#broken things

[zegalba]

Livia Marin: 'Broken Things' (2023)

[marril96]

Tiny Beautiful Things 1.06 | Broken Things

[erithel]

I'm surprised you don't include Klance moments in that "fav moments" ask. 😆

Okay, first of all, thanks so much for your blog. Because of you, I start shipping Klance (and I love them). So....

- When did you start shipping Klance (what moment that made you ship them)?

- Can I ask your top favorite fics that you've written (feel free how much that you want to list)? Why they're special to you? Is there a specific inspiration when you wrote them?

- What are your top 5 fav Klance fics ever?

Sorry if you already answered the above questions before (newbie Klance shipper here, just starting last year).

That's fair lol

I'd say I picked my favorite moments based on ones that were truly satisfying, and while I thoroughly enjoyed many klance moments, since they never really paid off, they always left me a bit unsatisfied, so that's why I left them off the list.

To answer your questions:

I think I started shipping klance through stumbling across fanart before even watching the show. There was so much out there when I found it, and it all looked really interesting, and I realized "I want to know more about these two." So I kiiiindof went into the show with a super low-key ship. But if I could pinpoint it, it was probably the "I cradled you in my arms" line that made me go "oh I'm gonna be looking forward to all of their interactions from now on to see where this goes."

I had to check my ao3 to see if I'd even written 5 fics (I have). #1: "Broken Things" This one is special to me for the same reason I was inspired to write it: It was a very tough subject that I was so tired of seeing handled poorly in media. It became even more special when I started receiving comments from people who let me know they had been through similar things and they felt I handled the subject well. #2: "Gone" (a comic, but it still counts) I'm still counting this one even though the experience of posting it turned out to be one that almost made me want to quit before completing the comic. This was also a subject that I had seen handled very poorly, and I wrote it at a time when I had a new understanding of grief, and what it can do to a person. It was very important to me that Lance's side of things was taken seriously, and understood, and unfortunately it really wasn't. But that's kindof why I want to write stories in the first place - to get those thoughts out into the world so they might exist in someone's subconscious, even if they are not fully realized at the time. #3: "Stand Here on the Edge With Me" I started writing this because Chasing Stars was becoming too dark for me to write. I usually stick with angst and love it, but I was writing a really angsty scene where Keith was pining super hard while having their conversation on the lion at sunset and I just thought "wait a minute. What if he's totally fine for once?" and then this fic just kindof materialized. It also has one of my favorite last lines I've written, so that's something to look forward to. ;) #4: "Chasing Stars and Memories" I've always liked stories about traveling to different worlds, and the idea of Klance meeting themselves was always a fun idea to think about. But then I realized that I had never read a fic where only one of them was gender-swapped, and that made it so much more interesting for me, because the angst options just exploded with that one little change. This one's special to me because again, it deals with heavy themes and large emotions and I just adore writing those, and I hope I do them justice and convey the gravity of them. #5: "What If You're Someone I Just Want Around?" I'd always wanted to write a 5-and-1 fic, and I actually wrote this entire one around the third part ("Scared"). It was still pretty early on that I wrote that and I felt like I basically nailed Keith's and Lance's "voices" in that one based on their actual canon selves, so that was a nice little accomplishment at the time!

Basically, my inspiration comes from a lot of emotions, and also because there are specific subjects we see in movies/TV/books that I feel could be handled way better.

I've probably answered the top 5 fics before tbh. I don't know if I have a top 5, but here are 5 I love:

There Nestled Against His Pulse

You're Always Welcome Here

New

In This Moment, You Mean Everything

Terminal Velocity

(Some of these contain NSFW content btw)

There are, of course, many other fics I love, and as always I will recommend anything written by Iybms, Wittyy_Name, or Autumn_Ignited. Sadly, I haven't had the chance to read anything super recently, as I've been trying to read more published books (for pitching reasons), and have been a little disappointed so far unfortunately.

[mldrgrl]

What Once Was Broken

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG-13 (violence, imagry) Summary: A sequel/prequel to Broken Things - absolutely imperative to have read to understand this story Notes: Special thank you to @carrie11 for officially being a cheerleader and unofficially ending up as Beta-extraordinaire for this piece! <3

He knows the precise time he first saw her. One, twenty-four in the afternoon. He’d just tucked his pocket watch back into his vest and as he’d looked up, his heart nearly stopped. In that moment, he was positive there was an apparition bumping towards him in a rickety wagon that looked like it had seen better days.

The red hair and fair skin had caught his eye from afar, but as the wagon neared, it was the slumped shoulders, the lowered head, the sullen and exhausted look of her that painfully squeezed his heart and made him short of breath. He was all too familiar with that look.

“Luisa,” he’d murmured, taking a step forward to the edge of the boardwalk and squinting into the sun.

Even before the man driving the wagon pulled the mules to a stop in front of the bank, it was obvious he was trouble.

*%*%*%*%*%

William and Katherine Mulder had recently celebrated their first anniversary and Katherine had never been happier in her life. She had friends, she had a position as an assistant to the town doctor, and a husband who supported her ambitions and wanted to make her dreams come true. It had taken time, but eventually she grew comfortable and confident in the independence her husband freely gave to her; driving her own buggy to and from town, doing her own banking, making her own purchases at the general store, and managing the household at the ranch. Even so, as joyous as she was now, she could never forget what she’d been through to get it.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Doctor Black made house calls and Katherine tended to his office. Mostly, she took inventory of supplies, transcribed patient notes, and occasionally treated minor wounds or infections. At first, some of the townsfolk had protested that a lady had no business in a doctor’s office, not unless she was nursing or tidying up the place, but Doctor Black had made it clear that if anyone was uncomfortable being treated by Katherine, they were free to ride on out to the next available doctor over in Abilene.

Only her third shift alone in the office, there’d been a drunken gunfight at the saloon and Katherine had to extract a bullet from the shoulder of one of the participants. The other had lost a finger. Both were hauled off in shackles by Sheriff Doggett to recover from their wounds, and their hangovers, in jail cells. After that, no one that ended up in the office questioned her skills or abilities, though of those that had before, none had said so to her face. Doctor Black was well-known in the area and highly trusted, so if he was vouching for her, so would they. Perhaps she took it for granted that she’d faced little to no opposition for so long, even though she still looked for it over her shoulder at times.

It was a Thursday when Walter Skinner knocked on the office door. She was in the midst of drafting a requisition for medications to be ordered from Fort Worth at the time. She greeted the bank manager with a smile. He was no longer as imposing of a figure as he’d once been when she’d first met him, having seen and spoken to him regularly for the last year. He’d always been polite and kind to her.

“Mr. Skinner,” she said, holding the door open for him to enter. “What can I do for you today? I heard from Doctor Black that Joey got himself into some poison oak recently.”

“He’s fine now, the rash is almost healed.” Mr. Skinner’s eyes darted around the room as he spoke and he stayed hovering in the threshold. “Is Doctor Black not here?”

“He’s on house calls today. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, I…I wanted to speak with Doctor Black.”

“Why don’t you come in and you can speak with me. I assure you that any treatment you might have, I can-”

“Not me.”

“Joey?”

“My wife.”

Katherine had never met Arlene Skinner, but had heard of her through Monica Doggett and Susannah Byers. They told her she wasn’t very social and rarely came to town, and when they did see her, she hardly spoke and was very meek. Consequently, they didn’t know much of anything about her aside from the fact that she and her husband came to town with their infant son six years ago so that Walter Skinner could open and manage the town bank.

“I’d be happy to see your wife,” Katherine said.

“No,” Skinner said, quickly, frowning. “No…I was hoping that maybe Doctor Black could provide more of the morphia he prescribed before.”

“The morphia he prescribed? What was that prescribed for?”

“Head pain.”

“Does she often have head pain?”

“No.”

A chill came over Katherine at the abrupt and harsh tone of Mr. Skinner’s voice. Muscle memory set her shoulders back and she flinched as though expecting a blow. She took a glance at his hands, looking for bruises or swollen knuckles. Her throat constricted and rose in pitch. “Has your wife…had an accident?” she asked.

“Accident?”

“Suffered head trauma of some kind.”

“No…nothing like that.”

“Well, I can not prescribe morphia to a patient without having seen them.”

“I’ll be on my way,” Mr. Skinner said, taking a step back from the door. “I’ll just come back when Doctor Black is available.”

Katherine started to follow, even though her knees had begun to shake and she felt somewhat breathless. “You’re out at the west end past the Morgan’s farm, aren’t you? I have my buggy with me. If your wife is ill, I should-”

“She’s not ill!” Mr. Skinner barked, turning sharply and glaring down at her.

She stumbled backwards, catching herself on the doorframe before she completely lost her footing. “I…”

The banker had the decency enough to appear chagrined. He lowered his eyes and then adjusted his spectacles. “She’s not ill,” he repeated, quieter this time. Sweat prickled his brow and an angry vein pulsed like a lightning bolt down his forehead. “Good day, Mrs. Mulder.”

Katherine’s throat had become too pinched to respond, not that Mr. Skinner had waited for her to reply. He marched down the steps and away from the office without a backwards glance and it was only after he’d disappeared that Katherine realized that she was trembling. She had to force her legs to move and she fell into the door as she slammed it closed, gasping for breath. She hadn’t felt that frightened in some time. She put her hands to her burning cheeks and then smoothed the wild hairs she felt curling up from the heat and perspiration accompanying her fear. When at last she felt her composure return, she pushed herself from the door and went to the filing cabinet.

The file on Arlene Skinner was thin. The last prescription, for morphia, was written eight months prior and a notation was made about patient’s adverse reaction to chloryl, but as she flipped through the records, she noticed a pattern: the middle of every February and in the first week of every October for the last four years, Arlene Skinner complained of melancholy and head pain. Each time her husband had made the complaints on her behalf. Each time she had refused physical examination. Low doses of morphia were recommended, as needed, since chloryl was not an option.

Katherine put the file back in place and then pulled the one for Joey Skinner. There was nothing of concern there that she could find. Earlier that week he’d been treated for a mild case of poison oak. Aside from a few runny noses and a case of tonsillitis, the only injury was the broken wrist from his fall during recess at the schoolhouse that she herself had helped set and wrap the year prior. There was no file for Walter Skinner.

Though the biannual regularity of which Mrs. Skinner made complaints and her refusal to be examined was peculiar, nothing in the reports seemed terribly concerning. Still, her exchange with Mr. Skinner had alarmed her and was too reminiscent of experiences she’d had in the past for her not to be suspicious.

*%*%*%*

Walter Skinner was born on the third of June of 1838 in Baltimore, Maryland, the only son of Edward Skinner, a Scottsman and a professor of mathematics, and Annegret Rossel Skinner, a match that her stern, German father did not approve of. Walter had two older sisters and two younger sisters, which meant he was equal parts doted on and depended upon by the women in his family. He’d become man of the house at the tender age of seven when his father, möge er in Frieden ruhen, as his mother would say, was killed in battle in the Mexican territory.

His father had been a staunch pacifist, enlisting under duress from the cajoling of his own father and four older brothers. Ironically, though all brothers succumbed to battle, Edward had lasted the longest. Walter only remembers that his uncles were loud, burly men and that his father had always seemed like the calm center of the storm.

His mother was of strong, Bavarian stock, and although she’d been widowed at the age of 26 with five small children to care for, she’d refused to feel sorry for herself. She’d gone to work as a seamstress, a milliner, a washwoman, taking on just about any job that could keep her home with the children, but also allow her to earn a wage at the same time. The children were allowed to help at times, but his mother was adamant that they receive an education and school was prioritized above all else.

Even for all her strength and determination, his mother had been a woman that had deeply loved her husband. She carried her grief with her at all times, trying hard not to let it get the better of her, but the loss impacted her greatly. For the rest of her life she’d had an intense and irrational fear of something terrible happening to her children and she’d fretted over them constantly, smothering them with her love, and her paranoia.

Though his father’s softness and pacifism had irritated the old man, Walter’s paternal grandfather had noticed how meticulous and fastidious his grandson was from a young age and took a keen interest in him. Authoritarian by nature and difficult to please, nevertheless the two were close. Having come from a long line of soldiers, he devoted himself to Walter’s training, using his connections to enroll his grandson at West Point at the age of fourteen, against his mother’s wishes, to prepare him for a prestigious career.

Walter began as an enthusiastic pupil, thriving on repetition and regimen. He excelled in sums and philosophy and ethics, and although he received high marks in military strategy, those courses made him uncomfortable. The trouble was that he’d grown up in the shadow of the effects of war and he had no desire to contribute to the cause. His grandfather had been furious when he’d ultimately declined to pursue a career in the military and instead moved back home with his mother after graduation, taking a job as a junior teller in the local bank.

Within weeks of his return home, he’d met the woman he would soon marry, Arlene Sullivan, a classmate of his younger sister, and the most charming and beautiful woman he’d ever met. He proposed a month later and they were married a week before Christmas. Life was peaceful, and routine, just the way he liked it. In short time, he moved up the ranks at the bank, promoted to manager by the time he was twenty-two, just as the war between the states broke out.

On his twenty-third birthday, Walter begrudgingly kissed his new wife good-bye, leaving her in the care of his mother and sisters, and boarded a train, along with other conscripted men, only to spend the next four years of his life in a waking nightmare. By the grace of God, he managed to survive through the end of the war and at long last was honorably discharged as Brigadier General under the command of Ulysses S. Grant. By unspoken agreement, no one asked about where he’d been or what he’d seen, even his grandfather, and he wasn’t eager to share the details of the hell he’d been through.

Walter never expected to make it out of the war alive, never expected he’d see his new bride again, or expected he’d return to the job he loved, but he survived, even though he felt like a shell of the man he’d once been. The war had hardened him, made him an angry, short-tempered, and restless man. And just when he thought he’d never find joy again, there was Luisa.

*%*%*%*%*%

The best part of William Mulder’s day was the nightly conversations he had with his wife on their front porch. On the days she worked for Doctor Black, he always enjoyed listening to what she’d done and who she’d treated. He was always baffled by how casually she relayed the stories to him, speaking so matter of factly about how she’d pulled a bullet from a gunslinger’s shoulder in the same manner she might tell him she bought a new bolt of fabric from the general store. He thought that being a doctor was extraordinary. He thought that she was extraordinary.

Those days that she worked in town, upon returning home she usually immediately put her apron on and tried to help Melvin with supper, but he would always try to shoo her away and tell her to go on and put her feet up. The ranch hands were proud of their lady doctor in training and if it were up to them she probably wouldn’t lift a finger, ever, but Katherine never liked to feel like she was pulling less than her weight.

He saw her come home that day from where he was working in the training pen. She gave her horse and buggy over to Trevor just outside the barn and seemed to trudge to the house with her head lowered, which was unusual, but he wasn’t that concerned. She was also quiet at supper, pushing her food around her plate, which did concern him, but he tried not to let on. Melvin seemed to take notice of her behavior as well and told some boisterous tales that night to distract them all.

Mulder hoped that whatever was weighing on Katherine’s mind, she would tell him all about it during their nightly porch talks. He waited for her after seeing that the horses were bedded down for the evening, but she didn’t come. Finally, he grabbed the candle he’d brought with him and went looking for her. She wasn’t in the second bedroom that they’d converted to a parlor during the expansion and she wasn’t in their bedroom either. She wasn’t in the washroom and she wasn’t in the kitchen. He finally found her in the little study he’d had made for her through a door hidden in the pantry, reading a textbook by the dim glow of a single lantern.

“Kate?” he asked, gently pushing the door open. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she murmured, and then sighed. “No. I don’t know, actually.”

“Did something happen at Doctor Black’s today?”

“It did.” She sighed again and pushed the textbook away.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then she got out of her chair and stepped closer to him. He could see tears in her eyes before she wrapped her arms around him so hard it almost knocked him back. He put his hand on her shoulder for a moment to set the candle down and then he returned the embrace.

“What is it, Honey?” he asked.

“Mr. Skinner dropped in this afternoon to see Doctor Black about his wife.”

“Is she unwell?”

“I don’t know. He became evasive, wouldn’t even entertain letting me go out to make a house call and see her.”

“We talked about the fact that some folks might be uncomfortable being treated by a woman. I never thought it would be Mr. Skinner, but-”

“That’s not it,” Katherine interrupted, shaking her head. “At least I don’t think so. It was the way he…he was very…very adamant. Very…gruff….” Her voice had dropped to a whisper and she squeezed him even tighter.

Mulder felt his jaw tighten and his back straightened. His stomach dropped and his chest burned. He took Katherine by the shoulders and pushed her back just slightly to look her over, but the neck on her blouse was too high and her sleeves were too long. Her downturned face was all shadows and he gently tipped her chin up to look at him.

“Kate, did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered, with a shake of her head. “No, he didn’t hurt me, but I thought that he might be hurting his wife.”

“He…are you sure?” he asked.

“No, I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I’m not sure at all, but I do know that something isn’t right.”

A wave of relief washed over Mulder, but then he raised his brows in surprise and Katherine sucked in a breath and came back into his arms, hugging him even tighter than before. He rocked her gently as he held her. It was hard for him to imagine Mr. Skinner being violent. He’d known the banker for six years and hadn’t even heard him raise his voice a single time. Then again, he hadn’t known the banker had a wife or a son until after he was married to Katherine. They weren’t exactly discussing their private lives to each other in their business transactions.

And then he remembered the day that little Joey Skinner broke his wrist at the schoolyard and he’d gone down to inform Mr. Skinner the boy was at Doctor Black’s office. The banker had gone white, rushing out the door so quickly he’d slammed his knee into his desk and hadn’t even flinched. And when Mulder had tried to calm him, to slow him down just a little, Mr. Skinner had flung him away like he was swatting a housefly. Mulder had thought nothing of it at the time, so palpable was the man’s fear, but now he could view it with concern.

“What about…what about the boy?” he asked. “Do you think…?”

“No, it doesn’t seem likely.”

Mulder puffed his cheeks and blew out a tuft of air as he nodded. “Kate, I know you enjoy doing your own banking, but maybe it’s best that you let me handle it for now, just until we’re certain about what’s going on.”

She tipped her head up, her chin on his chest. “You’re not thinking of confronting him about it, are you?”

“I might be.”

“And then what?”

“And then what?” he repeated, actually not sure of the answer. “And then…and then I’m not going to do business with a man that hurts his wife, I’ll tell you that much. I’ll ride out to Fort Worth every month if I have to.”

Katherine raised her brow and then pushed up on her toes and kissed the side of Mulder’s jaw. “You’re a good man,” she said. “But, I think that’s rushing things a bit. I’m going to ask Doctor Black for a more complete history when I see him. And I’m not going to let Mr. Skinner intimidate me.”

“But-”

“This is a medical issue, and I’m going to treat it as such.”

“Yes, but…” Mulder was hesitant, but the tone of Katherine’s voice told him she’d made a decision and that it was final. He was bothered, but he wasn’t going to argue. “If you think that’s for the best.”

“I do.” She nodded and then eased her grip on her husband, but he pulled her back up against him, his hands pressed to the small of her back.

“If I have a medical issue, would you treat it as such?” he asked, swaying her softly.

“What kind of issue do you have?”

“I haven’t been kissed in over twelve hours now. I’ve quite possibly forgotten how.”

“Oh no. That sounds serious.”

“What do you recommend, Doc?”

“Well, let me think…” She reached up and he closed his eyes as she caressed his face with both hands. His lips twitched as her thumbs brushed over his mouth. Her hands went to his chest and she nuzzled her face into his neck. “Bed rest,” she said. “Lots of bed rest.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, leaning into her. “You know I’m notoriously bad at that.”

“I think you’re quite good at it, actually.”

He opened his eyes with a smile. That was another thing he enjoyed about his wife. She wasn’t one to demure from his flirtations, she gave them right back to him. He scooped her up with a soft growl and she laughed, looping her arms around his neck. When he bent his head to kiss her, she leaned away, reaching back to put out the lantern on her desk and he ended up with his nose in the crook of her neck.

She giggled. “Let me just…”

He looked up as she stretched her arm out for the candle, but he leaned past her and blew it out once she’d had her finger looped around the brass holder. He found her lips in the dark and whirled her around through the door. He didn’t need a candle to guide him to bed, the moonlight and her little encouraging whimpers were enough.

*%*%*%*%*%

Walter Skinner had only been to the Broke In once before, going on four years ago, to see about a horse. He was friendly with William Mulder, but didn’t consider the man a friend. Walter Skinner had no friends. He had business associates and customers, but he hadn’t had a true friend since he was a boy.

He was nervous to leave his teller in charge of the bank for the afternoon, more nervous than he let on, but even more nervous to ride out to the ranch. He knew it must be done, though. He’d behaved badly in front of Mrs. Mulder yesterday and he owed her an explanation. He owed them both an explanation that was a long time coming.

The changes to the place came as no surprise to him. All the billing for materials and labor went through the bank for payment. He knew down to the penny how much it had cost to put in the expansion and that Mulder could afford ten times as much as he’d spent, but it was nice to see that the ranch was thriving.

As he pulled up towards the house, he saw Sheriff Dogget’s boy out by the first barn, planing wood. He knew Luke Doggett had stayed on past the expansion as a carpenter. After opening an account at the bank, every second Friday the boy deposited his handsome salary into a savings and one day hoped to earn enough to open his own business. Mulder had already spoken to Walter about the possibility of backing him as an investor when the boy was old enough and had a bit more experience under his belt.

Melvin Frohike came out of the barn at the sound of horse hooves and waved his hat at Walter. Walter nodded to him and turned his horse in the smaller man’s direction.

“Hullo, Mr. Banker,” Mr. Frohike said. “Ain’t seen you ‘round these parts in a coon’s age. Charlie Horse givin’ you any grievances?”

Walter dismounted the horse in question and stroked him under the jaw. “No trouble here, Mr. Frohike. Best horse I’ve ever had.”

“Mulder’s got a knack for pickin’ the right temperaments for the man that needs ‘em.”

As though he knew he was being talked about, William Mulder suddenly appeared from Skinner’s left, wiping his hands on a ragged bandana. “Mr. Skinner, what a surprise,” he said, in a tone that didn’t sound all that genuinely surprised. By now, Walter presumed that Katherine had told her husband what had transpired yesterday.

“Mulder.” Walter shook hands with the rancher.

“Well, hey Charlie Horse,” Mulder said, running his hand along the white blaze that ran down the horse’s face. The horse knickered and pushed his nose into Mulder’s shoulder. “Frohike, take Charlie Horse into his old stall and get him some water and oats. He might appreciate a carrot or two while he’s there.”

The horse followed Mr. Frohike into the barn, trusting the familiar man in a way that was unusual. Let anyone but Walter try to lead him, and he wouldn’t budge. This had been the horse’s first home, though, and the ranchers his trainers, so Walter wasn’t surprised by it. When it was just the two of them, Mulder and Walter, and the sound of Luke Dogget scraping wood in the distance, Mulder shoved the bandana in his pocket and then tipped the brim of his hat just slightly to squint at Walter’s face.

“I’m here to apologize to your wife,” Walter said. “I believe we had a misunderstanding that I’d like to clear up. If you’ll allow me, of course.”

“If she’ll allow you.” Mulder adjusted his hat and then bounced his head towards his right shoulder. “Katherine’s inside. You can go on in.”

“Actually…” Walter looked towards the house and then at the rancher, trying to get a read on the situation, but the man’s face was blank, revealing nothing. “I’d like to speak to the both of you. Not just your wife. What I have to say, it…pertains to you as well.”

“Well…come on in, then.”

Walter followed Mulder through to the back entrance of the house. The younger man called out for his wife and she emerged from a hidden door inside of the pantry. She looked startled by Walter’s presence and gave her husband a questioning look.

“Mr. Skinner’s dropped by to have a word with us about something,” Mulder said. “Should we go on in to the parlor?”

“Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Skinner?” Katherine asked. “I made fresh lemonade this morning. We store it in the new ice box now so it should be nice and cool.”

A cool drink sounded like a good idea to Walter. The dust was thick on the ride out and it would probably help him find his voice. “I would appreciate a glass, thank you,” he said.

“I’ll help you pour,” Mulder said. “Mr. Skinner, let me show you to the front room and we’ll be just a minute.”

Mulder took Walter’s hat to hang on a peg in the hallway, beside his own, and then the banker was shown to a tidy parlor at the front of the house and he sat down in a chair upholstered with a soft green fabric to wait. He could hear low voices from the kitchen, no doubt the Mulders discussing why he had come, but they were quick to return, Mulder carrying a tray with three glasses of lemonade and a pitcher. The drink was perfect, not too sweet and not too sour, and blessedly cool. Mulder and Katherine sat beside each other on the love seat, across from Walter.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your day, so I’ll get right to it,” Walter said. “Mrs. Mulder, I want to start by saying how sorry I am for my behavior yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Katherine said, politely, but her gaze was critical. “My concern, however, is for your wife. If she has a chronic illness, she should be examined.”

“She has been examined.”

“That isn’t what her records indicate.”

“Doctor Black is familiar with her history.”

“That’s all well and good, but Doctor Black isn’t always available. If it’s my qualifications you’re concerned with, I can assure you that-”

“I’m sure you’re qualified,” Walter interrupted. He sighed and put his lemonade back on the tray on the table between them before removing his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose for a few moments. Finally, he put the glasses back on and picked up the lemonade glass to take a long drink. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s difficult to talk about.”

“Take your time,” Mulder said.

*%*%*%*%*%

Walter wouldn’t learn he was a father until well into his second year in battle, when letters from home finally made their way to him. It came as a shock, as he was not even aware his wife was with child, but she must have been several weeks or months along when he’d been called up. Luisa Anne Skinner, a happy and healthy little girl that, according to the letters from both his wife and his mother, had a shock of red hair and the sweetest disposition on God’s green earth.

After the war ended, Walter strongly considered returning to West Point and never coming home again. He was afraid of who he was and what he’d become and he didn’t know how to be a husband or a father after all he’d been through. He was tired, though. He knew he’d never be able to quiet the nightmares of war if he went on being a soldier. He needed the monotony of home if he ever hoped to find peace.

He’d told no one of his impending arrival back in Baltimore, but the army must have sent word on ahead, for as soon as the train pulled into the station, he saw his wife and his mother waiting on the platform. He’d taken no more than two steps off the train when a tiny slip of a thing ran towards him, a blur of pink petticoats and red curls. Papa, Papa, Papa. His army issue duffle fell to the platform as he knelt down and tiny arms wrapped themselves around his neck. His heart felt like it had burst open that moment and he immediately understood why his mother had smothered her children with so much love and concern.

Walter Skinner was determined to give his daughter everything in life, even though she asked for nothing. He outfitted her with new dresses from the best tailors in town and bought her new dolls and trinkets. He did his very best to spoil her and she did her very best to remain unspoiled. She had the purest heart of anyone he’d ever known and her schoolteachers always commented on how kind and empathetic she was. She was a friend to all she met, believing in the best of the world and in everyone in it, and Walter never tried to dispel her of the misguided notion, preferring that she remain naive to the harsh realities of life. In hindsight, that was probably his biggest mistake.

It was the day before her seventeenth birthday that Luisa met Edward Jerse, a sewing machine salesman from Philadelphia. Walter remembered the day precisely. When he’d returned home from the bank, the young man was in his parlor, demonstrating the machine to his wife and daughter, who had been planning for Luisa’s party at breakfast that morning. Though the young man was well-mannered, Walter did not like him, even though he couldn’t articulate why. He just knew that man was trouble.

Luisa was smitten, begging her father for the first time in her life to purchase one of the machines, even though she’d always had little interest in needlework and he could not recall the last time she’d done sewing of any kind. She’d clasped her hands and gone to her knees beside his chair as he read the evening paper. Please, Papa, please can’t we get one? He couldn’t refuse, and so the sewing machine sat largely untouched, as he knew it would, and it gave the young man an excuse to call on them for maintenance purposes, which is what he suspected his daughter was truly after.

Walter thought that the infatuation would fade quickly, but as the months went by, it only deepened, much to his dismay. By that point, both his wife and daughter were enthralled with Mr. Jerse, and Walter was forced to hold his tongue on the matter. The singular time he’d spoken up that he thought Mr. Jerse was spending too much time at their house and he should be on his way, Luisa had been devastated and fled from the room in tears and his wife had scolded him for being so harsh.

And then Mr. Jerse had proposed marriage, without even speaking with him no less. He was furious, but careful to rein in his anger when he told his daughter it was out of the question. She was too young and besides, Mr. Jerse had not yet established himself. No, marriage was out of the question. Luisa had quietly accepted his refusal to grant her permission and then promptly eloped with Mr. Jerse the very next day.

If only Walter hadn’t spoiled his daughter so obviously, perhaps none of it wouldn’t have happened. If he’d just put his foot down that one time then maybe it wouldn’t have been so much of a shock when he cut his daughter off financially and forbade his wife from contacting her. He’s certain that Mr. Jerse had counted on him to have a change of heart. After all, Luisa was his only child and beloved daughter.

Months passed and Walter’s wife was slowly deteriorating; prone to weeping, spending days in her bed, and suffering greatly from the separation from her daughter. He tried to cheer her with those things he knew she loved the most - tickets to the symphony, a bouquet of flowers, having the cook prepare her favorite dinners - but she would not be cheered.

Before Walter had the chance to relent, one dreary day in September, a breathless errand boy showed up at the bank with an urgent message from his housekeeper, imploring him to come home at once. He ran all the way there, leaving his hat and umbrella behind in his haste, and by the time he arrived he was soaked through.

At first, he did not recognize the strange lady in his parlor, but it only took a few moments to realize this pale, drawn, bedraggled girl clutching a bundle of dirty rags was his daughter. Her cheek was bruised and her lip was split, red with fresh blood, and it was apparent she had recently suffered a blackened eye. He knew, even though she stammered over weak excuses that she’d been clumsy and had taken a fall down some steps, that that no-good, sonofabitch Ed Jerse had done this to her.

Walter felt a rage bubble inside of him that he hadn’t felt since his days in the war and though he once considered himself a pacifist, in his mind he already had one foot out the door to track down that rotten excuse for a man and show him a real fight. It was then that he noticed that what he thought was a bundle of dirty rags in his daughter’s arms was a loosely swaddled infant. The baby raised its arm and let out a pitiful squawk. Walter was too stunned to even move.

This time, when Walter put his foot down, his daughter dutifully bowed her head and agreed. She would not be going back to her husband. She and the baby would stay with her parents. The family physician was called for and Walter made it known he wanted his daughter’s injuries to be meticulously recorded. He’d wanted to summon the police, but Luisa was adamant that she would not speak with any officers.

Though their daughter had returned to them, she was no longer his sweet, innocent little girl. A year apart was enough to harden her, to dull the light that had always been in her eyes, to hollow her cheeks and round her shoulders. She was easily startled and weepy and shrank from the slightest touch. The housekeeper, who had been with them since Luisa was born, was the one who confided in him about faded bruises and fresh scars after she’d drawn the girl’s bath. Walter had gone to the clapboard alley house where Luisa had been living, accompanied by his army pistol, but Edward Jerse was nowhere to be found. Lucky for him.

Three weeks passed and every day was a struggle. Luisa lacked the strength, and it seemed the interest, in caring for her child, but that was understandable. Walter’s wife, his sisters, and the women that so deftly ran his household, all took part in trying to help his daughter recover. Unfortunately, all their efforts were for naught.

Walter was at work when Edward Jerse showed up looking for his estranged wife. When Arlene Skinner tried to turn him away, he kicked in the glass-paned door and cast her aside. Their cook ran to the neighbors to summon the police. His youngest sister, who had been visiting with her young daughter, had the good sense to grab the infant and flee out the back of the house. Their beloved housekeeper took a protective position on the stairs in an effort to stop Mr. Jerse and she suffered a broken collarbone when he shoved her down.

Witnesses said that Luisa put up a hell of a fight, even as Edward Jerse dragged her down the front steps. She bit and she clawed and she screamed until she was tossed to the ground and silenced by a crushing blow to the skull under Edward Jerse’s boot. Neighbors rushed to stop the assault, but they were too late. A brawl ensued when they attempted to prevent him from fleeing, but he managed to escape before the police arrived.

The scene that Walter came home to could only be described as chaos. Policemen were everywhere, blowing whistles, yelling at neighbors to stand back, threatening to use their bully sticks on the crowd that gathered. Nervous cart-horses whinnied shrilly and stamped their feet. His wife was wailing on the porch while their family physician tried desperately to calm her. The county coroner was already rounding up eligible men for an inquest and to make matters worse, hadn’t even bothered to cover his poor daughter’s crumpled body with a blanket or a sheet.

An overzealous journalist picked the wrong moment to appear at Walter’s side and ask if he knew the victim and wanted to give a quote. Walter had him by the throat in an instant, his clawed fingers digging roughly into the man’s neck. He wanted to kill him and probably would have had a constable not intervened and pulled him off.

*%*%*%*%*%

Katherine felt a sting of tears and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. That could have been her story. She knew exactly what Luisa had gone through. She felt her husband’s hand slip into hers and she squeezed his fingers tight. Mr. Skinner had stopped speaking for a few moments, staring down at the lemonade glass that was sweating on his knee.

“You know where the sonofabitch is now?” Mulder asked.

“Rotting in hell, hopefully.” Mr. Skinner finally looked up. “They caught him at the train station that night. Murder’s a hanging offense. Justice was carried out swiftly, though part of me wishes he’d suffered a little longer.”

“And then you moved west?”

“Towns are small and people talk. We didn’t want Joey to grow up in the shadow of it all.”

“Joey is your grandson,” Katherine stated, softly. She remembered Mr. Skinner’s panic when Joey had been injured at school and his fear now made sense to her.

“He is. Though he’s not aware of that fact. Luisa had named him Edward Jr., but we couldn’t call him that, under the circumstances.” Mr. Skinner paused and he seemed to struggle for a moment, his face contorting slightly as a frown tugged his mouth down. “My wife blames herself. She was the one that let Mr. Jerse into the house to sell that blasted sewing machine. She tried to…join Luisa in the hereafter several times. They wanted me to have her institutionalized. I refuse to do that.”

“Has she made recent attempts?”

Mr. Skinner shook his head. “The melancholy comes and goes, particularly around Luisa’s birthday, or the day she was taken from us, but she hasn’t harmed herself in quite some time. There’s an Indian woman that cares for her during the day. She’s been a godsend. You might know her, Mulder, Albert Hosteen is her brother.”

“The Navajo translator?” Mulder gave a brief nod. “We did some trading awhile back, but I don’t know him well.”

“His people have a settlement a few miles outside of town. They keep to themselves, mostly.”

“Mr. Skinner,” Katherine said, trying as gently as she could to bring the conversation back to Arlene. “I am deeply sorry for what you and your wife have been through, but it does not explain why you won’t allow her to be seen. Do you believe Dr. Black would try to force her to be committed?”

Mr. Skinner stood and slipped his hand into his vest pocket. He took out his pocket watch and opened it up, staring at it for some time before passing it to Katherine. She hesitated briefly, glancing at her husband first, and then gasped slightly when she looked at the photo insert under the lid.

“I…I don’t understand,” Katherine said, staring intently at the photo.

“We had this likeness made for Luisa’s sixteenth birthday,” Mr. Skinner explained.

Katherine showed the watch to her husband, who raised his brows in surprise and then looked at Mr. Skinner. “This is your daughter?” he asked. “But, she…”

“Bears a striking resemblance to your wife. I know.”

“And you think that if Mrs. Skinner were to see me, it would cause an upset?”

“I know it would. Arlene begged me to remove all the portraits of Luisa from the walls because she found it unbearable to see them. That likeness is all I have left.”

Katherine passed the pocketwatch back to Mr. Skinner. He sat back down, but kept the watch in his hand, running his thumb over the lid. The room fell quiet and it seemed that none of them knew what to say after that. Finally, Mulder cleared his throat and shifted forward.

“Uh, when we were outside earlier, you said what you had to say concerned both Katherine and I,” he said. “I’m not a medical expert like my wife, so was there something else?”

Mr. Skinner took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “Something I need to confess.”

*%*%*%*%*%

Jack Willis made no effort whatsoever to even pretend to be personable. Walter Skinner had all sorts of men in his office looking for land, but very few that didn’t try to charm him, especially when they were begging for a homestead. He watched the detestable man surreptitiously as he made like he was perusing his files. Watched him suck tobacco juice from his yellowed teeth and pick at the dirt under his fingernails with a small knife as he waited.

Walter could have easily refused Mr. Willis and sent him on his way. The man had no collateral to speak of, only a small purse of coins that didn’t amount to half a downpayment on a lease. He didn’t claim to have any prospects in the area, wasn’t a farmer or a rancher or a craftsman. Walter was certain, by the stench of whiskey that seemed to ooze from the man’s pores, that his only profession was drinking. When the man asked about the saloon in town, and if the hands were hot there, he knew he was dealing with a gambler as well.

Rarely was Walter distracted by the window in his office, but that day he couldn’t help but keep his eye on the young woman in the wagon outside. She was still as a statue most of the time, head down, shoulders slumped. Every so often she would start to rub her fingers and thumbs together, but then quickly pull her hands into fists in her lap. He gave her one more glance before he was going to break the news to Mr. Willis that there were no leases available and she suddenly tipped her chin up and the afternoon sun highlighted a fresh bruise on her cheek. She had a blank expression on her face, staring off into the distance, but without truly seeing a thing. He’d seen that look on many men during the war, usually after a hard battle. Some of them never recovered. His chest tightened and his heart hurt.

There was a lease available, he told Mr. Willis, which was not entirely the truth, but nor was it a lie. There were plenty of leases available, but he knew that if he put Mr. Jerse’s name on any of those, the bank would be repossessing in short time. The lease that he would draft up would be on a piece of land that he owned, one he’d purchased a few months before the former owner had passed on. The old man had known he hadn’t much time left and Walter had seen fit to relieve Bob Goodwin of his burden. Installing a surly drunkard and his abused wife on the property might not seem wise, but it would give him the time he needed to make an informed decision.

When Walter’s professors at West Point had praised him for his abilities to strategize, he’d humbly chalked it up to the hours he’d spent playing chess with his grandfather, but he also knew that the reason he took to the game at such a young age was because of the way his mind worked. He planned and he calculated and he did it quickly. He also wasn’t a gambler, by nature, but when he bet on something, he did it with the same certainty as moving a chess piece.

He drafted a standard five-year lease with an option, knowing he’d be lucky if he saw a single penny from Mr. Willis, not that it mattered. The land was bought and paid for and he didn’t need an income. He just needed a chance to do what he should have done for Luisa all those years ago.

Taking into account the little he did know of Mr. Willis, Walter offered to buy the man a drink later that evening at the saloon and just as he suspected, the man was more than happy to take him up on it. He gave him a copy of the lease, a rough map of how to find the place, and watched him turn his mules to the east, out of town. By the end of the night, after several rounds of whiskey and losing a few hands of poker to Mr. Willis, he’d devised a suitable plan.

*%*%*%*%*%

“Did you kill Jack Willis?” Mulder asked.

Mr. Skinner did not seem in the least phased by the question. “Do you play chess?” he asked, in return.

“Not much.”

“Chess is as much about manipulating your opponent’s movements as it is making your own. The same as battle.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

“I had a mind to.” The banker nodded to himself. “But, I didn’t have to.”

“What does that mean?”

“I know what it means,” Katherine murmured, quietly. “The whole time we were here, Jack was either too drunk, too hungover, or not there at all. It means you kept him occupied. Away from me or incapacitated.”

“I simply worked out a deal with the saloon owner that Jack Willis should feel free to spend as much time there as he pleased, whether it was drinking or gambling or in the company of the working women.”

Mr. Skinner paused at that and an awkward silence followed. Mulder was feeling a mixture of emotions; appreciation and regret and heartache and confusion. Katherine, pressed next to him on the couch, was silent, but her grip on his hand was tight and firm.

“Anyhow,” Mr. Skinner continued. “I only told Mr. Smith that he was to see me about any debts that Mr. Willis incurred and I would see they were paid.”

“Then you should…we should compensate you,” Mulder said, stuttering slightly. “I’ll pay for Jack Willis's debts.”

“I don’t want compensation.”

“But, what about the land? I…I assume you were after a profit if you bought it, but then why didn’t-”

“You own the land,” Mr. Skinner interrupted, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “The property was transferred to your wife, you just happened to purchase it from me and not the bank. Fortunately for me I happen to know how terrible you are at scrutinizing paperwork.”

Mulder grimaced, sheepishly. “Still, you should get a fair price for all you’ve-”

“I wasn’t after a profit, Mulder.”

“What then? You’re not a rancher, you’re a banker.”

Mr. Skinner shifted in his chair as though the question had made him uncomfortable or embarrassed. “I had it in mind that, should we become neighbors, that perhaps…perhaps my grandson might find his way here.”

“You want him to work on a ranch? But, he’s far too young to even consider-”

“No, not work. Just…to pass the time. I try to spend as much time with him as I can, but I’m at the bank most of the day, though I do try to shield him from my wife’s…my wife tries to love him in her own way, but I know she fears becoming too attached and Joey is so pure at heart. So much like his mother. He just…he just deserves a place where…” Mr. Skinner trailed off and he shook his head, quickly averting his eyes. “Anyway, he has school now to keep him occupied. It was a foolish notion.”

“Does he know how to ride?” Mulder asked.

“I’ve put him on Charlie Horse a time or two.”

“Well, it’s too far of a walk for the little fella. What if we sent Trevor out on Saturdays to come collect him?”

“I’m not going to put you out like that, Mulder. You asked me why and I wanted to answer plainly. I think that fate intervened and God saw fit that land be used for a higher purpose.”

Katherine sucked in a sharp breath through her nose and almost reared back as though spooked by something. Mulder turned to her, but she stared straight ahead, wide-eyed. He squeezed her hand and she startled and then pulled away, blinking rapidly.

“Kate?”

She gave a slight shake of her head and pulled her lightly-fisted hands into her lap. Mulder pursed his lips, wanting to know what had just happened, but he wasn’t going to press her in front of their guest.

Mr. Skinner rubbed his hands over his knees and then stood. “I should probably be on my way,” he said.”

“I’ll…get your hat,” Mulder answered. Normally, he might implore Mr. Skinner to stay, to have another glass of lemonade, but he hurried down the hall and back and handed the banker his hat, eager to get his wife alone.

“Thank you for the lemonade,” Mr. Skinner said, shaking Mulder’s hand.

“Anytime. And please think about sending Joey out.”

“I’ll think it over.” Mr. Skinner gave a slight tip of his hat to Katherine. “Mrs. Mulder. I hope I’ve resolved things for you.” He was about to walk out, but Katherine suddenly jumped to her feet and called out to him.

“Wait,” she said. “Things are not resolved. What about Mrs. Skinner?”

“I can’t let you see her, I thought I made that clear.”

“What if I’d run into her in town one day?”

“Impossible. Arlene doesn’t go into town. Her nerves are too unsteady for it.”

“Then we must do something about that. I’m…I don’t know the answer right now, but I will. I will write away for the appropriate texts and I’ll find something. I promise.”

“I do need to get going,” Skinner said, putting his hat on. His voice had gone low and husky. “You know, in the back of my mind I thought that perhaps out here on your own, with Mr. Willis occupied, you might find your way to a friendly neighbor’s place that could give you more help than I could. I’m happy things worked out the way they have, just sorry it didn’t happen a little sooner.”

“Mr. Skinner…” Katherine touched the sleeve of his jacket and when he turned towards her, she put her arms around him. He hesitated and then brought one hand up and put his hand very lightly at the back of her head. “Thank you,” she whispered.

They stayed in the embrace for a few seconds more and then Mr. Skinner stepped away. He gave a brief nod and then he was out the door on his way to the barn.

*%*%*%*%*%

Katherine stayed on the porch as her husband walked the banker out to the barn to collect his horse. His visit had brought forth her own recollections of the day she arrived in town with Jack Willis. A memory that she’d locked away not because she’d tried to forget, but only because she hadn’t tried to remember it.

The morning before they arrived, she had lost another baby, one she didn’t even know she was carrying. She’d awoken in pain, her skirts soaked through with blood down to the hard ground she’d been sleeping on beneath the wagon. She’d stumbled to a stream that was nearby to wash herself, retching a few times on the way there, and the bruise on her cheek was punishment for having woken Jack and for not having made up any breakfast.

She was still bleeding when they’d rolled into town, every bump of the wagon seemingly forcing another painful contraction of her womb, ridding itself of the burden that had proven impossible for her to carry. She wondered how much blood she would have to lose to pay for her sins, how much blood she’d already lost. She thought about how peaceful it might be not to even try to stop the flow.

It was those kinds of thoughts that turned her to prayer, but Jack had sold her rosary beads at the last town they were in to some gunslinger who thought his favorite whore might like them. She recalled sitting in the wagon outside the bank, asking God’s forgiveness for needing to end her suffering. One of the mules had shifted and the wagon creaked and she had the idea that when they were on their way again, she should throw herself under the wagon, let it roll over her, let it crush her and let the blood ooze out of her all at once until there was nothing left. Yes, she decided, that would be best. She had nothing left, no reason to keep going.

Just as she’d resolved to end her life, a breeze had ruffled her hair and set the back of her neck to tingling. She looked up, but the dusty road was still. Quite plainly, clear as day, a woman whispered in her ear just then, ‘don’t give up.’ Katherine turned, but there was no one there, only a glimpse of her own sad reflection in the window of the bank.

Jack returned to the wagon and shoved a piece of paper into her hands, which she recognized as a map. She studied it as Jack rambled about pulling the wool over on the idiot banker. He figured the town must be full of idiots if the smartest man there was that friendly. Maybe he’d see if he could start a new life as a bank robber.

Katherine didn’t say anything. Jack was never in favor of her speaking, even if it appeared as though he were trying to engage her in conversation. There was a little ‘X’ drawn onto the map and then a wavy line beside it that she determined to be a creek or small river of some kind. On the other side of the line was the word ‘horses.’

Once, as a little girl, Katherine had a dream about a horse. It was just after she’d read about Hippocrates, The Father of Medicine, and about how the ancient Greeks had once prescribed horseback riding to improve health. She’d thought that was silly, but that night she dreamed about riding a lovely chestnut horse with a red mane, running fast and free through an open field of grass as far as the eye could see, towards a setting sun. She felt sad when she woke up, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she knew it was impossible to ever be that free.

“Hey,” Mulder said, startling Katherine as he came up to the porch. The banker was already past the sign of their ranch, his horse kicking up the dust on the main road and lost in her reverie, she hadn’t even noticed.

“Hey,” Katherine replied.

Her husband reached for her, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. “You looked a million miles away just then. What were you thinking?”

“Just about divine intervention.”

“So, nothing too complicated or existential?”

She gave him a small smile and he rubbed his bottom lip against her knuckles. She pulled her hands free and he opened his arms for her. Sighing, she stepped into his embrace.

“I’m sorry too, so you know,” he said.

“Sorry? For what?”

“That your friendly neighbor didn’t find his way to you sooner.”

She hummed lightly and crossed her arms behind his waist. “No, I think Mr. Skinner was right. Things happened exactly as they were supposed to.”

“I think you just said you believe in fate, Honey. I’ve been telling you that since Faithful Jenny threw that shoe.”

“I admit nothing.” She chuckled. “I’m only saying that by keeping Jack otherwise engaged in town, it did give me some months of peace I think that I needed. It made me stronger. I wanted to get away, but until then I thought my only way out would be if Jack had killed me or if I…did it for him.”

Mulder tightened his embrace and Katherine squeezed him gently in return.

“I’d like to think it’s providence,” she murmured softly. “That God put Mr. Skinner in my path that day for a reason.”

“So that he could help you.”

“No, so that I could help him. His wife.” Katherine tilted her head back to look up at her husband. He looked down at her with an expression she hadn’t ever seen, like someone pleasantly stupefied. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Fate, providence, divine intervention, kismet, destiny, serendipity, whatever you want to call it, how lucky I am to have such a wife.”

“Yes, you are.”

He chuckled as he lowered his mouth to hers.

*%*%*%*%*%

If anyone had asked him, the banker would say he did not believe in any such thing as fate. He had too much experience with the hubris and folly of man to believe that any bad or good that happened in the world wasn’t the direct result of free will. Besides, there wasn’t a philosophy on God’s green Earth that would have him believe that his daughter’s death was designed as part of a higher plan. As though God was maneuvering the human race like pawns in a game of chess. That would be illogical, and Walter was not an illogical man.

A few short weeks after his visit to the ranch, Katherine had convinced the banker to get his wife a kitten. She quoted a nurse named Florence Nightingale to him about the benefits of animal companionship. He thought it was silly. Arlene had never had an interest in cats, but Katherine was very convincing, and suddenly this gray ball of fluff that looked like he’d been in the dustbin, so he was called Dusty, had been acquired and he saw his wife laugh for the first time in years. She also managed to obtain a tortoise, a pair of lovebirds, an injured crow that she nursed back to health, and he was fairly certain she was trying to tame a family of prairie dogs in the fields behind their house. While the melancholy still took hold of her at times, it seemed that having Dusty close to her made it more bearable and her demeanor had been much improved.

Walter had finally let Doctor Black speak with his wife and he found her to be in overall fine health, but perhaps a bit of exercise would help with her nerves. Just a nice walk in the garden each day for fresh air and flowers. Monica Doggett helped with that, bringing fresh baked bread down as often as she could and teaching her the names of local herbs and how they’re used. It’s how she found the poor crow with the broken wing and the prairie dog tunnels.

The following April, the banker brought his wife to the Broke In on a Sunday morning, a day that had been arranged in advance. Joey was disappointed that it wasn’t his day to go to the ranch. He’d been spending Saturdays at the Mulder’s all winter and looked forward to brushing the horses every week and learning how to ride.

Arlene had been prepared to accompany her husband to the ranch. It had been weeks since even the mention of her daughter’s name had sent her into a fit of tears. She’d allowed Walter to hang the family portrait in the house and he had finally sat Joey down and given him a sanitized version of the truth. All the boy needed to know, at his young age, was that his mother, their daughter, had gone to heaven, and that she had loved him very much.

Walter slowed the gig down as the sign for the Broke In came into view. It seemed to him that he was more nervous about this meeting than his wife. She sat beside him almost serenely, her arm looped loosely around his elbow, Dusty purring on her lap. He hadn’t intended to bring the cat, but his wife had insisted and he knew the Mulder’s, of all people, wouldn’t mind the unexpected, additional guest.

Katherine was first to emerge from the house, followed by her husband. They waited on the porch while Walter guided the horse to the hitching post. Mulder stepped down and welcomed them warmly, saying how pleased he was to meet Mrs. Skinner and the little friend she cuddled close as he took her hand to help her from the small carriage.

Katherine approached cautiously and Walter held his breath when Arlene passed the cat to him and then reached out to touch the young woman’s face. She told her how pretty she was. She told her how she’d heard so much about her from Walter, and from Monica. She told her that her daughter had red hair as well, gently touching the ends of one of Katherine’s curls that coiled down by her jaw. And then she asked if she might put her arms around her, just for a moment.

Of course, Katherine answered, and Arlene brought her arms around her, placing her hands just behind Katherine’s shoulders and very softly, just for a moment, rested her cheek against the younger woman’s. She pulled away and then took Dusty back into her arms and rubbed one of his ears. She said that she would like to see the horses now.

The End

[t-u-r-n]

She’s got lace stuck in her teeth

[romangoldendreams]

there is a certain place where all the ugly, broken, freak things lie

[rosalie-starfall]

Clare Pierce

Tiny Beautiful Things - Broken Things

[dustedmagazine]

amelia courthouse — broken things (Spinster)

Photo by Amy Glantz

amelia courthouse’s Leah Toth follows up 2019’s spectral Ruby Glass with four lingering meditations on sound and life and mortality. “No one ever really dies,” she intones in “Keep Your Arms,” amid translucent drones and flickering auras and some fine, elusive e-bow from husband James Jackson Toth, but, of course, that’s not true. Toth herself has sustained heavy losses in recent years, a father and a beloved dog and maybe others. Her art is a form of spiritualism, seeking solace in old Baptist hymns and hovering overtones.

It's fair to lead with “Keep Your Arms,” the lone track with vocals and the one with the most defined and accessible melody. Like the others, it teeters on the edge of dissolution, but the ghost of a tune, even a melody shimmers even as it turns to pure tone. Yet it’s when you get past the single—and admittedly single doesn’t seem like the right descriptor—that the album’s quiet splendor reveals itself.

“One Fine Morning” sheathes it questioning piano riff in deep echo and fuzz, making the simple motif stand in for all the piano tunes heard through open windows and in other rooms, all through long elapsed childhood and early life. A scratchy, barely audible hissing runs on its own parallel track, filling in the empty spaces in Toth’s reverberating sonic chamber. The piece goes on for eight minutes, picking up sympathetic vibrations from other instruments but otherwise not changing much. It’s a still, serene space with its own bright, repeating architecture, but you experience it from a slight remove, a nostalgia.

“Vihangi” incorporates found sounds, like the rasping breath of Toth’s dog, into haunted electronic textures: an electric piano and some sort of friction-y buzz that rises and falls. The song commemorates Vihangi Patel, an immigrant child of 11, who with her entire family froze to death while attempting to cross into Canada in winter. Toth doesn’t use any obvious sonic signifiers — no sounds of weather or struggle — but the song has a kind of heartbroken grace.

So, too, does “Nearer My God, To Thee,” with starts with the whirr of an old-fashioned film projector and proceeds through clanks and whispers and echoes to the church organ recital of the title’s hymn. If you’ve spent any time in rural churches, that melody will always carry the whiff of death; it’s a mainstay of Baptist funerals. It courses through a post-modern sound sculpture of knocks and clinks and twitching sounds, carrying the flotsam of modern life in its strong and steady current. And yes, Leah Toth and her amelia courthouse are adept at electronic experiment and deconstruction and sound-as-sound, but firmest ground lies in the past, in memory and ritual and engrained culture.

Jennifer Kelly

[nerdherderette]

Broken Things

It's been fifteen years, and Derek still has feelings about that Jeep.

[excerpt] “Stiles loved that Jeep,” the Sheriff says with a wistful smile. “It was Claudia’s. When he left it behind…” He turns his gaze elsewhere, at some distant spot beyond Derek’s shoulder.

Derek feels a claw rip through the fragile paper. He’s not sure if the Sheriff changed his mind about allowing Derek to take the Jeep. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he did.

“I’m doing my best. And I know; I want to get it up and running.” Derek wonders whether the Sheriff thinks he’s fixing it up for resale, or souping it up for an off-road joyride. Both possibilities leave him with an icy anger in his gut.

The Sheriff must understand what he feels, because his face softens. “What I meant is that Stiles loved that Jeep. He put whatever little savings he had into keeping that thing running. So, if he left it behind…” He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. “Sometimes, things are too broken to be fixed.”

Derek nods slowly. He understands. But he also knows it’s not just that things break down. It's that sometimes, people give up on them, too.

Rating: G

Word count: 3.9k

Tags: Canon divergence; Fix-It; Mechanic Derek Hale; Dad Derek Hale; Derek Hale's Complicated Feelings; Pining; Past Stydia; Gen/Pre-slash; Hopeful Ending; Implied Happy Ending; Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski; Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things; POV Derek Hale

A prompt Fill for @j-nightingalesb1tch. Also inspired by @mrkgrl's art.

Read it here on AO3

[iamdangerace]

Naked Raygun, Broken Things from their etched 7" single (2022).

The single comes with an original existentialist comic book companion.

[zegalba]

Livia Marin: "Broken Things" (2020)

[emvisual]

Livia Marin es una artista chilena radicada en Londres. A Livia le encantan las cosas rotas.

[erithel]

I sometimes do redraws of old art to reset myself.

Tears mingled with the raindrops sliding down Lance’s cheeks. He bumped his forehead against Keith’s, feeling their noses brush together. “I love you, Keith,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”

And then Keith’s eyes were opening. His hands were coming up – fingers curling in the soaked fabric of Lance’s shirt. “I love you, too.” His voice broke in a soft plea. “Please don’t let me go.”

[ayyy-imma-ninja]

I imagined a lil scenario in my head, and I wondered how the SK boys would react- (btw I LOVE your art and creativity!! <3)

(this scenario can either take place during babysitting or just the library/the amusement park :D)

A little kid was running around, letting their energy burst out as they play with the other kids, but that soon came to a stop when they came into contact with an object, accidentally breaking it.

They panic, starting to cry out of fear. They look to Sun/Moon, afraid of what heir reactions will be. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll fix it, I promise!” they cry out, shaking like a leaf.

(also context: the little kiddo gained some trauma from their parents so uh, they're havin' a lil breakdown)

This would definitely raise some flags.

Sun would quickly work to calm them down and assure them that it was alright, and making sure they weren't hurt. He will make it clear the kid's wellbeing was more important than some broken item. Then he'd clean up the mess.

Moon would do about the same, assuring them it was an accident and checking to see if they were alright. Wherever this took place, one or the other would begin doing research right then.

No child should be scared like that.

[t-u-r-n]

Under the hill the missiles grow into clover and red berries.

[justalittlelogophile]

💔🥀Broken🥀💔

She sat by the pool, shoulders hunched dejectedly, her eyes hollow and distant in the soft fading light of dusk. Her finger flicked in the water, absentmindedly drawing little swirls as she let out a hoarse and exhausted sigh.

“I think…I think I’m afraid of the possibility of healing…

Making the best of shattered pieces…well…it’s all I’ve ever known. Pain is the great connector and of inspiration of us all; none is exempt from its reaches.”

She let out dry and mirthless laugh, reaching up to wipe at a tear that had so betrayingly begun to trickle down her cheek. “And besides, people just love their broken things.”

~Po