably. His legs swung a bit. He was getting a real kick out of all this, the boys as alert as puppy dogs, Perdita coming apart, and Anita-- well, she was the problem.

"Now, if Anita will just be so kind as to jump off the balcony and kill herself, then I will be on my way." He smiled sweetly. "Your daddy's waiting, Sister Dearly."

Perdita Paul's voice--softer now, but still strong, helped. He wasn't scared (okay, maybe he was, but he wasn't showing it, he wasn't coming apart--Roger too) and that helped. She still didn't move but she managed to hiccup a breath in--the first one she'd taken since Chester had appeared--and clear away some of the panic. Now, it all clicked together. Chester Glass--who'd she'd been working alongside for the better part of year--was her best friend's /brother/, or so he claimed.

And he wanted--for whatever reason--for Anita to die. Perdita's heart clenched, but still--she didn't say anything, couldn't. Too afraid that anything would set Chester off.

Anita "Wh-- /what/? Because you /think/ I'm your sister?" exclaimed Anita. And even as she did, though, the pieces were clicking for her too-- Chester the invisible boy slinking into her flat, Chester the invisible boy writing scary messages on the door, Chester the invisible boy somehow getting her photographs. She hadn't been haunted. It'd been a trap.

Chester "I know you're my sister. Oh, it's a long, long story-- but the summary is this. Your parents gave me away because I said Magick. While /you/ lived your life of horse races and champagne flutes, /I/ was an orphan. This--" he made a grand sweeping gesture with his knife, which made Paul flinch and make a strangling noise, "-- is my revenge plan. Now, at first I just wanted you to be miserable with a frozen heart but APPARENTLY you're having the time of your life, so that won't do. The only choice is for you. To jump." He brought the knife back toward Patch. "Or I'll saw the tyke's head off."

Anita There was a beat, a single beat. A second of silence, in which Paul Patts did not object, Perdita said nothing, and Roger, too, remained silent. It was a second where Anita looked around, her eyes catching that balcony door that, for now, remained shut. And truthfully-- she was waiting for /someone/ to object. For her friends, who she had known for the best years of her life, to say something. They didn't. It was just her and Chester, the knife glinting under the light, Patch squirming, getting restless, starting to panic too. She was supposed to give up her life for that wiggling, pink thing. Tiny. Helpless. Ugly (if they were all very honest with themselves). Part of her wanted to object and just say no, but the more Patch squirmed, the more empty her heart felt.

The silence turned into two, three seconds, and Anita's shoulders slumped, her face getting softer.

"Alright," she said. She looked at Perdita. "Perdy, you should come hold Penny while I do this."

Roger "Anita, you can't do this." Roger was still firmly planted where he stood, worried that the slightest motion towards Anita would cause Chester to slit Patch's throat. His heart was hammering away—he did not want Anita to jump, did not want anything to happen to Paul’s babies, there had to be /something/ they could do. "Please--" He looked at Chester now. "There must be /something/ else we can do for you."

Perdita's face changed as soon as Anita agreed. Her brows knitted and she turned her head sharply towards her friend, golden hair flying wildly about her shoulders.

"What? No." She didn't even think about her baby, not in that second. She was thinking about her friend. Her dearest friend in the whole world. Of course, the next second Roger spoke up and Perdita was looking at her baby. Perdita Faye had a very strong heart, it was iron wrapped in steel, but in that moment, it felt soft as cotton, and it ripped in half just as easily.

Paul did not take his eyes off his son. He inched, careful, slow, miniscule. Every time Chester's eyes bounced wildly around the room, he took a chance and took a centimeter. He had no real plan but he knew that he wasn't gonna let Patch die. Roger, Anita, and Perdy could just buy him enough time, he'd figure it out, he'd find a way-- he'd save him.

Chester grinned, ear to ear. Predictable, the friends chiming in, bargains hoping to be struck. But Chester would not be satisfied until Anita splat against the concrete. He looked at Roger, who had been in love with Anita-- was he still? He'd toyed with the idea of holding him hostage, but really, the baby was much easier to bully.

"I'm afraid there /isn't/, Mr. Radcliffe. Anita dies or the kid does. Now.." he hopped off the counter, holding a squirming, crying Patch slung in his arm, the tip of the knife pressing against the child's tummy. The father let out a shout, Anita flinching, the mother looking like she might crumple into hysterics at any moment. "Time's a-wasting! Don't make me skewer the lad!"

Anita did let out a tiny shout herself-- all her cool now gone forever, her heart, suddenly, heavy in her chest, squeezing. It felt like there was a knife against it. "No-- don't, I'm doing it, I am, look--" said Anita and she crossed quickly to Perdita, practically shoving Penny in her arms. "It's alright, Perdita, it's fine," said Anita to her, and she squeezed her friend's arm once before she pulled away.

Perdita really did want to crumble to the ground. She didn't know what to do. Of course she didn't, when things really mattered--that's when she crumbled. She'd started crying at some point, tears streaming down her face as Anita shoved Penny into her arms.

"A-Anita," she said, reaching out to grasp at her hand even as she pulled away. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She wanted to tell her to not do it--she didn't want her to do it. She needed Paul and Roger to think of something, to keep this from happening. She couldn't lose Anita, she couldn't lose Patrick. She couldn't lose anyone standing in this room. They were all she had.

Chester "That's right, scurry along!" hummed Chester. Patch wiggled in his arm, flailing his arms dangerously close to the point of his knife.

Anita tore her hand away from Perdy. She did not look at her friend again. She simply faced the task ahead, and at this point, it was good that her heart--though quickly thawing-- was not yet truly unfrozen. Because it was just a list of steps wasn't it? Move the chairs, open the balcony doors, climb onto the railing, and jump.

She was not scared to die. Or if she was, she could not yet feel it. It was just that list of tasks, and then the crying would stop. So she scurried quickly to the chairs and moved them, glancing at Chester for half-a-second before she opened the doors too. Behind her, the crying grew worse-- Perdy was crying now, and it /hurt/ in her chest too, oh, she'd forgotten how that felt. But it did not slow her steps. She moved onto the balcony, right up to the railing and she wrapped her hands around it and looked down.

It was not so far, Anita thought. The fall would be over before she opened her eyes.

Anita glanced again then to her friends over her shoulder. Paul, Perdy-- Roger. Another small spasm of pain in her chest, but she blinked and kept it away. It was probably better this way, Anita thought In a logical sense. Still, she hesitated.

Chester had a very short attention span and this was /really/ moving along slower than he liked. For one, there was about to be a /party/ in here and Chester wanted to time it perfectly so they could walk up to the building and find Anita's dead body in their way. Second of all, the X-factor was going to be on soon and he hadn't set it to record, he figured he'd be /done/ with this by now. So when Anita stopped by the railing and did not swing her legs over, he huffed, the grin lost.

"Get on with it!" Chester called and took several steps toward the balcony, brandishing his knife.

Roger This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. None of them had asked for this—this town, this magic. Hell hadn’t they had enough, just on their own? Just four fucked up twenty-something year-olds, two poor as dirt, two fallen from riches—just trying to get by, with each other. There shouldn’t be a knife at a one-year old’s throat, Anita should not be walking towards the balcony, face drawn and serious. He was not going to let that happen—Roger was not an impulsive man. He followed Paul, usually, when Paul was impulsive, but Roger thought, Roger thought about what he was going to do before he did it.

Only Roger didn’t think now.

Chester Glass passed him—Chester, who used to tease him, who’d been Puck in the play last year (how ironic, two pairs of lovers), who’d been a pest but a loveable one, who sent everyone lewd texts on holidays—Chester passed him and Roger felt a surge of anger like he’d never felt before and without really thinking, he lunged forward, tackling Chester to the ground.

Chester did not see Roger lunge. He felt it-- felt the man's body slam into his, and then flew through the air, his arm and shoulder smashing nto the ground. Screams erupted from every corner of the room, the baby catapulted from his arms (where it landed, he had no idea!)and Chester slashed wildly with the knife while he got his feet under Roger and kicked at his thighs and groin. "Get--off--OF--ME--!"

Anita Anita saw the whole thing and she could not stop it. Roger lunged, and a scream ripped from her lungs, the sound shattering the leftover ice in her chest. It felt like shards too, scattering through her insides as sharp as the knife that was brandished Roger's way. She pressed her hand on her chest, gasping like she'd lost air. The world spun around her, noises coming from all different directions.

Her knees hit the pavement. When she looked up, she saw Roger and Chester, silver glinting between them, and-- Patch. Her eyes widened. The little boy was on the floor, surrounded by a shimmery, transparent, blue-tinged... shield.

Perdita screamed too, the sound ripping from her lungs like her soul leaving her body. She felt her heart stop in that moment, her eyes not on Roger at all, but on Patch, falling, once again--this time in slow motion, this time with Perdita's eyes right on him. Unknowingly, she had taken several steps forwards, Penny screaming too in her arms, the sound like white noise.

Suddenly a shield materialized around Patrick, so that he bounced against the ground, but didn't actually touch it. She stopped in her tracks, eyes widen. Patrick's eyes were also wide, big and glassy--and then, after a moment, with tear tracks on his face, he looked up at the glimmering shield and giggled.

Paul had been ready, primed to strike. He had not been ready for Roger to leap before him. When it happened, Paul's eyes widened and he shouted "NO!" lunging forward, eyes pinned on his son like he might dive to the floor for him. But he just stumbled toward the mess, the shield comin' outta no where and bouncing against the ground, then rollin' like a marble toward him and Perdy. He didn't even realize that he was grabbing Perdy's arm till the moment when the shield stopped and Patch smiled up at him like nothin' had gone wrong. Then he fell to his knees and reached out for his son despite the shield (because Paul acted, didn't think, just like /Roger/ was supposed to think and not act) and his hand hit the shield like a wall.

"Patrick," he blubbered, but the shield did not move. Paul snapped his eyes back to Rog and Chester and scrambled to his feet to help--

Roger had not thought he would get this far honestly. He didn’t have a plan, he had just lunged forward and Patch had gone flying and he hadn’t thought about that and maybe that wasn’t a good idea—and knife. There was a knife. Chester had a knife and Roger had pinned Chester to the ground by his shoulders, but he still had the knife and before Roger could react, before Roger could pin down Chester’s hands, wrestle the knife from him—there was a sharp pain, a glint of silver, a glint of Chester’s wicked smile.

He didn’t even feel it all at first, just like sometimes in the fist fights he got in with Paul you didn’t notice someone had punched you till after, and he grabbed Chester’s hand, only then noticing that the knife was red. It was between them now, drops falling on Chester, and Roger wrenched it from him, tossing it on the balcony.

“You’re not going to hurt /anyone/,” he growled and that’s when he felt it. The blood first, wet, soaking through his shirt, then the pain—sharp, stabbing, raw, nothing like a broken fist or a blood nose. He winced, but did not loosen his grip.

Chester Now this could have gone better, but despite all that, the adrenaline was kicking through him high speed, his muscles burning in that good, good way that Chester loved. And he was not opposed to having Roger Radcliffe on top of him. He laughed then, laughed harder as Roger wrenched the knife from him, didn't mind as it scattered toward the balcony, toward his sister.

He just looked at Roger, smiled, then disappeared underneath him. Only the drops of blood from Roger marked where he was as he wiggled and kicked Roger again, trying to dislodge him.

Anita was panting when the knife got tossed, skidding her way. It stopped nearly right in front of her, like it was meant for her. She did what anyone would do in that situation: she grabbed it and rose from the ground, nearly tripping on her own clumsy feet. She felt everything now. Her heart was so loud in her ears it felt like a siren, a warning.

"Roger! Roger!" She said as she moved toward him and Chester-- though Chester was invisible now.

Paul "Perdy, call the cops!" Paul said, getting to Roger before Anita did. He made a blind grab for any part of Chester's flailing body, hand colliding with a -- a knee? He grabbed and slammed it down, helping Roger pin him. 'Knock him out, Rog!"

Roger was still in pain, but he raised a hand and punched--something? anything? His hand definitely made contact with something and he punched and then punched and then he gasped. "Paul--" He clutched at his side, fingers now covered with blood, but then with all he had left in him, he curled that bloody hand into a fist and gave another solid punch.

Perdita. blinked at Paul, his voice ringing out loud and strong through the din. With shaking fingers, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and hit dial.

"Hi yes, please come quick there is a manic in my apartment he tried to steal my baby and s-stabbed my friend, p-please help!" She gave the address, the phone still presssd to her ear. She dropped down on on knee and gestured for Patrick. "Come to mama, baby, come here Pat," she said, trying to smile at him but he just smiled back, waving at her through the shimmery shield.

Chester laughed. He laughed until his laughs became manic shrieks, Roger punching the sound from his lungs. A blow to the shoulder, a blow to the ear, a blow straight to the eye. His nose crunched. Blood pooled in his vision. And then one more punch and that sound-- laughter like a hyena-- shut off. But Chester did not materialize back into view. No, his precious, shiny marbles had far flung themselves to every which corner, his brain could not keep them together when unconscious. It was like there was nothing there at all.

Paul "I got you, I got you, mate," panted Paul, pulling Roger gently off the invisible body (nothing but a blood stain in its place). He eased Roger's head into his lap and his eyes went wide at the side of the blood spilling rapidly from Roger's ribcage, soaking one half of his short, even parts of his trouser. Roger's entire hand was covered in blood. "Shit, Rog, you bastard," said Paul in a hoarse voice that did not sound like Paul. It quivered too much. "What've y'done to yourself, eh, mate?" His hand covered Roger's bloody one, pressing hard against the slash to try to stop the bleeding.

Anita fell to her knees at Roger's side at once, letting the knife go. Tears streamed down her face, each one hotter than the last. She felt hot all over now. She didn't realize how cold she'd been. How little had really gotten through. "Roger, oh no, no," she choked on each sob and touched his scratchy cheek so softly, scared she might make everything worse. She'd been the cause for all this, after all. It was her fault, her stupid fault.

Roger "I'm sorry..." Roger said, weakly. He pressed his hand against the wound, but it was--longer than he thought, longer than the span of his hand and blood still flowed around it. way Paul was looking down at him, he felt like a child, like when he’d broken his ankle when trying to do a trick on Paul’s bike and—and Anita was there, right at his side, her hand on his cheek. Was she Anita though? Was she Anita, was this Anita or some cold, distant figure in her place? And Patch—he couldn’t see Patch. Chester had been holding Patch, where was the baby?

“Is Patch okay? Did you get him—I’m sorry I didn’t think. I…it’s my fault.”

Perdita It all happened so fast and Perdita's hand was sweaty around the phone and she was too scared to move closer to Roger. She could see the blood from here, a few feet away. It made her hands tremble and she didn't--she didn't want Roger to die. He'd saved her babies, he'd kept her secret for her, he was her /friend/. At his question, Perdita finally remembered she had legs and she took a few shaky steps forwards, so that she was in Roger's line of sight if he lifted his head. Could he lift his head?

"H-he's fine--he's--well, he's--" she didn't really have the words "--more than fine, really." Her lips trembled and she pressed them together. "T-thank you." Had she ever said that? For before? She should've.

Anita sobbed again as Roger apologized. All she wanted to do was put her head on his chest and hold him. She couldn't do that. He was covered in blood, the slash big and /everywhere/ or so it felt to Anita, though everything looked blurry through her tears.

"Oh Rog, you /are/ an idiot," she blubbered, but she leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Thank you, oh, thank you--" his cheek, then his other cheek. She hiccuped and sat up straight at the sound of sirens coming through the open balcony door. Oh thank goodness. She grasped at Roger's hand not currently pressed to Roger's side. "I-it's ok, you'll-- you'll be alright, I promise, everything-- everything's going to be /fine./" And she managed to smile at him through her tears and squeeze his hand.

Roger breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Patch was alright. He felt pain. It was everywhere, not just the gaping would, but through his chest, every time he breathed. His breath was shaking. /No, calm down Rog, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine./ Anita had kissed his forehead, she said those words to him. He was going to be fine. He heard sirens. Anita was here, Anita was here and she was alive and she was—crying. She was crying. Patch was alright. Perdy was alright. Paul was alright. They were all alright, even if he wasn’t, and that was okay. He squeezed Anita’s hand back and nodded.

[pretty-perdita]

We’re Here for You |*| [The Dalmatian Quartet]

Perdita summons Roger and Paul to an intervention for Anita, who has been acting very, very strangely.

[tw: frozen heart?? idk i don’t think there are trigger warnings]

@paul-patts @dalmatianplantationsensation @truly-aninspiration

ANITA  If you asked Anita, everything in her life was going, for the first time since leaving for uni, perfectly. She had been hired as an event coordinator at the community centre, all that volunteering finally paying off. She was directing the play this year (had volunteered to step up to the role to help Mr. Foley out without a single hesitance) and had a decent sized flat with her best mate, Perdita The babies were still with Paul, so no more of that annoying crying—and Viola was with Roger, so none of that pesky whining. 

She rose full of strength and energy and glided through her day without a worry as she arranged her checklist and crossed off each and every item. In fact, she barely noticed the hours past. Only at night did Anita feel a little—strange—and she looked out at the balcony wondering why she was restless, after having done everything that she needed and wanted to do. But ah well. The next day came and Anita didn’t have to worry about that either. 

Today was one of these days, an extra hop in her step that had been there since the masquerade (a good shag will do that for a girl; Alasdair was a /good/ shag, as she shared in detail with Perdita). She entered her apartment with fresh groceries and a plan on the tip of her tongue—

“Perdy, are you here? I was thinking we could go out to Pixie to—“ And then Anita stopped in her tracks. Because as she turned around, she saw Perdita, Paul, Roger, the babies—even Viola—all gathered in her living room. Anita raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, was there a party I wasn’t invited to?”

PERDITA Perdita was the first to notice that things had been...off with Anita. At first, she'd just thought that it was--because of the ghostly hauntings. Every time Perdita walked by the balcony, where they'd since gotten the doors replaced, a little shiver ran down her spine, and she knew it must be affecting Anita tenfold. But, it didn't go away, in fact, it got worse. Much worse. The day that Anita had paraded into the flat, dragging Perdita by the wrist to the couch to regale her (in detail that Perdita certainly did not want to know) about her escapade with Roger, she knew something was wrong.

She'd talked about it with her therapist--feeling crazy herself, even as her gut instinct screamed at her. Eventually, she'd broken down (after the Alasdair incident) and texted both Roger and Paul in a group message, who had readily agreed with her that things were certainly off. 

Which was how they found themselves here, now, staging, what? An intervention? Perdita had been pacing nervously, Penny on her hip when the door opened. She'd stopped in the middle of the living room, shifting Penny a little higher. 

"N-no," she said, and then glanced at Paul, chewing on her lip slightly. "We just--why don't you come sit down?" she beckoned her, voice soft, like she might frighten her. Viola, who had been sitting next to Roger, trotted over to Anita, though her ears were back and her tail did not wag as it should. Perdita cleared her throat a little.

PAUL Some things to get straight: Paul was here for two reasons, and two reasons only: 1. Perdita and 2. Roger. 

At first, he'd not been happy about the idea of being in a room with Anita again after all that'd gone down between her and Roger in just one short year. He'd always envisioned that when it happened, he'd get to tell her /off/, not sit down and pat her knee and tell her he was /here/ for her and all that sort of bull. But Roger was looking worse by the day (he'd been miserable for too long) and Perdy had asked him and-- Paul didn't want Anita leaving Perdy alone too, if she really was having a mental breakdown, so here he was. 

He had Patch in his arms, standing right up against the balcony doors. He bit his tongue so he didn't say anything equally as snarky to Anita. In fact, he just held his tongue. He'd chime in after he had something to say.

ROGER The whole situation had him all sorts of concerned. Not that--well, yeah, he felt like shit. Like Anita just tossed him aside after getting what she wanted (did she want that? From the beginning?). It didn't make sense though. Why /now/ of all times? And, 'course, yeah he felt bad for himself, but he'd seen her flounce off with that older fellow at the masquerade and that seemed very un-Anita-like. 

But he tried to tell himself that she was happy, she was doing what she needed to do, and then he'd gotten the text from Perdita and felt relieved. Like he wasn't making this all up in his head. He sat next to Paul now, watching as Viola trotted over to Anita, then flicked his eyes towards Anita, trying to get a read--if any--on her face. It would be better for Perdita to take the lead, he thought, but offered a small smile to let Anita know they weren't ganging up on her.

ANITA  Anita didn't care about Roger's little smile. Or Perdita's. Or Paul's wary eyes or the dog that was approaching her, as though she was some sort of stranger. It was to Viola that Anita's eye dropped now and she waved her hand a little, shooing Viola away, and the pup turned and skitted right over to Roger, which made sense as he smelled a lot like dog these days. 

And after she looked back up at Perdy and sighed. "Well, alright, if that's what you want," she said, and she smiled a little because she didn't want Perdita upset, even though she figured her friend-- and the boys-- were probably overreacting. Anita made her way to the couch and plopped down on the cushion, flicking some of her hair over her shoulder as she crossed her legs. "There we go. So. Go on. What have I done now?" She teased, smirking.

PERDITA Perdita watched with worried eyes as Anita shooed Viola away. It was the nail in the proverbial coffin, if you asked her. Anita loved her dalmatian more than anything. When she'd brought Viola to Perdita, in tears, crying about how she couldn't keep her since she had to leave, Perdita was afraid that Anita would fall apart without her faithful hound. 

"Thank you," she said, meeting Anita on the couch and perching on it next to her dearest friend. She looked up at Paul again, as if to make sure he was still there. He was there, after all, more for her than Anita.

"Well, uhm, we just--we're all concerned. We know you've been going through a lot lately, and we want you to know we're here for you, but--but well, we--" she pressed her lips together, "--we're just concerned, is all."

PAUL Paul nearly barked at Anita then: /Sides being a bitch?/ He managed to hold his tongue though, shifting Patch up in his arms and turning his eyes on his son. Patch smiled at him, his cheeks all rosy.

And that made Paul smile too, and as he glanced back at Anita, he did feel a glimmer of fondness for the girl he used to consider one of his best mates. And Perdy was right; she'd been through a lot. 

"It's hard losin' someone," he said, kindly even. He glanced at Roger. "No one knows that more than me and Rog."

ROGER Roger let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, his left hand fiddling with the fabric on his right sleeve, and he looked back up at Anita. "We just want to let you know that you can talk to us," he said and it made his heart hurt, but he said it anyway. 

He wondered if she could see right through him, if she'd always been able to, if she thought of him and turned her nose up and laughed nowadays. He jiggled his foot slightly. 

"It's hard to bear it on your own and we..." His voice trailed off. He swallowed. "What Perdita said. We're concerned."

ANITA  Anita stared at them three. Her eyes bounced between them: Perdita, Paul, Roger, then back to Perdita. She was waiting for there to be /more/ to this strange intervention, something that made sense. But the more never came. Silence came, a little pause, that Anita figured she should fill, and so her eyebrows crinkled together. 

"This is-- all very unnecessary," she said. "Sweet, but-- I'm fine. I told Roger that weeks ago-- I'm not sad or grieving or worried or -- or being haunted." She rolled her eyes. That had been so dramatic. "In fact, I think I feel the best I've ever felt. My father's moved on, and so have I."

PERDITA  "That's the problem," Perdita said at once, and then paused. She glanced at Paul again. "I-I've never lost anyone close to me, but--I--I know people who have and it's not just...you don't just move on. I'm glad you're father is...at rest, but, you--it doesn't seem natural not to be upset, Anita. /I'm/ upset. I loved your father like he was part of my own family. I can't imagine what you're going through but this--sleeping around...being...rude--it's not the way to get over it. It's not...you." She gave Anita's hand a little squeeze.

ANITA "I'm not being rude," Anita said and she pulled her hand away from Perdita very fast. She even shifted farther away. "I'm being honest. I'm being straightforward. In fact, I think I'm being quite a lot like you, Perdita, so I don't see why you're faulting me for my confidence. /Alasdair/ loved my confidence," Anita said, lifting her chin and smirking. 

"He said I was like a completely different person and I agree. And this version of me is much, much better."

PERDITA "But you /are/ a different person," Perdita snapped right back. "And I'm not rude to the people I care about." Perdita glanced at Roger, but looked away again quickly. "It's not--there's nothing wrong with confidence, but this just...developed overnight. One day you hardly wanted to get out of bed, and now--"

ANITA /Not rude to the people I care about./ That was the bit that stuck with Anita and she raised her eyebrows and leaned back a little. "Oh, is this-- is this because I'm not "in love" with Roger?" She rolled her eyes and shook her head. 

"Goodness, this isn't a fairytale, Perdita. Look, Roger's a mate. We're still friends. I just-- didn't feel anything when we slept together." She shrugged. "I thought I would, I really did, and it was-- really Roger, it was wonderful-- but I didn't feel anything. It was just sex."

ROGER Roger had already felt like he was being kick in the gut, but now it was like he had no guts at all. Like someone had taken an ice cream scoop and just hollowed him out and he was just staring at Anita, as if looking at her for the first time, feeling like--like nothing and like everything. His foot jiggled a little faster and he did his best to just keep his face neutral and nod along.

PAUL  "Alright, that's /it/, I'm callin it!" Paul exclaimed, taking almost a threatening step toward the couch where his friends sat. Patch squirmed in his arms, making a little noise at Paul's outburst. 

"She's possessed. That's right, we're /all/ thinking it, so let's just say what it is. We live in a /magic/ town where /magic/ demons threaten people's lives and /magic hell hounds/ run amuck, so I'd say the odds of Anita's weird ghost dad or /something/ taking control of her are pretty high because nothing else makes sense. I say we tie her up. I'm not kidding, Perdy, give Penn to Roger and grab her."

ROGER Roger was stunned for a second, but then shook his head, gesturing to Paul. "Paul--even if she were possessed--what the bloody hell are we going to do after we tie her up?"

ANITA  "Oh for goodness sakes," said Anita and rolled her eyes. "Paul, you've been reading too many books."

PERDITA Perdita was stunned into silence by Paul's outburst, looking at him like /he'd/ been the one that was possessed. She clutched Penny tighter, whose face crumpled a bit at the yelling. Her eyes flicked to Roger as he spoke and then jumped to Anita, her brain scrambled. Perdita didn't do well in situations like this, she didn't jump into action like Paul did; she'd rather hide behind him. But, it made sense--didn't it. 

She pressed her lips together and turned back to Anita, putting her hand on her friend's again. "A-are you sure? Has anything--odd happened to you in the last week or so? A-anything at all?"

PAUL Paul really didn't know why they thought /he/ was the crazy one when /Perdy/ was the one with a haunted apartment and Roger had been threatened by the ghost of Mr. Dearly himself. And it was like Anita and Perdy both said-- she was a /completely different person./ 

That was basically a confession. 

"Yes-- exactly, Perdy. See, /that's/ what we'd do. Interrogate her, figure out what happened-- do an exorcism or somethin'!" He shrugged his shoulders, then looked straight at Anita. "Answer the question."

ROGER  Roger did not want to chime in that none of them could perform an exorcism. Instead, he just looked at Anita, eyebrows raised slightly.

ANITA Anita still thought this was ridiculous. She knew good and well that she was not possessed. Though-- well, she did know what had changed. She remembered a little 'before' the meeting with Elsa and how she'd not wanted to worry her friends and that was why she did not tell them. Afterward, it just seemed irrelevant. 

But if she didn't tell them, Paul Patts, in true Patts idiocy, would probably start throwing holy water at her face and chanting some ridiculous gibberish, and that was even more pointless than all of that. It was three against one. It was only logical (and what did she care anyway?) that she inform her friends of what happened to her. 

"Alright, if it will put your minds at ease," she said and then turned her smile a little to Perdy, because Paul's face annoyed her and Roger just looked so sad-- and it made her chest feel too heavy which she did not like. It had not felt that heavy for weeks now. 

"I didn't tell you because I knew you'd just tell me to go to the police and it would get nothing done. But my father left me one last message to go see Elsa Arendelle and ask her for peace. For my father. To make everything better. So I went and she froze my heart-- but it's /fine./" She smiled even brighter, figuring that might help Perdy stay calm. "Really Perdita, I /told/ you I feel better. I'm not sad or confused anymore. I finally say what I mean. Before I was just such a silly little thing, crying all the time." She waved her free hand at herself. "So see, there's nothing to be worried about."

PERDITA Her heart was frozen. Well, that made a fuckton of sense. Did it make it an easier pill to swallow? No, not at all. 

Anita smiled at her, and she looked just like Anita, her eyes even twinkled the same way--but, it was not her. It wasn't Anita. Because Anita always followed her heart (or, well, she tried to--either way, she felt very deeply, always.) 

"You--your--heart. You /froze/ your /heart/?" Perdita's voice climbed with every word in fear and disbelief. It caused Penny to look up at her mother, face still crumpled.

PAUL It was dead quiet for a second before Perdy spoke, Paul just staring at Anita. He'd been really on board with the whole possession thing. It followed the narrative arc, if you asked him, considering all the spooky bullshit that had been going on. 

But he knew nothing about a frozen heart. He didn't even know that magic could do that-- freeze someone's heart-- and the thought made a chill move through him too. He cupped his hand over Patch's head, tucking it against his own rapidly beating heart and bit at his lip. 

"Can-- can we -- undo it?" He finally blurted after Perdy.

ROGER Roger felt like his own heart had been frozen, the way it chilled at Anita's words. He was staring at some fixed point on the wall. 

"Well, are you happy, Anita?" he asked, after everyone else had spoken, his heart thumping hard (it almost felt like it was choking him). "Because you--you don't have to undo anything."

Anita  Anita was about to say that exact thing. That she did not /want/ to undo it. She opened her mouth and everything, only for Roger's voice to come out of nowhere. Her eyes jumped to him and her chest did that thing again and for a moment-- just a moment-- just wished that Roger would look at her. But then she flicked her eyes away too and everything sorted itself back out again.

"Well. First of all, Elsa froze my heart," she corrected Perdita. "And second of all--" her words caught in her throat, like she was hesitating. It was a funny thing, happiness. She assumed that's how she felt, because it was much better than how she did feel before. Right? 

"I think I'm better this way, like I said."

PERDITA Perdita felt her eyes feel with tears. One of them slipped out in shock as she turned to look at Roger, her mouth twisting down into a frown. Part of her--well, didn't agree with him, but she understood where he was coming from. He was giving up. Perdita did a lot of giving up, a lot of running--it was kind of her "thing" but it shouldn't be anyone else's, least of all Anita's. 

Her heart burned for all the pain that Anita couldn't feel at the moment. She swallowed and looked down at the cushion between them. 

"But, you're not--you," she told her friend softly. "Not like this. We--can--you can be happy. Not like this." Her voice caught at the end as she looked back up at Anita, blue eyes shimmering with tears.

PAUL  Paul also looked at Roger. And he regretted every time he'd told him to stop loving Anita. He felt like a damn hypocrite (both of them knew that) but never more than right now when it looked like, finally, Roger was gonna listen. But Paul didn't want one of his mates to be some kind of frozen robot (because thats' definitely what this Anita was-- she'd accused him of /reading too much/ like /what the fuck/) and the other to be so brokenhearted he'd give up. 

And maybe that's cuz Paul didn't know how to give up. He really didn't. He was here in Swynlake wasn't he, after having smashed his heart into the concrete over four months? He sighed then, shaking his head. 

"That doesn't even sound like happiness to me," said Paul. And then, even more confidently: "Sounds like bullshit, Anita. You'd know it too if -- y'know-- you didn't have a bloody frozen heart."

ROGER  Roger wanted to listen to Paul and Perdita. Wanted to believe that they could help Anita--that they could snap their fingers and Anita would be back to normal. He just didn't know if he could. Because even if Anita said she wanted her heart back--what could they even do? 

He managed to tear his eyes away from the wall and looked at Paul first, which gave him a bit more strength, enough to take a deep breath and look at Anita.

"I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice was steadier than he thought it would be. “I should’ve…I should’ve done more for you.” /If you even wanted my help anyway,/ he thought, and then looked up, blinking. “But we’re all here—Anita, please. We can help you.”

ANITA  Anita was baffled. This whole thing from the beginning to the end... it was like they were all speaking a different language than her, or seeing things a way that she no longer did. 

And because of that, Anita realized for the first time since these weeks began that she was alone, wasn't she? She blinked at the thought. Being alone would not kill her, of course. Being alone was a fact of life, she added internally to this line of thought. You were born alone, you died alone. You grieved alone. She'd not understood the lesson her father was trying to teach her in all this, but perhaps it was simply that: she was alone. Even as her friends told her quite clearly that she wasn't. 

"I just don't...understand," she said finally, her brow furrowing. She looked up at the light fixture in the ceiling and it was not unlike how Anita used to daydream. She looked back then at all three at them: Perdy-- Paul-- and finally Roger. 

She spoke to him in the end. "I don't see what's wrong with this me. I don't know why you'd want the old me back."

ROGER  Maybe this was what Anita wanted. Roger could not imagine living without a heart. Yes, it grew heavy. When his father died, it felt like lead—a cold, hard, heavy lump dragging him down. It could be the heaviest, most painful thing in the world and yet—yet it could be the lightest, it could carry you far far away, make you feel like you were leaping over buildings, soaring among the clouds. He’d take it all over nothing. 

And he thought—he thought Anita would too. She must have been so scared, he thought, to make that choice. To listen to the ghost who wanted nothing more than to torment her. That’s what the ghost wanted—it didn’t make /sense/ that this would be a good thing for her—the ghost wanted her to /suffer/. Which meant—she didn’t want this. She was cold and frozen and she did not know that this was exactly what the ghost wanted. 

So he had to try. 

“We want the old you back—because she was…is…lovely. She sees the world in a golden sky. She dreams. She gives me books with little notes in them. And we love her, Anita—all of us. We love you. Through the good and through the bad.”

ANITA  Anita got that heavy feeling again. But her confusion was greater. Again, her brow furrowed, and she was distracted from Roger because Perdy had begun to cry, and that bewildered her too. 

She looked at Perdy again, almost-- frightened-- unsure what to do to get her to stop (which was not very Anita at all). All she did know that all her friends were very upset and she did not know how to fix it. 

"But-- but Roger-- those things-- dreams and-- romance novels and secret notes-- those things are for children," she said, and she tried to say it very kindly. "Oh Perdita, don't cry," she said next and awkwardly pat her twice on the arm. "I'm not hurt at all, I'm not in any pain."

PERDITA Perdita couldn't stop the way her head bowed and she began to cry. 

The one person who had been there through everything had suddenly turned into some sort of unfeeling doppelganger, she wasn't Perdita's Anita at all. Perdy couldn't lose her. She'd already lost Paul and Roger too, if she'd ever had him. She didn't even know if she had her babies' affection, and she certainly didn't have any other friends, at least none that were close to her.

With Anita sitting there, saying things so un-Anita, acting so un-Anita, Perdita too, felt so, so alone. The words of supposed comfort did nothing to make the feeling go away. In fact, it made it worse.

"But you don't love us," Perdita whimpered and wiped at her eyes. "I-if your heart is frozen you--you don't l-love /us/, me. How is that fair? I love you, so much."

PAUL Paul was reeling from all this. Every word was another dagger thrown, and it kept hitting its mark. He couldn't believe something like this was even possible, that /magic/ could take someone and change them entirely, so they didn't even believe what they'd once held so dear. It terrified him. It made him wanna run and it made him wanna fight because he couldn't imagine ended up like that, literally heartless and loving, like Perdita said-- nobody. 

He shook his head, Perdy's tears triggering that fight response in him too. Needed to /do/ something. Needed to change this. It wasn't too late, it couldn't be. 

He was shaking his head without even realizing it. "This isn't gonna-- we're not gonna let this go on," he said it, he insisted. His eyes jumped from Perdy and then Roger and he pledged it to them both-- damned what Bodysnatched-Anita thought. "We're gonna fix it."

ROGER  Without even realizing it, he blinked away tears. Roger was not a loud crier; but he was not one of those blokes who didn't cry, who thought that it was beneath him. Roger cried. Not often, but he did. And it snuck up on him whenever it happened, because he would always be doing so well till that moment and then he was blinking and his vision was blurry and it was the sound of Perdita whimpering that really got him. 

Anita did not love him--them--any of them right now. She was alone, cold and alone. He wanted to believe Paul, but Paul had a way of jumping into things and pledging to do them without really thinking of it. How the hell were three Mundus with not a lick of magic on them--three Mundus struggling to pay their own bills--supposed to reverse this...whatever it was? They could try, they could try, they could try. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. 

"Yeah," was all he could manage to say, for his throat felt like closing.

ANITA Anita almost wanted to argue, but what was the point of that? She wanted to point out that love was a fairytale too-- that it faded or it turned sour, that love never stayed. That she was strong now and she respected her friends, and that was better than any love. 

She knew all of that would be met with more hysteria. And the more her friends cried, the more Anita felt like she should not be sitting there at all, that her friends were further and further away now-- and she would have to find new friends, wouldn't she, who would understand her-- but none would quite like these. 

And as silly as it was to cling to old friends out of habit, part of Anita (and she couldn't explain it-- it was irrational) /didn't/ want to lose them. She almost wanted to shout at them, really, for all this. Just start shouting /stop crying, stop complaining, stop being so stupid./ 

Instead, she raised her hand and rubbed over her chest a bit uncomfortably. And then she stood up. 

"Well I can't stop you all from doing whatever it is...you /think/ is right. You may...try whatever you please." said Anita. "But I'm going to my room. I have a script that needs annotating. Roger-- I'm... sorry," she said, almost frowning at the word. It wasn't the right word. Her chest twinged again. 

"Perdita, if you feel better, we should go clubbing later. And Paul--" she looked at him last and squinted her eyes a little. "... Good bye." 

And with that, she crossed the living room and closed the door, breathing a sigh of relief as soon as she did. Maybe being alone wasn't so bad after all. Now...where was that script anyway?

[pretty-perdita]

Party Planning |*| [Fate]

Last night, Perdita had asked to see the babies for the first time since the Harry Potter ridiculousness. (And that had been an awkward affair, for sure.) But, after the haunting (which Paul knew nothing about unless Anita had told Roger who told Paul, he hadn’t heard it from her), she had been missing her babies, genuinely, the feeling aching in her chest.

Finally, she had gotten the courage to ask if she could come see them, so, here she was, in the early afternoon, doing her very best not to fidget nervously. But, she was nervous. The babies hadn’t seen her since Easter. Which didn’t seem like a long time and at the same time, felt so, so very long. Would they have grown? Or changed? 

And, Paul, too--she still didn’t know how to act around him. She loved him. She knew that he loved her but--where were they supposed to go from here? 

Perdita spotted Paul with the stroller a few yards away and she stopped for a moment. He had one of the babies on his lap, she couldn’t tell which one. (Should she be able to tell?) 

Taking a deep breath, she tossed her hair and strolled right up, plopping down onto the bench like nothing at all was amiss. Like they were--a normal family enjoying a vaguely sunny day in the park. 

“Hello,” she said softly, with a little smile to match.

[pretty-perdita]

Wounds |*| [Fate]

@paul-patts

It had been roughly two weeks since speed dating, and it was still all Perdita could think about. The conversation played over and over and over in her head, like a bad, broken record. She’d barely left the hotel room since then, too afraid of what was on the other side of that door. Too wary to face the outside world. 

When she’d seen Paul the day after, she’d wanted to cry, but more than anything she’d felt anger welling up inside of him.

Have you slept with anyone? She wanted to ask. Wanted to grab him by the front of the shirt and claw at his face--and kiss him. Both. Maybe just kiss him. 

Their conversation had opened the ugly wound inside of Perdita’s chest and no matter how hard she tried it would not close. It made her cry, great, heavy sobs that ripped through her and caused her to need to lie down. It made her feel empty inside, like a great wind could whistle through her and it would do nothing to her at all. She felt impenetrable in her grief, in her sorrows--all things she had done to herself. 

No matter how much Anita had pet her hair and tried to console her, it was impossible to do so; because it was simply her own fault. 

Her fault. Just hers. 

She’d been so afraid of someone ruining her life that she’d just gone ahead and done it first. She had thought it would be easier that way--she was wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

As always, this is what she was thinking about, sitting at the little vanity, curling her hair. Paul would be over shortly to pick up the babies and at least on the outside, Perdita wanted to be put together--her sky blue blouse immaculately pressed, her white pencil skirt without a stain, her make up flawless--both wings perfectly even on her eyeliner, not a clump in her mascara. Her hair was to be perfectly curled as a well. 

The babies were on the bed, as they often were while Perdita got ready. She could see their reflection in the mirror. Penny was on her back, playing with her keys and Pat was on his stomach, looking at her in the mirror. She smiled, just a tiny little quirk of her lips at him as she unwound the curler from her hair and moved to the next section. Her elbow hit her mascara and it rolled off the vanity, hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thunk.

“Dammit,” Perdita hissed, putting the curling iron down and ducking beneath the vanity to grab the little tube of make up. 

There was another soft thunk. The briefest of pauses. Perdita felt a shiver run down her spine.

And then, Patrick started wailing at the top of his lungs. 

Perdita’s head smacked the underside of the vanity and when she pushed back in her seat, her hand came down right on top of the curling iron, burning her hand, but she barely noticed as she whirled around, seeing at once that Pat wasn’t on the bed. Her veins turned to ice, actual, true ice. She knew people in this town (in every town she was in) called her an ice queen, but nothing had ever felt quite so cold. Stiffly, she walked around the side of the bed--

Pat was on his back, face red--both from his screaming and the small gash in his forehead that was shiny with bright red blood. Her baby--bleeding. All of her muscles seized at once, panicked. She just--stared for a few seconds at the screaming baby, eyes wide.

With shaking fingers she got her phone out of her pocket and hit the first name that made sense to her, putting her phone up to her ear. When Paul answered--she couldn’t, she couldn’t breathe, her eyes swimming with tears. She knew he could probably hear Patrick crying--did he know? Could he tell, like she could that he was hurt, that it was not a normal cry? 

“P-Paul, I--I--” her voice trembled--she couldn’t say anything else. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I hope your close. Please be close. I can’t move. 

[pretty-perdita]

Perdita Mariel Faye and Paul Roman Patts - Fate + Pre-Disaster Aesthetic

Hahahahaha, this hurts me. Staring at it too long is like looking into a dark, dismal black hole. THEY WERE SO HAPPY. YALL. YALL. They were I promise. I hate where they are now, I just want them to be HAPPY again. It’ll be a long, long road, if it has any end at all, but fuck do I ship these two so gd hard I want them to work their ever-loving shit out before I lose my goddamn fucking mind. (Also, fuck, I just love this aesthetic okay, it is so peaceful and so representative of them like--it HURTS okay it HURTS. THAT FUCKING QUOTE AHHH FUCK ME UP.)

@paul-patts

MK’s Valentine’s Day Aesthetics (for MK) || 3/7

[pretty-perdita]

Levayah |*| [Fate]

@paul-patts

The funeral was--a funeral.

In Jewish tradition, there was no viewing period. The casket was closed. There was no mention of her mother’s name among the eulogies spoken by the rabbi. It was cold, emotionless. 

Abigail Faye was not that--cold, emotionless. She had a loud, hot kind of anger. The opposite of Perdita in every way. Except, not really. That was why they’d fought so much, at each other’s throats like a pair of territorial dogs. Eventually Perdita had learned to build her walls high and fortify them however she could, so that she became stronger than her mother. Impenetrable.

Perdita was impenetrable during the funeral. She was supposed to cry. It was custom to cry, but she had rent the front of her black blouse, paired it with her black skirt and her stockings without a single run and she had not cried. She couldn’t. That icy heart in her chest refused to melt. She wondered why. She wondered if she should’ve tried harder. Instead, she sat in the front row of the synagogue with Penny on her lap, Edmund on one side--whose head was bowed, sniffling and crying, and Paul on the other, Patch on his lap. Halfway through the service, Penny had begun to cry too--crying for the grandmother she’d never know, crying because her mother couldn’t--no, she was crying because she was tired and not at home. But, it was a nice thought. 

They switched babies wordlessly and Paul had gone outside with their daughter. Perdita had pressed a kiss to Patrick’s head and told him to be quiet. He’d turned his head and watched Edmund cry with big, wide eyes, his thumb in his mouth. He hadn’t cried either. 

After the funeral, they’d gone to the cemetery. Perdita had held a handful of dirt in her gloved hand and sprinkled it over the casket--third in line. After her father and brother. Her sisters went next, each with their perfect little faces twisted with tears. And Perdita felt alone.  

She felt alone while they went out to eat and alone as they got home. There wasn’t even a mirror to be found, to see her own reflection staring back at her. She felt alone, sitting on the floor of the living room, watching the babies play, no one speaking, the clock above the mantle chiming hour, after hour, after hour. Paul took the babies for a nap. They reappeared a few hours later and Perdita had not moved.

There were no tears in her eyes.

Eventually, it grew dark and her father’s old bones creaked as Paul and Edmund helped him off the floor and he went off to bed--alone. Edmund went out to smoke a cigarette. He’d stopped doing that after joining the marines. Perdita had padded out after him and curled her long legs up in his lap as they sat on a porch chair, like they used to do when she was little. They shared the cigarette without a word. Edmund left out the back to go see someone--Perdita didn’t ask who it was. 

Back inside, it was time for bed for the babies. Paul and her worked mechanically, but in tandem, silent too--though Perdita wanted to speak. She just--didn’t know what to say. 

The babies went down. Paul went down to his room after asking if she would be alright alone. She’d told him she would. 

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t even five minutes after Paul had left that Perdita slunk across the hall with a baby monitor clipped to her pajama pants. Her bare feet were cold against the marble tile in the elevator. She padded across the hall to Paul’s room and opened the door without knocking, slipping and shutting it behind her. The lock clicked into place, and the way it clicked shifted something in her chest. Perdita took a shuddering breath and then one tear, then another, and another, slipped silently down her cheeks, lips trembling.

[pretty-perdita]

Isn’t There Any Hope? |*| [Fate]

@paul-patts

Perdita did not sleep a wink on Sunday night. 

She’d come home around midnight, made plans to meet with Paul again the next morning, early, and she’d put the babies down. At the last minute, she’d pulled out her phone and texted Simba, asking if he could take the babies for a little while tomorrow.

Sure! :D Is everything alright?

Fine, thank you.

With that settled, Perdita thought she would be able to relax. At least the babies wouldn’t have to be there to witness the destruction of their parents. That was what Perdita was sure this was going to be. She felt as if it was her last night on death row, every moment she had before this was just stolen time. It was inevitable that Paul would find them. Perdita didn’t know why she’d been so stupid as to think Paul would give up, would just forget about them and follow his dreams. She acted like she didn’t even know him. 

But she did, oh, how she did. And she knew she had broken him--ruined him. She hadn’t meant to, hadn’t meant to at all. 

In the quiet of the dark, both the babies asleep, Perdita cried and cried--but sleep never claimed her mercifully. The next morning she felt sick, felt like a zombie, like a shell of herself as she dressed the babies and packed a bag for Simba. He knocked on her door around 7:30, just half an hour before Paul was supposed to show up. 

Bless him, as he bounced in big and sunny as always--though, he shut all that sunshine back up as soon as he took in her face. She wanted to scowl at him and snap at him to mind his own business, but she knew she looked like shit. Like she hadn’t slept all night. Her make-up from the night before flaked under her eyes, lipstick smeared slightly around her lips. 

Simba had scooped up Penny and was bouncing her lightly, but he was staring at Perdy, eyes full of concern which Perdita wanted to slap right off his face. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, taking a step towards her.

Perdita stepped back. “Fine.”

“Perdita--”

“I--their father found me.” She flinched at how bad that sounded and she cleared her throat. She was never so clumsy with her words. “It--it’s a long story.” 

“Do you...need me to stay?” Simba tilted his head at her. 

“No, no. I--he’s, Paul’s fine, he’s--nothing is going to happen.”

Simba was still staring at her. 

“He’s going to be upset, that’s all.” Perdita took a step forwards then and put her hand on his arm, squeezed it lightly. “Simba, it’s fine. You can stop looking like someone’s already punched me in the face, now.” 

His features didn’t move as he searched her eyes. “Okay...but, I’m going to be just down the street at Pixie, alright? If you need anything--” 

“You should go before he comes,” she advised him. “He’s not going to be happy to see you.”

Simba hesitated for another moment, but then he turned and zipped up Patrick’s jacket before putting the diaper bag over his head and scooping up the little boy too. He leaned forwards and brushed a kiss against Perdita’s cheek. “I’ll keep my phone on,” he promised before he left the hotel room.

After he was gone, Perdita stood in the same spot he’d left her in, her hand up by her cheek where it still tingled from where his beard had scratched against it. The hand was shaking. And, she wondered, very briefly, if she had told Simba the truth. 

Nothing is going to happen. He’s going to be upset. She knew that Paul was capable of great emotion. Had seen it before, had been the cause of it. They’d fought before, but it was nothing like how this was going to be. She didn’t even know what to expect. Was he above hitting her? Strangling her to death for stealing his babies away from him? She’d probably deserve it, for what she’d done to him. If she could do it herself--she probably would.

Her eyes drifted to the small little kitchen area. There were scissors sitting on the counter top. Perdita felt that urge to run fierce in her gut. She could slip out the door now, take the elevator and be gone before Paul even came to the door. Or, maybe, she could open up her wrists. That would be faster, wouldn’t it? If she did that--she wouldn’t have to live with the guilt. She wouldn’t have to carry what she’d done to Paul around with her for the rest of her life.

It was tempting. So, so tempting.

It was the lack of sleep speaking. It was her desperateness not to face what she had done speaking. It wasn’t--that wasn’t what she really wanted...

Was it?

The knock on the door came way too soon. Her heart seized in her chest. She couldn’t--she couldn’t breathe. Her fingers clawed at her throat and chest for a second, leaving pink marks where her nails scratched at her skin. The pain woke her up, let her take a breath. She felt like she was walking into battle with no weapons. All she had was her armor. She hoped it would be enough. 

Crossing the room, she rested her forehead against it and took a deep breath. Her hand stopped shaking like she’d suddenly encased it in glass. Tossing her head back, Perdita shook out her tangled golden curls and opened the door. The temptation to hide half her body behind it was strong, but she opened it all the way--stood tall, even in her old Cambridge tshirt and yoga pants, bare feet and all. 

“Hey,” she said as evenly as she could and stared him directly in the eye--but she wasn’t really looking at him. Her hatches had been battened down tight.

Nothing was getting in. Nothing was getting out.