#eleanor gets to know herself through hill house and will gets to know himself through hannibal

[magnolia-among-the-stars]

the last bit of us (chapter three)

Plot: Tyler Owens hasn’t been home in a year. He’s survived all the storm chasing and motel living with his new partners as they try to save lives. But with all the damage they’ve taken from driving high beams first into monster storms, it’s time to pay the piper and bring the truck in for repairs. And the only person who can fix them is the best mechanical engineer he’s ever met. Eleanor Harding, his estranged wife.

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Estranged Wife OC (Harding Daughter)

Word Count: 2.4k

Playlist Song: your place by ashley cooke

Trigger Warning: mention of dying character, cancer

prologue / one / two / three

The drive takes more than an hour and the bile building in my throat burns the closer I get to the hospital. I’ve gotten used to the layout of the visitor’s parking lot, the row after row of cars lining the large lot. I curse, driving too quickly past another spot. 

My hands start to shake and my chest hurts a little from the constricting panic. I slam on the breaks when a car starts to back out, pulling away.  I swing into the spot, breathing out in relief. The walk to the front slider doors of the hospital takes what feels like forever and the receptionist at the front desk takes too long to sign me in. I can feel a new wave of tears rolling through me as I step off the elevator. Mom is there, pacing back and forth on the phone.  

“Mom?” I call out, doubling my speed until I’m running into her arms. 

She tucks her phone in shorts just in time to collect me in her embrace.

“Hi sweets,” she breathes into my hair. There’s a small amount of relief, being curled up in her arms. I bury my face deeper into her neck, a few stray tears sliding down my face. I sniffle loudly, trying to collect myself. 

“What happened?” I ask, looking up at her. 

“You know your father,” she purses her lips, rubbing my arms as she sighs. I’m not sure if she’s trying to comfort me or comfort herself. “Doing too much in the barn, overworking himself. He stumbled into the house and passed out. Doctors said he’s been missing his medication. If the cancer doesn’t kill him, I’ll do it myself,” she huffs. 

“Ma,” I scolded her, shaking my head. I turned to peer into the room, trying to catch my dad’s eye but the doctor stood in the way. He sways a little back and forth as he speaks, only allowing me to see the IV hooked up and the soft beep of the heart monitor. “Don’t say things like that. Dad is going to be fine.” 

When I turn back to her, my mom’s eerily calm. She’s breathing through her nose, her eyes a little cloudy as she watches the doorway. Her thumb taps her pointer finger, then her middle. It’s a distraction, something I’d inherited from her as a way of navigating hard moments. I tilt my head, watching her more closely. “He’s going to be fine, right?”

She’s slow in looking at me, her gaze far away when our eyes connect and my breath hitches in my throat. Jo Harding had stood strong in front of the scariest of storms. She’d stared down an F5, sent it running for the hills and yet, she’d never looked more fearful as she opened her mouth. “Honey,” she starts but footsteps interrupt her sentence. 

“He’s up and talking,” the doctor says, smiling a little at my mom. He shouldn’t be smiling. Why is he smiling? “I’ve sent in his new prescription to the pharmacy and once his IV is done, we’ll be able to get him back home,” he nods at me. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

I don’t wait to hear what mom has to say, rushing into the room to see him. The chemo still hasn’t taken all of his hair, though the line continues to recite backwards a little further each week that I visit. He’s wrapped in a white sheet, stark and crisp against his blue hospital gown. He looks so small in the large bed and yet, somehow so uncomfortable. The crows feet around his eyes have deepened with exhaustion but his warm, bright smile still remains.

“Daddy,” I murmur, sniffling again as I climb gently onto the side of his bed. 

“Hey sweetheart,” he reaches up to touch my cheek, patting it lightly and smoothing the flush with his thumb. 

“What the hell is the matter with you? Mom said you haven’t been taking your meds.” 

“Sweetheart, there’s something I need to share with you,” he says, eyes flickering behind me at mom, leaning up against the doorframe. 

I want to look back at her, give her the chance to tell me it’s not what I think. Anyone who knew parents would know that before me, mom was the emotional one; impulsive, reactive. But after I was born, Bill Harding went soft. His heartstrings were too malleable, easily manipulated. I was daddy’s little girl. I couldn’t look back at my mom for strength, I was too worried that he would slip from my fingertips when I turned back. 

“I don’t,” I start, shaking my head. “I don’t want to know.” 

“Eleanor,” he coos, as if I’m a newborn sobbing through the night. I feel like I am. “The cancer has spread too much.” I don’t hear the rest of what he says. There’s a high pitched ringing that echoes in my eardrum, mixing with “home”, “weeks” and “get comfortable”. After minutes of numbing silence, I nod and wipe my face while grabbing his hand. 

We sit for a while, the three of us chatting and trying to ignore the inevitable. My mind starts to race, making a checklist of to dos in my mind. Trying to figure out how to help my mom pay the hospital bills and manage the farmhouse. Maybe she can move in with me. We’ll need to make arrangements. I need to finish fixing up the RAM before he…well, before. 

As time passes, the nurse shows up to take out his IV and start his discharge paperwork. “You’ll need to pick up your prescription. It’ll help keep you comfortable for the time being,” she repeats as she places a bandaid over the spot of blood from the needle. “We’ve already sent it over.” 

“I’ll pick it up,” I blurt out, rising to my feet. 

“Honey, you should go get some rest,” my mom says, squeezing my hand. “You can’t tell me you got much sleep last night and it’s been a long day.” 

“I don’t mind,” I say, suddenly remembering that Tyler is here. “I could use the distraction.” My mom must notice the change in mood because she frowns, deep lines settling between her brows. 

“Alright, I’ll walk you out,” she nods to the hallway. I thank the nurse and say goodbye to my dad, kissing him on cheek with a promise to see him at home. I follow my mom into the hallway, bumping into her as she slows to a halt. 

“Ma, c’mon,” I say, stepping to her side and looking for what distracted her. Seriously. At the other end of the hallway is Tyler, standing with a sad expression. 

“What in the fuck,” mom says, jaw set tightly as she crosses her arms. She turns to look at me. “What’s he doing here?” 

I close my eyes, trying to slow my breathing. “I didn’t tell him where I was going.”

“Didn’t tell hi-,” she stops herself. “When did he come back? Why didn’t you tell me? Are you two back-,”

This is the last thing I need today. “Ma, he showed up this morning. I will get rid of him, alright? I’m gunna get rid of him.” I kiss her on the cheek. “I love you, I’ll see you at the house.” I turn away so that she doesn’t have a chance to protest or ask more questions, stalking over to Tyler.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I seeth, shoving him lightly backwards toward the elevators. “How did you even know where I was?” 

He lets me move him, eyes trying to catch my mom’s as we move. His bright eyes are wet with worry, laced with concern as he searches my face for answers to his own questions. “Is dad alright? What happened?” 

“Not your father,” I grunt, tugging him finally around the corner. The statement hurts, I can see it all over his face. I know how close he and my dad are but he doesn’t get to show up and just pick up as the son in law he hasn’t been. I’ve had to pick myself up in these moments with no shoulder to cry on. He doesn’t get to just come back and know. 

“Eleanor, I know you are angry but if he’s hurt, I want to help,” Tyler says.

“It’s not your place.” I push the button for the elevator, holding tightly to his wrist in fear that he’ll speed back down the hallway. Right into the belly of the beast that is Jo Harding. As much as I hated him for disappearing, I wasn’t that cruel. “You made it clear you didn’t want this family anymore.” 

The elevator dings. I step forward into the small space, trying to drag the man with me. Tyler doesn’t move easily behind me and when I turn to look at him, there’s a sour look on his face. “C’mon, I don’t want to miss the pharmacy hours,” I say. My fingers clutch his wrist tighter, pulling with all might until I can unglue his feet from the linoleum tile. 

He’s quiet in the elevator and past the receptionist desk. I peel the stupid name tag from my top when we get outside in the fresh air, heading in the direction of my truck. I don’t expect the footsteps to follow me and leave them be until I’m a car or two away. I turn on him, hands on my hips. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m coming with you.” 

“No you are not.”

“Yes I am,” he responds with such a stubborn matter of fact tone that I want to slap him. He walks past me, swiping the keys from my grasp and heading for the truck. “You know I can get you to the pharmacy in under thirty minutes.” I think back to the times that we would need to make a trip over the years, the times that I would let him drive so we’d make it to the drive thru before closing for a milkshake and a burger. Racing against the clock with the windows down and the radio cranked down. I could still see the crinkles around his eyes from his smile under the overhead lighting to look for his wallet. 

“What about your car?” I follow him to the truck. 

“I got dropped off,” Tyler says, tugging the driver’s side open. He slides across the bench to unlock the passenger side and my stomach turns at the mundane simplicity of the action. I don’t have a choice but to comply though. I check my watch and realize the time, jumping into the passenger side.

It’s silent as Tyler wraps an arm around my headrest, backing out of the parking lot and heading down the road toward the family owned pharmacy near my parents’ house. It’s gotten dark outside and my headlights are too bright against the pavement. It hurts my head. Today hurts my head. I rub a palm over my face, trying to scrub the exhaustion and emotion away.

“You wanna talk about it?” Tyler’s voice is soft in the darkness of the cab. 

My only response is another hefty sigh. 

“C’mon El,” he tries again.

I stare out into the darkness, trying to see the grains of wheat along the fields instead of conversing. “I don’t want to talk to you.” 

“Well, how about if you just talk at me? You’ve always enjoyed that,” he says, his tone too playful for my liking.

“Do you feel like that helps? Cracking a joke, making a jab at me?” I snap, turning to look at him. He glances over at me for a few moments, lips pursed. 

“I’m sorry alright? I don’t really know how to behave and I’m trying to ease the tension.”

“Do you feel like the tension is at ease?” I ask, looking forward with my jaw clenched. 

There’s a few more moments of silence before he says “Not at all.” His accent is thick, the twang of Arkansas slipping through. I look over at him and he licks his lips, grasp on the steering wheel flexing a little as he rolls to a stop on the empty road. I don’t know why, don't really know what it is that makes me react but I suddenly let out a giggle. It’s accompanied by a snort,  a short, loud snort that catches his attention. His foot slips on the break as he turns to look at me. The motion causes us to jerk, our necks snapped forward in an instant. And the motion just makes me laugh more, tears streaming down my cheeks. 

“Are you alright?” He’s staring at me wide eyed, like a deer caught in headlights afraid to make a move.

“This is just so absurd, this whole day, just an absurd nightmare.” I get out through wheezes of teary laughter. I take a few gulps of air to calm myself and wipe away the stray tears. I turn to look at him, my chest feeling a little tight. “It’s leukemia, stage four. The doctors have recommended he come home so that he’s comfortable.” 

Under the overhead street lamp lighting that washes on the hood of the truck, I see Tyler’s face fall. His hand pushes the shifting gear into the park position, the sound rings in my ears. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He looks forward at the road then back at me. I can see the gears turning in his head, the cogs trying to continue their processing. I’m expecting a lot of questions about what type, how long he’s been sick, how long they give him, what medication they’ve prescribed. I even anticipated  I should’ve been here.

“So what’s our next step?” 

I blink a few times. I must've misheard him. “Huh?”

“What’s the plan? What do we do next? I can make some calls to St. Francis and see if we can get an appointment-,” he continues on, rattling off some ideas of second opinions and alternative medicine to heal my dad. 

My fingertips start to go numb and I have to squeeze them tightly to try to gain feeling back. “Tyler, Tyler,” I say a little loudly, getting his attention. “There’s nothing to be done. It’s too far gone. He’s already done rounds of chemo.”

His gaze is a mix of harsh confusion and disbelief, piercing as he looks me over. “Rounds? How long has he been sick?” 

“He was diagnosed last Spring,” I say, looking down at my watch. “Can we get moving? The pharmacy closes in twenty minutes, I don’t want him going without.” I can tell he wants to argue, set us into another round of banter and harsh remarks. I’m grateful that he decides against it, instead pushing the truck back into drive and speeding a little faster into town toward the pharmacy.

Thank you for reading! Want to be added to the tagged list or share feedback? Click here :)

taglist:

@buckybarnes-1917 @kim-taehyung-12301995 @accordingtoawallflower-blog @axolotllover225 @tgmreader @smoothdogsgirl @paramedicnerd004 @charmyeol69-blog @tktstomydwnfall @milesdot

[anniemal2004]

the eleanor vance to will graham stan pipeline

[laurenairay]

Take a Chance - D. Hamilton

Word Count: 12.7k

Summary: Ashley Miller is a Sunday-morning regular at her local coffee shop. Dougie Hamilton is the associate art curator who catches her eye.

Warnings: coffee shop au, some bad language, a lot of cute fluff, anxiety

A/N: This is my @hockeynetwork​ winter gift exchange fic for @huttons​! I had a lot of fun researching & creating this fic gift, and I tried to incorporate all of the preferences you stated and that we discussed. This is very self-indulgent too, definitely the longest thing I’ve written on here, and I’m not going to go into the very niche research rabbit holes I fell down! Bringing this OC to life made me so happy, and I had a blast incorporating the coffee shop au element. I hope you enjoy this! 💚

Also tagging @danglesnipecelly​, @texanstarslove​ and @itsbadgerbadgermushroom​ because they all listened to me stress while writing hah.

*

“Large latte for Ashley!”

Ashley Miller looked up from her laptop, smiling at her favourite barista at the counter. She got up from her table, leaving her laptop and scone briefly as she collected her drink, before heading back to her seat. Sunday mornings were the same every week – arrive at Storm Surge coffee shop when they opened at 7am, park herself at a table in the back corner, and consume a steady flow of coffee as she worked. Sure, her work might vary – teaching Medieval History at The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill meant her lesson topics were all over the spectrum – but she just found that everything from writing notes for her classes that week to marking essays at the end of the semester became easier if she had the thrum of the coffee shop around her.

That, and she knew she’d just spend her entire weekend burrowed in her house if she didn’t get out.

Having moved to Raleigh 6 years ago to undertake her PhD, Ashley had accepted a teaching job at the very same university she’d studied at when she’d completed her studies a year ago, and she hadn’t looked back since. There was just something about Raleigh that she had fallen in love with, only a 30 minute drive away from her workplace, something that had spoken to her very soul, and actually being able to pass on knowledge about the subject that she was so passionate about made her so incredibly happy. Sure, her parents had never understood her love for 11th to 13th century European history (nor anyone else from her small town in South Dakota) but Ashley had never cared about that – New York had given her the opportunity to grow as a person during her undergraduate and postgraduate degrees, but Raleigh had given her the opportunity to thrive.

And she would forever be grateful for that.

Sundays though…Sundays were something she cherished. This independent coffee shop had been a blessing when she’d found it early on in her PhD research, and they had never complained about her taking up a table for essentially the whole day (and she did pay for each of the many coffees she consumed). Baristas and bakers had come and gone over the past 6 years, but there were a couple that had stuck around recently - and a year ago when she officially became ‘Dr Ashley Miller’, her favourite barista Andrei had even given her a piece of chocolate cake on the house to celebrate. Storm Surge coffee shop was a home away from home.

Of course, there was another reason that Sunday coffee shop time was one of her favourite things in her week…

Tall Cute Guy.

He was a regular every Sunday morning, and had been for the past year - three Sundays a month he would order a mocha and an americano to go, but one Sunday a month he would come in an hour earlier and order just an americano, and drink it in the shop instead while reading an old paperback book. Every single time, like clockwork.

Okay, yes, that sounded a little stalkerish. But he was so cute. Ashley pretty much always had her earphones in playing music so she had never caught his name, but his blonde curls, pretty blue eyes and warm smile had caught her eye straight away. And he was so tall, she couldn’t have missed him if she’d tried. She’d never spoken to him, never even said hi in passing, but occasionally she would link eyes with him and he would smile at her. And that smile was enough to send her heart fluttering. Ridiculous really, but it brought her a little joy.

What was the harm in smiling back at a cute guy every now and again, right?

*

Dougie Hamilton walked into the North Carolina Museum of Art with a smile on his face. To be honest, it could’ve been for a multitude of reasons. His career was finally heading upwards, having moved museums to become Associate Curator of European Art a couple of years ago, and he loved his work. He had recently renovated his kitchen, which was now looking pretty sleek and awesome, if he did say so himself. His colleagues had genuinely become some of his closest friends, and he had a standing monthly poker night with several of them. But his smile today wasn’t because of any of that.

No, his smile today was because it was Sunday morning, and he’d just picked up his regular coffee order for him and his boss.

Speaking of…

“So, did you finally talk to your coffee shop crush, or did you just awkwardly stare at her like a weirdo again?”

“Oh fuck off,” Dougie grumbled, feeling his cheeks heat up in a fierce blush as his boss Jordie’s words.

It was far too early for this – he’d only just walked into their shared office for fuck’s sake! Jordie just hooted laughter at his embarrassment as he took his mocha from Dougie, making Dougie groan. “One day you’re going to have to talk to her, man. It’s just getting sad now,” Jordie teased.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t we have a museum to open?” Dougie scowled.

Jordie just beamed even more, wiggling his eyebrows as he left their office. Dougie groaned again, running his hands through is unruly hair before he sighed. Coffee shop crush. Hah. Jordie wasn’t wrong though. Not really. His crush…Mystery Laptop Woman…was one of the reasons he always volunteered to pick the two of them up coffee before the museum opened up on a Sunday morning. Jordie had come along with him only once to pick up their coffee, about 6 months ago, and ever since then he hadn’t let Dougie’s shy smile at her go. Of course, Dougie barely knew anything about her – only that she was always in early on a Sunday, always completely consumed by her work, and she had such a super cute concentration face, whatever it is that she worked on. He could never quite tell – sometimes she had a book or two with her, sometimes it was a stack of papers – but he knew for sure that she appeared to mainline coffee like a pro. Probably some kind of teacher?

He’d certainly never had a teacher that beautiful, that was for sure.

Her long dark hair was always down and always a little messy, like she ran her hands through it often (which she did, he’d noticed). Her warm hazel eyes were hidden behind tortoiseshell glasses, and her lips were always coloured in varying shades of dark pink and red. He’d only seen her standing a couple of times, but he’d caught enough of a glimpse of her long legs to have some very inappropriate thoughts. She just looked so kind, so friendly…and so beautiful. Dougie had never been able to catch her name though – she’d always had a full coffee or at least half a coffee left whenever he was in the shop, so he couldn’t even find out sneakily that way. But whoever she was, whatever she did, when he occasionally got lucky enough for her to look at him, her smile made his entire body light up like a fireworks show. It was a bit pathetic really, how much just a smile from her made his entire day, but he was a year into it now and he wasn’t going to stop that for anything. He had a great career, some great friends, and a pretty great life, even if he was tragically single.

What was the harm in smiling at a beautiful woman whenever he got the chance, right?

*

“Alright, we’ve nearly run out of time now, but just one final thing I want you to think about for Monday’s love in the middle ages class,”

On cue, her students groaned, making Ashley grin.

“Hey, I’m giving you a head’s up here – I could just let you walk into our general lecture blind?” she shrugged, teasing.

That got her a few laughs at least. She’d take that.

“Okay, so we know through our focus on the Medieval Expansion of Europe that one of the biggest tales about Eleanor of Aquitaine in the latter half of the 1100s was of her role in the courts of love. What I want you all to look into is whether these courts of love have the possibility of being a real thing, or whether they feed into the chivalric notions of her contemporaries and were fabricated from the courtly love dynamics of knights and maidens. Just to give us some talking points, okay?”

Her students murmured their agreement, with most of them writing down a reminder. That would have to be good enough for her. At least this way, hopefully someone would discuss the talking points with her in class – she’d found out the hard way last year that there was nothing worse for a university professor than completely uninterested students. She needed something to feed off.

“Alright then, class dismissed. Have a great weekend everyone!”

Ashley moved to her laptop, switching off the projected powerpoint presentation as her students filed out of the classroom, but jumped in shock slightly as she noticed the head of her department sitting in the back corner. How long had he been there?! What was he doing there in the first place? She just hoped her smile didn’t look as nervous as she felt, as he walked up to the front of the room.

Rod Brind’Amour was a legend in the History department for a good reason. His knowledge of military history pre-1800s was unmatched by anyone, but it was his research on the first and second crusades that had inspired Ashley through much of her PhD. Sure, he wasn’t her direct supervisor, but their work interlinked enough that she’d spent many office hours with him debating the second crusade with fervour. For such a big man, he was such a nerd, and he’d made her feel so welcome as soon as he offered her the teaching position at the end of her PhD, with the promise that she would be able to continue her research to inspire future minds. She had been so moved by his words that she hadn’t hesitated to accept the job. How could she not, when someone of his calibre believed in her?

One year in, she wasn’t regretting it at all

“Very smart, setting up some talking points for Monday’s class. I’m so glad I volunteered you to run this year’s Love in the Middle Ages lectures. You’re much better at them than I was,” Rod mused.

Ashley snorted, rolling her eyes playfully. Oh thank god. It’s true that this seminar was one part of the large mandatory Medieval and Early Modern Studies course…but it suited her perfectly.

“That’s because my research focuses on Medieval Queens and the exchange of power they brought to their marriage countries, whereas yours is the effect of each of the crusades through military history. Bleurgh,” she snickered, “Linking today’s Medieval Expansion of Europe class with the generic Love in the Middle Ages lectures on Mondays is just easy,”

“Speak for yourself,” Rod laughed, “give me military tactics any day,”

Ashley just grinned. Some things never changed. “Was there anything you wanted in particular?” she asked, packing up her laptop into its case.

“Just wanted to check in with you, in general,” Rod shrugged, sitting down on the edge of her desk.

Ashley couldn’t help but smile at the thoughtfulness. “I’m doing okay yeah, thanks. Last year’s first semester was more of a struggle for sure, but I don’t have that transition from PhD student and TA to full teaching this time round. I’ve definitely settled in quicker – and this batch of freshman feel a lot more engaged already,”

“That’s good! It definitely shows that you’re handling things well,” Rod nodded, smiling back at her, “But I meant in your life outside of the university too,”

Ashley frowned. What? “What do you mean?” she asked, confused.

Rod laughed softly at her expression. “I know last year you were trying to find your stride, but this year you’ve already got it, so I’m just checking that you’ve got things balanced outside of work too. It’s far too easy to make teaching your entire life – and I don’t want you to burn out,” Rod explained. “I value you here too much for that,”

Ashley’s heart melted a little at his concern, but she just shook his head. “I may not have much going on for me outside of work, but I do get out. I spend my Sundays in a local coffee shop,” she admitted.

Her mind briefly flashed to Tall Cute Guy, but she pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind before she started blushing. So not appropriate for work.

Rod frowned slightly, but nodded. “At least you’re getting out of the house. Just promise me you’ll work on finding time for yourself too?”

“I promise,” Ashley nodded, “I intend to be here for a long time, so I definitely don’t want to burn out,”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” Rod grinned, “I’d better get going – see you at the faculty meeting later?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Ashley grimaced.

Rod just laughed at her disgruntled face, lifting his hand in a wave as he left the room. As she packed the rest of her belongings, Ashley couldn’t help but to think over Rod’s words. Was she in danger of a burn-out? Surely not, so early on in her career? Maybe she did need more of a balance in her life…but how?

*

Another Sunday, another early morning. Sure, Ashley could give herself a lie in every now and again, but that would mean not being able to relax on her Sunday evening, to not have the chance to unwind and reset before the working week starts up again on Monday morning. Spending all weekend in her little 2 bed house wouldn’t do her any good, even as comforting as she’d made it.

Besides, Storm Surge coffee shop was such a part of her routine now, that it would feel wrong to not go in at her usual time. Seeing Andrei the morning barista, Marty the supervisor and Jaccob the baker (who occasionally popped his head out) always made her happy – and as Rod said only a couple of days ago, she needed to make sure she actually kept a balance in her life.

So, as always, just after 7am, Ashley walked through the coffee shop door. She’d skipped eating any breakfast this morning, intent on getting one of the shop’s amazing scones fresh out of the oven, and as soon as she spotted her favourite blueberry-lemon scones in the display, something in her chest settled. Yes, this was exactly why she came every week. This feeling of home.

“Good morning Ashley! Your usual latte?”

Ashley smiled at Andrei, nodding. “Yes please. And one of the blueberry-lemon scones!”

Andrei smiled even wider, if that was possible, and immediate set about inputting her order into the cash register. It was then that she noticed something new on Andrei’s nametag. A pink sparkly kitten sticky. Huh. That was new.

“Nice sticker,” she teased.

“Very sparkly, no? Marty gave it to me,” Andre nodded.

“Oh, Marty did huh?” Ashley grinned.

Interestingly, Andrei blushed. She knew she hadn’t been imagining things. The poor Russian guy just blushed harder, spluttering incoherently, until Ashley took pity on him. It wasn’t like she could be mean to Andrei – he was just too adorable.

“I think the sticker is really cute, Andrei. It was sweet of Marty to give it to you,” Ashley said with a fond smile.

“Thank you! I will tell Marty you like it,” Andrei beamed.

Bless him.

Andrei handed her a scone on a plate, allowing her to go to her usual table in the back corner, setting up her laptop while she waited for her coffee to be ready. She heard a door out the back open, and Andrei quickly slipped away, making her smile.

“AHHHHHHHHHH MR SVECHNIKOV!”

Marty. Ashley just giggled, shaking her head before putting her earphones in for her background music. Yeah, this coffee shop definitely felt like home.

She quickly got lost in writing her lecture notes, going off on tangents that she knew she’d have to rein in later when she edited. It was a full hour before she even looked away from her screen, only to see the shop busy and bustling, every single table full. What the hell? She looked over to see both Andrei and Marty working the counter, only confirming her suspicions that they really had gotten busy while she was lost in her thoughts. Wow. Full at 8am was a new one for sure. Maybe a convention of some kind?

And it was then that she saw Tall Cute Guy walk in. Today he was wearing a pretty blue sweater, bring out the beautiful blue in his eyes, making her smile on instinct. So cute. But then she noticed him being given just the one coffee…he was planning on drinking in, and there were no tables? No!

It made her heart clench to watch him looking around the coffee shop, becoming more and more disheartened…until he noticed her. Maybe, could she, yes. Ashley bit her bottom lip but tilted her head towards the empty chair at her table, earning the biggest smile. She actually did it. She actually offered him the chair at her table. Shit. Her heart started beating faster as he walked over, and she took her earphones out as he came to a stop next to her seat, looming over her.

“I, uh…do you mind if I sit with you?” he asked softly.

Huh. Such a gentle voice on such a big man. Yeah she could totally handle this.

“Please, go ahead,” Ashley nodding, smiling as she waved her hand to indicate, “it’s so busy in here today,”

Oh no. Was that too forward, acknowledging that they’re both regulars?

“Definitely busier than usual, eh?” he mused, “I’ll try not to disturb your work, I’ll only be here for about an hour,”

Ashley laughed, but shook her head. She was just glad he hadn’t been weirded-out by her acknowledgement. That would’ve been so awkward. Her stomach was filled with enough butterflies as it was. “You won’t disturb me, I promise. Sit as long as you like,”

He smiled widely at her, pulling out the chair opposite and sitting down, Ashley just quickly shuffling her papers out of the way for him. He nodded his thanks at her, pulling a paperback book out of his satchel. Then he cleared his throat, so she looked up at him curiously.

“I’m Dougie, by the way,” he said, almost a little shy.

Dougie. That was a nice name. Oh, wow, she finally knew his name! Ashley couldn’t help but smile at him. “I’m Ashley,”

He smiled back at her. “It’s nice to meet you properly,” he said happily.

Ashley just laughed, nodding as she blushed lightly. To have him acknowledge their smiling-from-a-distance definitely sparked something inside of her. Nice to finally meet him indeed.

They sat in comfortable silence, Ashley typing up her tangent notes so far for the morning, and she couldn’t help the feeling of contentment that sat in her chest. The cute guy she’d been smiling at for a year was sitting at her table with her…and it wasn’t awkward at all. In fact, it was really quite nice. And he’d introduced himself!

No, cool it, keep calm Ashley. No-one got anywhere by acting like a giddy schoolgirl. Play it cool.

That promised hour flew by far too quickly. Every now and again she would glance up and find his eyes on her. Every now and again she would glance up only for him to look up and catching her looking. Every time she would blush. Every time he would send her a wonderful smile. But all too soon her table companion was standing up and putting his book in his bag.

“Um…”

Ashley looked up from her work at him, a smile naturally spreading across her face at his nervous expression. Why was he nervous?

“Yes, Dougie?” she said softly, smiling at a little more at finally getting to say his name.

Dougie. Dougie. Dougie.

“I’ll see you soon?” he said, almost hopefully.

“I’ll be here,” she nodded.

Oh god. Well that was stupid. Of course she’d be here. Why couldn’t she just act smoothly for once in her life?

But then Dougie smiled, such a happy little smile that it made her breath catch in her throat.

“Until next time then,” Dougie murmured, “Bye, Ashley,”

“Bye,” she breathed, watching him walk way.

Well, that could’ve been worse. What a Sunday.

*

Things felt different after that fateful Sunday. Dougie (she knew his name!) hadn’t sat down with her again, or even sat in the shop again yet, but now…now he always made a point of waving at her, waiting until she had waved back to smile. Those waves sent her into even more of a tizzy, a light blush always on her cheeks, and she couldn’t help but cherish them. Maybe it was a bit pathetic, but he was so handsome and he noticed her. It didn’t hurt to pretend it was more than friendly acknowledgement, right? A girl could dream at least.

It was only Wednesday today, but that meant only one thing. Her weekly phone call with her mom. Knowing Susan Miller, Ashley could picture exactly what her mom was doing. Her phone would be propped up on speakerphone while she pottered around the kitchen, finishing off making dinner while also planning what desserts to bake at the weekend. Her mom led a simple life, a retired teacher herself (although she’d taught at the local elementary school rather than ever leaving town), but it was a happy life. And it was these phone calls that were the only thing that made Ashley miss home.

Nothing was the same as a hug from her mom with a slice of homemade apple pie. But those were the sacrifices she made for her love of Medieval History. They never stayed on the for more than half an hour, but it was just enough to fill Ashley’s heart, at least for a little while.

“And I swear, if he doesn’t stop leaving those nasty cigar butts on the front porch, I’m going to whoop some sense into him!”

“You’ve been saying this for over 20 years mom – I don’t think dad is going to change at this point,” Ashley mused, rolling her eyes fondly.

Her dad had been set in his ways for as long as she could remember. Nothing was going to change that, not even a little nagging from the love of his life.

“Yes, well, he could at least clean up after himself,”

Her parents really were ridiculous human beings – but they loved each other, and that was all that mattered. Even if her dad didn’t clean up his cigar butts.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you weren’t complaining about his cigar butts,” Ashley grinned. “Maybe threaten not to make that corned beef hash he likes. That might help,”

The laughter that flowed down the phone made her smile even more. Fuck she missed hearing her mom’s laugh in person.

“Oh I miss you sweetpea. Are you sure you’re okay down there by yourself?”

“Yes mom, you know I love my work and my life down here,” Ashley said, sighing softly.

Here we go again.

“I just worry about you rattling around in that old house by yourself!”

Rude. It wasn’t that old.

“I promise I’m fine!” Ashley insisted.

Her mom stayed silent, making Ashley bite her lip to stop herself getting frustrated. Her mom would come out with it eventually…

“I worry about you being lonely, that’s all. You’re such an introvert, you always have been,”

And there it was.

“How could I be lonely mom? I have great colleagues that I talk with. And I’m around students all day and I interact all the time with them! And the baristas at my coffee shop know me by name and we chat too,” Ashley listed.

“The baristas don’t count, Ash,”

Poor Andrei. He definitely counted. Ashley couldn’t help but giggle at the sigh in her mom’s voice though. “Okay maybe not, but there is a guy that I’ve talked to,”

“Ooh a guy?”

Oh no. Oh what had she done? She had to nip this in the bud now.

“No, mom, not like that, just a friendly face to wave at,” Ashley insisted.

Dougie’s shy smiles filled her mind, but she shook her head. Now was not the time.

“Oh boo, you should work on changing that,”

Hah. If only.

“You’re impossible, mom,” Ashley sighed fondly.

“I love you too darling,”

*

Today he was going to do it. Today Dougie was going to get to Storm Surge coffee shop a little early, get his americano to drink in…and hopefully sit with Ashley again. Ever since that amazing Sunday morning where she offered him a seat at her table (she offered him!), he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. He could kick himself for not being able to do more than wave at her the past three Sundays, but even just the few smiles he seen in passing since have blown him away. Especially with that cute little blush she always had when she waved back at him.

But today he was coming in an hour before he had to get to work, just to have that chance to sit with her and talk with her. Was it a little desperate? Sure. But Dougie never claimed to be anything other than desperate to get to know the beautiful woman he’d only ever seen in passing until now. His schedule didn’t usually allow him the chance – every Sunday the North Carolina Museum of Art opened from 10-5, and he usually got there just after 9 with coffee for him and Jordie, but every fourth Sunday Jordie came in a little later, so Dougie took the time to sit in and read a little before heading into work…and it was the fourth Sunday today. He could only hope that all the nerves and butterflies would be worth it.

Oh fuck, what if she wasn’t even there?

No, she would be. She always was. Enough stalling.

Still…

Dougie walked into Storm Surge with a little ball of nervous anxiety in his chest, praying that Ashley wouldn’t stray from her routine, until he looked over into the back corner…and there she was. He waited until Ashley looked up at him to wave at her, earning a sweet smile and a wave back. Wow, her blush really was so sweet.

“Dougie! You must be drinking in today, yes?”

He snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of Andrei’s voice, quickly nodding. “Yeah just the usual americano, thanks,”

“You got it,” Andrei nodded, beaming at him.

Dougie quickly paid and moved to the end of the counter to wait for his coffee. The shop was only half-full at this time in the morning, unlike last month, so he didn’t have the excuse of busy tables. Maybe…he could just walk up to her, right? He could take that chance, right? Yeah, he could do this.

“Here you go!” Andrei said cheerfully.

“Thanks,” Dougie murmured.

The barista gave him a strange look at his distracted tone, and Dougie knew that Andrei was watching as he walked over to Ashley’s table…but here goes nothing. He could totally do this. He was an adult. He paid his taxes on time and everything. He could definitely ask a pretty woman if he could sit with her again.

“Hey, Ashley,”

She looked up from her laptop with a bright smile, making his breath catch in his throat.

“Dougie! Hi!” she said happily.

She remembered his name! Wow. No, focus.

“Do you, um…do you mind if I sit with you again?” Dougie asked.

Oh god, why couldn’t he just sound cool for once in his life? Why did he always have to be the least smooth version of himself that he could possibly be?

Ashley took one look around at all the empty tables and blushed even more, before she bit her lip and nodded. “Sure, go for it,”

That was a good sign, right?

Dougie sat down with a nervous smile, putting his coffee gently on the table.

“So, um, how have you been?”

Ashley looked surprised (oh god, was she only being polite before?) before that melted into a pleased look. Okay, he could work with that.

“I’ve been pretty good thanks, yeah. I’m just revising the list of essay topics that I’m giving my students on Monday, so not too much work to do today thankfully,” she said, “How about you?”

“I’ve been alright yeah. Work has been a little nuts with the new exhibition at the museum but it’s all come together really well!” Dougie said, beaming. What? Could a man not be excited about artwork? “what do you teach?”

Ashley smiled shyly, looking a little hesitant again. Dougie couldn’t help but frown a little. Had people made her feel awkward about her work before? That wasn’t okay! “I’m a Medieval History professor at University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. My general focus is on the power of Medieval queens, but I teach everything from the expansion of medieval Europe to love in the middle ages, as well as on the general medieval and early modern history modules. I did my undergraduate and masters degrees at NYU, but I moved down here for the PhD opportunity. It’s now my second full year teaching and I just…I love it so much,”

A PhD?! Holy shit, that’s impressive. Wow. Just…wow. How could she be any more perfect?

“That’s incredible!” was all that Dougie could say.

“You don’t have to pretend, I know having a PhD isn’t exactly the coolest thing in the world, especially in medieval history,” Ashley mused.

Well it was definitely pretty fucking cool to him, no matter what other people had ever said to her. “I’m definitely not pretending, I promise. Medieval history is fascinating,” he insisted.

Ashley pursed her lips like she didn’t believe him, making Dougie laugh.

“I’m serious! I may not have a PhD but my masters thesis was a specialism in Rembrandt’s work. I’m a total art history nerd – 14th-17th century in particular,” Dougie explained.

Come on, let the nerdiness pay off for once…

Her face immediately lightened, her mouth forming into a surprised ‘o’, making him laugh again. At least, he hoped it was a good surprise?

“One of the classes I’ll be teaching next semester is Italian Renaissance and European History to 1650,” she murmured.

Holy shit. What a match up.

“Told you I wasn’t pretending to be interested,” Dougie grinned, “I’d definitely love to learn more about that class when you start it,”

Ashley blushed again, but her nervous smile had shifted into a full beaming smile, and his heart could only just about take it. Then she froze slightly, blinking, as if she’d forgotten something. What?

“Sorry, did you say museum earlier?” Ashley said suddenly, “like, you work at a museum?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m an associate curator at the North Carolina Museum of Art,” Dougie nodded.

He did his best not to puff out his chest in pride. He’d worked damned hard on his career and he was proud of it.

“I just…wow, I wouldn’t have expected it,”

Dougie laughed, raising an eyebrow at her sheepish smile.

“A guy who looks like you, like such an athlete’s build…oh god, sorry, that’s so rude of me,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands.

But Dougie just laughed, shaking his head. “Believe me, it’s far from the first time I’ve heard that,”

And never with such appreciation of his body either…

Look, he knew how the world perceived him on first glance. Tall, muscled guy, blonde hair and blue eyes, probably an all-american jock right? How he loved proving them wrong.

“Still doesn’t make it okay,” Ashley winced, “so I’m sorry,”

“Apology accepted,” Dougie mused, “I love my work, so it’s fun surprising people. Especially people with similar interests,”

Ashley bit her lip again but nodded and smiled, tilting her head to show she was listening. Wow, he could definitely get used to her looking at him with this much interest.

“Like I said, I’m an associate curator at the North Carolina Museum of Art. I’m actually Canadian, but I finished my masters degree in Boston and went straight into working at the MFA, but after working on a brief project in Calgary, I realised I wanted to work more in my specialist interests, y’know? So I applied for a role at the Museum of Art here, and became the associate curator of European Art. It’s…it’s everything I could’ve wished for, when I was studying,”

Dougie took a sip of his coffee while Ashley processed that flood of information, hoping he hadn’t come across too strong. People really did tend to zone out when he talked about his work…but hopefully because she also had an interest in European history and art, she wouldn’t be put off?

“I can definitely relate to following and achieving my passions for a niche subject,” Ashley grinned, “and I love that you love it so much. It’s rare, to find someone who gets such genuine joy out of their work. Even though work can sometimes be super stressful,”

“Stressful, but worth it. Especially when a new exhibition comes together so well,” Dougie agreed.

“Oh?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dougie licked his bottom lip, trying not to look too nervous. This exhibition is such a big deal, and it had been such a lot of work. He could get a little excited about it now, right?

“Yeah, I’ve been working solidly for the past few months on the new exhibition – it’s opening next weekend. It’s a collection of Italian Renaissance Art,” Dougie said, a little hesitant.

Hesitant…because maybe that was a bit flashy? Did it sound like he was bragging? He really hoped not – not just because he was so proud of his work but he genuinely did want to excite Ashley…

“Oh no way! Really?” Ashley gasped.

Dougie bit his lips to control his grin. Oh thank fuck. Finally, someone he could actually impress with his love of art history. “Yeah, last quarter the museum acquired over 30 paintings from the 14th century from various collectors and this will be the first time they’ve all been together in the same room,”

“I bet they’ll be so beautiful all together after so long,” Ashley said, her voice a little wistful.

Wistful? He could fix that. Maybe. Yes, this was the perfect opportunity…

“Maybe we could…I know this might feel a little soon, but I’m…

Dougie trailed off with a frustrated groan, making Ashley giggle. For once, just once, let him be smooth! He took a deep breath, before trying again.

“Would you like to come to the exhibition opening with me?” he asked softly.

Ashley’s jaw dropped slightly, but she quickly nodded, making Dougie’s heartbeat kick up a notch. “Really?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got a plus one as the associate curator, and there’s no-one else I could imagine going with. I think you’d love it,” Dougie explained, “and I’d love to show you the artwork,”

Was that too desperate?

“I’d…wow, I’d love to go with you,” Ashley said, her expression shy but pleased.

Shy but pleased. He could work with that.

“Great, it’s a date!”

Oh God. Dougie could only freeze…but then Ashley smiled. Huh, maybe not so cringey?

“A date huh? I’d love that too,” Ashley said shyly.

Oh thank fuck. Ashley just giggled at Dougie’s blush.

“Give me your number and I’ll text you the details?” Dougie suggested, trying to salvage at least a little bit of his dignity.

As Ashley took his phone from him and entered her phone number, Dougie could only sit in shocked silence. He’d done it. He’d actually asked her on a date. On a date where he could impress her with a topic they both loved so much. All he had to do now was not fuck it up.

That wouldn’t be so hard, right?

*

Ashley had been in a little bit of a daze when Dougie had left for work. He’d asked her on a date. On a date! And they’d exchanged numbers, Dougie having sent her a little smiley face so she had his number in return. She was just thankful that there wasn’t much work for her to do that day – there was no way she wouldn’t been able to focus otherwise.

And then throughout the week, they’d started exchanging cute little messages. Just sweet little things, like how was your day? and look how cute this dog is and I had the loudest school tour group come through the museum today and which of these texts is going to give me the worst teacher rating? – it was all silly and sweet and fun, and Ashley couldn’t remember the last time that the potential of a relationship had excited her so much.

There was just something about Dougie that made her heart beat a little faster every time she thought of him. It was bad enough when he would smile at her in passing in Storm Surge…but now, with every little text, she felt herself smiling even more than she could’ve imagined, like a giddy little schoolgirl with a first crush.

Because at the moment, it really was just a crush. They hadn’t gone out on their first date yet – in reality, they’d only sat together twice, with one of those times essentially being the exchange of their names. They’d only had one conversation in person. And the texts were so sweet and lovely…but they were just texts. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself and get her hopes up, you know? God knows that had happened enough times.

She couldn’t help but hope that finally, she had met someone with real potential. Dougie made it easy to hope.

Ashley supposed that their first date would be the real test of whether she’d just built up all the excitement of Tall Cute Guy in that coffee shop fantasy in her head, or whether he was the real deal. Their conversation in person on Sunday had been such a good start, but fuck please make him the real deal.

Was it really that much to ask?

Finally Friday rolled around and she was finished with work for the week. Well, mostly. Ashley had just come out of a bi-monthly faculty meeting and just had to check some emails before she could go home for the weekend (and to shave her legs because she found the cutest dress for her date on Saturday) – but as she got to her office, she noticed that Rod had stopped in the doorway, waving to some of their colleagues as they strolled past. Hmm.

“So…you’re looking incredibly chipper for someone who just got out of a tedious faculty meeting,” Rod teased, leaning against her doorframe.

Ashley just laughed, rolling her eyes fondly as she sat at her desk. “I don’t know why you complain so much – you’re the one who runs them,”

“Not through choice, I promise that,” Rod mused, shaking his head, “But you are looking extra cheerful today. Just feeling a little nosy, I guess,”

Ashley bit her bottom lip, hesitating. Should she tell him about her date? It’s not like Rod was a gossip…and it’s not like she had a whole host of friends to tell…

“I may or may not have a date tomorrow night,” Ashley eventually admitted.

His eyes immediately lit up. Oh God.

“Ooh a date, exciting!” Rod gasped dramatically, fanning himself like a southern belle.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Ashley giggled. That could’ve gone worse – but his excitement definitely lit up the butterflies in her stomach all over again.

Rod just laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m just glad you’re giving someone a chance to sweep you off your feet,” he teased, “Who is he and where is he taking you?”

“He’s a guy I met in that coffee shop I go to on a Sunday, and he’s taking me to the new Italian Renaissance exhibition at the North Carolina Museum of Art,” she explained.

And she couldn’t wait.

“A cultured guy or a try hard?” he smirked.

“A cultured guy,” Ashley giggled, rolling her eyes, “he’s actually the associate curator who worked on setting up the exhibition,”

“Don’t we all love a man who knows his history, even if it is art,” Rod grinned, winking dramatically, earning another giggle, “Let me know how the exhibition is - I know my wife would love to go if it’s any good,”

“I’ll give you a full review on Monday,” Ashley agreed, nodding.

“And a full review of your date,” Rod grinned.

“Okay, out, out. I need to finish these emails before I leave,” Ashley laughed.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Rod mused, “If you need anything, even an escape clause tomorrow night, send me a text, okay?”

Her heart softened a little at his kind gesture, and she found herself nodding. “I don’t think it’ll come to that, but thank you, I appreciate it,”

“Any time,” Rod nodded.

Ashley bit her bottom lip to hide her grin as he shut the door behind him on the way out, and the butterflies in her stomach were still there. Saturday night couldn’t come soon enough.

*

Tonight was the night. Ashley only had a few minutes left before her uber arrived to pick her up to take her to the museum, and she couldn’t resist having a final glance in the mirror by her front door. She’d had a little panic over what the hell the dress code would be for a gallery opening, but after Dougie confirmed it wasn’t black tie, just formal dress, Ashley had consulted with some of her college friends (who were buzzing about the fact that she was actually going on a date), and decided that a midi cocktail dress was the way to go.

And she’d found the perfect one.

The dress she’d picked out in a local boutique was a beautiful forest green colour, complimenting her dark hair and hazel eyes perfectly. It fell to the middle of her shins, as her friends had recommended, and had thick shoulders straps, no sleeves but a neckline with a deep enough v that it should a little cleavage (classy cleavage of course, very sophisticated in her opinion). Her favourite part though was the Marilyn Monroe-esque twirl to the skirt – something she’d tested out several times already – and she just felt glamorous in it. She’d straightened her usually-messy hair and put on a little make-up too, to match the effort she was making with the dress. To be honest, Ashley felt beautiful, and she honestly couldn’t wait to see Dougie’s reaction. It was a hell of a lot different to her usual Sunday Storm Surge outfits, that’s for sure.

Soon enough, her uber was pulling up outside of the Museum of Art, and she thanked the driver as she got out. Thankfully, Dougie was already waiting at the top of the steps for her, and the smile that he sent her way made her breath catch in her throat. Ashley took the time to check him out as she walked up towards him, and she felt those butterflies start up again. He was wearing a gorgeous navy blue suit with a white shirt and grey tie, bringing out the colour of his eyes beautifully, and the stunned expression on his face as he looked at her made her blush a little. That was a good reaction, right?

“Wow. You look…amazing,” Dougie murmured, looking her up and down with awe.

Definitely a good reaction.

“You look really good too,” she grinned.

Dougie grinned back at her, before offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

Ashley fought not to squeal as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. What a smooth move. “Lead the way,”

Dougie walked her inside, picking up a glass of champagne each after they dropped their jackets off. Then they were off. The two of them wandered around through the exhibition, Dougie guiding her and giving her the most indepth information she could’ve possibly hoped for. She’d never had such a personal tour like this, and he was so shy yet so knowledgeable that she couldn’t help but to drink up every word. This was what she had hoped for out of tonight, that passion coming through Dougie, and she was receiving it tenfold.

“This one is one of my favourites. Batoni’s The Triumph of Venice. There’s just so much going on, and I swear I notice something different every time I look at it,”

Ashley looked at the painting, taking in the many figures, the details, the colours, and couldn’t help but smile. It truly was a masterpiece.

“Oil on canvas? Maybe…early 1700s?” she guessed.

“Fuck that’s hot,” Dougie breathed.

He immediately flushed bright red, making Ashley giggle. Good to know that her vague art history knowledge was paying off. And that she could make him react like that…

“I love all the finessed detail in this one. Especially on the carriage – it’s exquisite,” Ashley murmured, looking back at it.

“Isn’t it?” Dougie grinned.

Ashley squeezed his arm gently, smiling up at him, earning a happy smile back. He was so clearly in his element, and she was loving every second. The way his entire face lit up when he talked about art…there was something just so beautiful in that. Those beautiful blue eyes were even more alive than ever, that spark of passion adding such a gorgeous element, and she really wanted to see more of it. That was a good sign, right? That she was already imagining more.

They moved on to the next painting, and Ashley’s breath caught in her throat. Wow.

“And this…this is the star of the collection. Giotto’s Peruzzi Altarpiece, the only complete altarpiece by the artist outside of Italy,”

Her jaw dropped a little. That was a big deal. “The only one?”

“The only one,” Dougie nodded.

“Holy shit,” Ashley mumbled, eyes wide.

Dougie grinned at her. “My sentiments exactly,”

“All of that gold. So much gold. And the details in their faces. Holy shit,” Ashley murmured.

“One of my favourite frescos, and I get to see it every day,” Dougie sighed happily.

“Well count me as jealous,” Ashley teased, nudging him with her shoulder.

Dougie just smiled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. He was just so cute.

“Would you, um…would you like a new drink?”

“Sure, another couldn’t hurt,” she nodded.

It’s not like she drank champagne that often after all. And it was a special occasion…

They stayed in the museum for another hour, looking over some of the art again as well as mingling with Dougie’s colleagues (including a mostly silent guy Dougie introduced as ‘Foegs’, who gave Dougie a double thumbs up when he thought she wasn’t looking, and a very enthusiastic big blonde man named Jordie, who she learned was Dougie’s boss – which, wow). Their conversation just flowed, and the doubts that she’d had earlier were easily shoved to the back of her mind.

She’d never thought it would feel so natural spending the evening arm-in-arm with a guy, but Dougie had just blown her away.

All too soon, it was time to leave the museum though, and while Dougie got their jackets, Ashley opened her phone to request an uber. 5 minutes away. Perfect.

“I had a really great time tonight,” Dougie murmured, when they were waiting outside.

His own uber was only a couple of minutes behind hers.

“Me too,” Ashley admitted, smiling up at him, “Thank you for inviting me,”

“There’s no-one else I would’ve wanted to take. I just glad you enjoyed it,” Dougie smiled back.

“I enjoyed spending time with you. The exhibition was just a bonus,” she said softly, looking up at him through her lashes.

Holy shit she just flirted. Blatantly flirted. Too much?

But then Dougie blushed a little, before a small smirk spread across his lips. “Yeah?”

Ashley just bit her lip, nodding. Dougie’s blue eyes flashed a little darker, sending a hot jolt running through her body. Oh wow. Just like that huh. But then her phone buzzed, the uber car pulling up to the curb, breaking her out of her thoughts just before they started to spiral.

Calm down Ashley, it’s only the first date!

She waved at the uber driver to signal that she’d seen him before turning back to Dougie. “See you tomorrow?” Ashley asked hopefully.

“Yeah, I’ll be starting work a little later on the one off, as it was the exhibition opening tonight,” Dougie nodded, “I’ll be there,”

Ashley grinned at him, before leaning up and pressing a kiss to his cheek, laughing softly as his jaw dropped.

“Bye, Dougie,” she said softly, walking over to the car.

“Bye,” she heard him murmur, just as she closed the door.

“Hot date?” the uber driver teased.

“The hottest,” she grinned back.

That earned her a laugh, and she couldn’t help but smile as the driver pulled away from the curb. Ashley glanced out of the window, only to see that Dougie hadn’t moved at all – other than his fingers brushing over where she’d kissed his cheek, a hopeless smile on his face.

What a first date indeed.

*

To: Ashley

From: Rod

So how did the date go?

~

To: Rod

From: Ashley

The exhibition was incredible. You need to take your wife, for real.

~

To: Ashley

From: Rod

I actually meant the guy but sure…

~

To: Rod

From: Ashley

He was a perfect gentleman and…amazing.

You’ll get your full gossip on Monday.

~

To: Ashley

From: Rod

Boo fine.

I’m glad you had a good time though!

See you on Monday

*

 “I had a really great time tonight,”

“Me too,”

“I had a really great time tonight,”

“Me too,”

“I had a really great time tonight,”

“Me too,”

Wasn’t the saying that if things seemed too good to be true, then they probably were not?

Ashley had gone to bed feeling over the moon, elated, bubbling with excitement. But when she’d woken up, it was like a dark cloud had settled over her, a heavy rock of anxiety sitting on her chest. Everything had gone so well last night. So well. Too well? This wasn’t the first time that she’d gotten her hopes up only to have things fall apart around her – and her hopes had skyrocketed last night. All she felt was like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it made her feel sick.

That niggling negativity had swum around her brain over and over again, and she hadn’t been able to shut it off – not when she showered, not when she got dressed, and not when she sat on the sofa debating whether or not to actually turn up at the coffee shop.

Was this really what things had come down to? Tempted to break her solid routine, the exact routine she’d had every week, just because a guy made her nervous? Was he really that important? Was she really that much of a coward?

She sat on the sofa so long that she passed the time she would normally leave. Hell, she passed the time she would normally be sitting down at her usual table. Oh god she couldn’t take this. It was too much. Her legs bounced nervously as she pulled up the message thread she had with him, typing out a message to cancel…

…and then she deleted it.

Fuck that shit. No matter how anxious this whole dating thing made her feel, nothing was worth this. She couldn’t just not show up, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t her. Fuck this. As quickly as she could, Ashley grabbed her laptop and her handbag, driving as fast as she could to Storm Surge.

When she parked her car, she noticed that she had a few texts from Dougie. Oh god.

~

To: Ashley

From: Dougie

Hey, I’m coming a little earlier than usual today!

~

To: Ashley

From: Dougie

Are you running late?

~

To: Ashley

From: Dougie

Are you coming?

~

Oh god. Ashley winced, practically running to the shop, immediately spotting Dougie at her usual table in the back. The sheer relief on his face made her wince again. Fuck. His expression dimmed at little, but she quickly ordered her usual latte from Andrei, who looked an interesting mix of confused and concerned, but she headed over to Dougie without hesitating.

“Hey, um, sorry I’m late,” she murmured, setting her coffee and her laptop down on the table.

Dougie frowned at her briefly, clearly taking in whatever the hell her face was showing.

“Is everything okay?” he asked softly.

Ashley bit her bottom lip, hesitating. Might as well tell him the truth, right?

“I, uh, I was second-guessing everything?”

“Second-guessing?” Dougie asked, frowning harder.

Ashley just sighed. “Yeah, um, it’s dumb. I just…it all seems too good to be true? I woke up feeling like I’d gotten my hopes up and…fuck, I’m sorry. I just feel stupid now,”

Looking up at Dougie’s sad face immediately made her regret telling the truth, but it was too late now. Fuck. Why did she have to ruin everything? The fact that he was staying silent just made everything worse. Should she just go?

“What do you want to do now then?” Dougie eventually asked “or do you not know?”

Ashley swallowed heavily, looking down at her hands briefly. Hah. The million dollar question. “I know that I like you?” she offered.

Dougie huffed a laugh. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to get mad if you don’t want to go on another date,” Dougie said with a sad smile.

Oh god that was worse. He should never sound that disheartened – it wasn’t right. And it was all her fault.

“Would you even want to go on a date with me again when I’m this much of an anxious mess?” Ashley sighed.

After last night, this really wasn’t where she’d seen her day going. Self-sabotage was a bitch. But it was her own damn fault. It always was. But then Dougie reached his hand forward, fingers brushing over hers lightly to get her attention, making her blush as he smiled a bit more genuinely.

“Yeah, I would like to,” he nodded, “I had a really great time yesterday night, and I still want more,”

Oh, so maybe she hadn’t ruined everything then. What? Well shit, she was grabbing this second chance with both hands.

“I had a great time too,” Ashley admitted, blushing a little bit more, “even with this stupid anxiety,”

“Good. That’s…that’s really good,” Dougie laughed, “well, not the anxiety part, but I’m going to prove to you that this isn’t just getting your hopes up,”

“I’d like that,” she murmured.

Dougie smiled at her, a truly genuine happiness, making her breath catch in her throat. Fuck she didn’t deserve this. But there was no way she was going to let herself ruin this, not now.

“Maybe we could just talk for a couple of hours before I have to go into work? Have some coffee, a couple of those delicious blueberry-lemon scones, and just see where things go?” Dougie suggested.

Ashley nodded, the tight ball in her chest immediately loosening. God, he was such a nice guy. “I’d definitely like to get to know you more,” she agreed.

“Scones are on me then,” Dougie grinned.

Hope. A second chance. Bring it on.

*

When Dougie eventually walked into work, his shared office had more people in it that he cared for. Well, okay, that was a little mean. But right now was not the best time for the combination of Jordie and Foegs as well as Sebastian and Teuvo, especially not when all four of them had met Ashley last night. Not when they were all so intense. Not while things were still so tentative.

“So, how did it go?” Jordie asked excitedly, “it looked like the two of you were having fun!”

And here we go.

“Well last night, at the exhibition, went really well, but…”

Jordie and Foegs frowned as he trailed off, Sebastian and Teuvo just looked confused. Dougie sighed and sat down heavily at his desk.

“She was really hesitant this morning. Like, so full of anxiety that she almost didn’t show up for coffee,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck awkwardly.

“What do you mean?” Jordie asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

“She thinks it’s too good to be true?” Dougie winced.

Foegs looked a little stunned, Jordie’s jaw dropping. But then Sebastian jumped to his feet from where he was sitting on Jordie’s desk.

“Well then you’ll just have to sweep her off her feet!” Sebastian said firmly.

Really? Dougie sent him an unimpressed look, but Sebastian’s pout stayed serious as Teuvo giggled.

“As much as I hate to say it, Sepe has a point,” Foegs shrugged, making Sebastian stick out his tongue at him, “the two of you looked like you’d really hit it off when we were all talking, and the fact that Ashley did meet you this morning means a little anxiety shouldn’t stand in the way,”

“Take her on another date. Wine and dine, man. It’s a classic for a reason,” Jordie added, nodding seriously.

Well shit, if Jordie was being serious then maybe it would work.

“Thanks guys,” Dougie murmured, smiling softly.

“Anything to land you the woman of your many dreams,” Jordie beamed.

Dougie just blushed. Sebastian wriggled his eyebrows, Teuvo just punching him on the arm. It was almost a nice moment.

He waited until Foegs, Sebastian and Teuvo had left to start working before he pulled his phone out, biting his bottom lip as he thought of what to say.

~

To: Ashley

From: Dougie

Hey, I’m glad I saw you today.

I hope you’re still doing okay.

How do you feel about getting dinner with me?

~

Dougie jiggled his leg nervously as he logged into his computer, waiting with baited breath for any reply.

And then eventually, his phone buzzed. Ashley. Thank god.

~

To: Dougie

From: Ashley

I’m alright thanks. That scone definitely helped ;)

I would love to get dinner with you.

~

Dougie couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. Good. This was good. They exchanged a few more messages, eventually figuring out that because of his next few late nights with the exhibition and her essays she had to mark, neither of them were really free until next Saturday. A whole week away again. Fuck. No, this was going to work. Dougie knew it was worth it – and if she needed him to text a lot over the next few days to remind her that he was all in, that he wasn’t just going to disappoint her like those other guys, then he absolutely would.

Wine and dine next Saturday. He could absolutely do this.

“Hey, what was the name of that place you took your wife out for date night a couple of weeks back?” Dougie asked, looking up at his boss.

Jordie’s face lit up. “Oh man, it was so good…”

*

As Dougie promised himself, they kept texting throughout the week. He told her fun stories from visitors to the exhibition. She told him silly comments her students made that she couldn’t respond to without laughing in class. He told her all about his time in Boston. She told him all about her time in New York. He sent her a picture of the cutest trio of dogs his neighbours adopted. She sent him a picture of a sunset that took her breath away. Things were…good. He was just glad that Ashley seemed as enthusiastic as she was before their first date.

All he could hope was that he was proving to her that he was different. That he was serious about giving their budding relationship a shot. He hadn’t bonded with someone as quickly as this, as deeply as this, ever – so he wanted to see where it went. The unknown with Ashley genuinely excited him, and he wanted her to feel the same excitement.

He could only try to be good enough to deserve her.

By the time Saturday rolled around, Dougie was a nervous wreck. He’d left work exactly on time for once, Jordie giving him a thump on the shoulder and Foegs a thumbs up (he mostly ignored Sebastian and Teuvo’s shimmies), racing home to change into a nice sweater and his favourite pair of smart jeans. Casual but like he cared about making an impression. That was what he was aiming for.

And then Ashley arrived 10 minutes early, just after he’d arrived himself, looking nervous but happy in the prettiest baby blue tea-dress he’d ever seen, with her hair curled and wearing a pretty pink lipstick. Wow.

“You look beautiful,” he blurted.

Oh god. Mr Smooth, again.

Ashley just blushed, smiling up at him. “Thank you. I love your sweater,”

Dougie blushed in return. What a pair they made.

“After you,” he said, opening the restaurant door for her.

As much as her anxiety had worried him, he was so glad he didn’t give up – she was absolutely worth it. They were lead to their table, Dougie being a bit extra and pulling out Ashley’s chair for her, but the giggle he got in return was what he was aiming for. Wine and dine. Sweep her off her feet. That’s all that he wanted to do, and if it was working then he wasn’t going to stop now.

“I was thinking we could split a bottle of wine tonight, if you want?” Dougie offered.

“Yeah that sounds good to me,” Ashley nodded, “Maybe a white wine?”

That was more than okay with him. Red wine made him a little…over the top? He definitely talked too much when he had red wine, he knew that much, and he wanted to save at least a little dignity tonight. Hopefully, at least.

The wine was ordered, and by the time they each had a cold glass of sauvignon blanc, Ashley looked as relaxed as Dougie felt. He could only hope the rest of this night turned out the same way.

“So did I tell you what one of Rod’s students said to him yesterday?”

Dougie grinned, shaking his head. “No you didn’t!”

Ashley grinned back. “Well…”

They talked for hours, sharing stories about their jobs, their interests, their families, not stopping when any of their three courses came, not hesitating even once. Nothing was awkward in the slightest – their conversation just flowed like they’d known each other for years, and Dougie’s heart was just so happy. This was everything he’d wanted for so long, someone he could truly been 100% himself with, and he couldn’t believe that she seemed as into him as he was into her.

How was this possible, after only two dates?

Time flew by so fast, too fast, and they did eventually have to leave their table, even as much as Dougie didn’t want the night to end. He just felt utterly consumed by her, completely and utterly lost in her very being, and he didn’t want this feeling to stop for anything.

It probably didn’t help that they’d split three bottles of wine though.

It wasn’t enough to make either of them sloppy drunk, not with the delicious food they’d eaten, but Ashley was definitely a bit more giggly than usual, and he was definitely smiling like an idiot.

“I wish your uber wasn’t on its way,” Dougie sighed, when they were outside.

“I’m actually not a far walk from here, so I was just going to walk home?”

At this time of night? Absolutely not! Ashley saw the look of indignation of his face and burst into laughter, making him blush (again). What? He wasn’t wrong for being worried about her getting home safely.

“You could always walk me home?” she suggested.

Oh. Oh. Oh yeah okay, he could do that.

“Yeah, definitely,” Dougie nodded quickly.

Dougie’s heart started beating a little faster as she looped her arm through his, and it was all he could do not to smile at her too helplessly. How did she manage to affect him like this? He’d never fallen so head over heels so quickly. And she seemed completely oblivious to how gone he was for her – in the most innocent of ways.

They walked slowly, leaning on each perhaps a little more than they would without the wine, but it just meant that they had more time for talking. Dougie was blissfully happy to let Ashley rant about the indignity of the black myth surrounding Eleanor of Aquitaine, taking in everything that she was trying to teach him. He loved how much she loved her medieval history, just like he loved his art. It was quirky and different and so unique to her. And honestly, he could picture them doing this together for years, discussing their passions and their love for their careers and…

“Okay this is me,” Ashley announced, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Dougie looked up at the old two-storey home with a smile. So this was her home. Pretty.

“That wasn’t so bad a walk,” Dougie grinned.

“I feel bad now though, making you get further away for your own journey,” Ashley frowned.

But Dougie shook his head. “It’s fine really. I’m sure there are plenty of ubers still running around here,”

“Well…”

Ashley trailed off, biting her lip, making Dougie smile. What was on her mind?

“You can stay, if you want?” Ashley said, a shy smile on her face.

Oh fuck. Stay? Ashley saw the shock on his face, before she blushed furiously, quickly shaking her head.

“I have a spare bedroom! I swear I didn’t mean it like that,” she groaned, covering her face with her hands.

Dougie couldn’t help but laugh, tugging her hands away gently. Not that he was opposed to…sharing a bed with her, but that wasn’t the vibe of tonight. Tonight was for building them up, getting them to a more comfortable level. And fuck did it feel good tonight.

Waking up to see her first thing in the morning would only be icing on the cake.

“I would love to stay, as long as you don’t mind,” he said softly, brushing his hand against hers.

Ashley inhaled sharply but nodded, wordlessly reaching in her handbag for her keys. They stayed silent as they walked into the house, Dougie barely moving a foot away from her as she showed him the kitchen, the bathroom and then the spare bedroom. He could do a proper tour in the morning, he knew that. He was just a little stunned that he was even still with her, to be honest.

“So here’s some basketball shorts that my cousin left last time he visited. I don’t have a shirt big enough for you though,” she apologised, handing him a soft bundle.

Dougie just shook his head, smiling. “This is more than enough. I usually sleep shirtless anyway,”

Ashley’s lips parted a little in surprise, her eyes glazing over slightly, making Dougie grin as she shook her head as if to clear it. Good to know he had that effect on her.

“There are spare toothbrushes under the sink from when I last when to the dentist’s office, so help yourself to whatever one?” she offered.

Dougie just nodded, squeezing her hand as he walked into the bathroom. He willed himself to retain at least a little bit of chill as he got changed, quickly washing his face and cleaning his teeth with one of the toothbrushes she’d offered. This was all still a little bit surreal, being honest. But he was going to seize this with both hands – this was a chance he was never going to get again if he fucked up.

Ashley couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him as they swapped places in the bathroom, and Dougie tried not to grin as he flexed his abs a little, making her blush. He could have a little fun, right? Especially since he knew the boundaries he needed to stay behind, he wasn’t dumb.

By the time he’d put his phone on charge and folded his clothes onto a chair for tomorrow, and then headed back out into the corridor, Ashley was back, dressed in a cute little pair of shorts and a giant t-shirt. Oh wow, he could definitely imagine her wearing his t-shirt to bed one day. No, not the time!

“Hey,”

Ashley’s voice brought him out of his thoughts, and he couldn’t help but smile down at her.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“See you in the morning?” she said hopefully.

Like fuck he was going to leave. “Bright and early,” he nodded.

But when she didn’t go anywhere, her hand moving to rest on his bare arm, Dougie couldn’t stop himself from stepping towards her. Fuck. She inhaled sharply, but didn’t push him away, and that was all he needed.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked lowly.

Ashley’s lips parted in a soft gasp, but she nodded. “Yeah, please,”

Dougie raised a hand to cup her face, giving her one last out, but as she raised up on her tiptoes he didn’t hesitate any further. He leant his head down, and pressed his lips to hers softly, barely able to stop the moan that wanted to tear from his throat. Holy shit. Ashley clutched at his biceps, leaning up into the kiss even more, making Dougie’s head spin as he kissed her softly, slowly, over and over again. This was so not what he expected from tonight, or even hoped for, but fuck did it fill his body with butterflies. Holy shit, kissing her was everything. Eventually, he brushed his tongue against hers gently, before pulling away, knowing there was a stupid smile on his face.

“Wow,” he breathed.

“Wow,” she nodded, laughing softly, “That’s one hell of a goodnight,”

Dougie laughed softly too, pecking her lips in a soft kiss one last time before stepping away. She leaned against the wall, looking a little stunned, making him grin as he walked into her spare bedroom. If he didn’t walk away, he knew he would do something stupid to break them out of this perfect little sweet bubble, and that wasn’t what he wanted. Not tonight.

Tonight had been perfect. 

*

Ashley woke up slowly, a little groggy, feeling like she was forgetting something. Then she heard the bathroom door opening, and everything came flooding back to her. Dougie was here. He’d stayed over after their date last night. They’d kissed. Holy shit. Holy shit. She took a deep breath to calm herself, fingers rising to her lips without a second thought, and it was all she could do to smile.

Dougie had kissed her. And it was everything.

She squealed softly into her pillow, feeling stupidly giddy, before quickly picking out a cute jumper and her comfiest skinny jeans to wear. She could hear him moving in the spare bedroom, so she quickly darted into the bathroom, washing and then brushing her teeth, unable to stop the smile that spread across her face at the sight of the toothbrush that Dougie used resting in the holder. There was just something about it that felt right.

She took a deep breath, running her hands down her sweater to smooth it, before she headed out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. It didn’t take long for Dougie to join her, and he accepted the glass of juice that she passed him with a smile.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

“Good morning,” she said softly back.

Dougie seemed to hesitate slightly, before his face became determined. She didn’t have time to ask him what was wrong before he leant down and pressed his lips to hers in a firm kiss. Ashley whimpered softly into his mouth, earning a soft noise back, and it was all she could do to clutch at his sweater. Holy shit. This was just as incredible and sweet as she remembered from last night. Wow. Dougie cupped her face with his free hand, thumb brushing over her cheekbone as he slowed the kiss down to a few gentle pecks, before he pulled away with a smile. Ashley just smiled back up at him, a little overwhelmed in the best way. Wow.

“Coffee shop?” he said.

“Yeah, if that’s alright,” she nodded.

He understood her routines. And he didn’t care that she wanted to stick to them. How could she not appreciate that?

Dougie just nodded in response, smiling as he sat down at her kitchen table, taking a sip of the juice she’d given him. “I wouldn’t mind changing out of last night’s clothes though. Not really my vibe,” he teased.

Ashley giggled, understanding perfectly. It wasn’t her vibe either.

“I could drive you over to yours, to get a change of clothes, and then we could head to Storm Surge together?” she suggested.

“Yeah? You want to walk in together like that?” Dougie asked, a little hopeful.

Holy shit, that would be one hell of a declaration. But…

“Yeah, I want that,” she nodded.

The grin that spread across Dougie’s face made the butterflies in her stomach worth it.

“Let me just put on some mascara and lipstick, and we can go?”

“Sure, whatever you want,” Dougie smiled.

Now that was a dangerous thought.

All too soon, Ashley was parked down the street from the coffee shop. She took a deep breath, Dougie sending her an encouraging smile, before she steeled herself and got out of the car. This was nervewracking. Storm Surge was her home away from home, her safe space, her comfort, and now she was completely changing the status quo. But as Dougie walked to her side, smiling down at her with such hope in his eyes, she knew it was worth it. He was worth it.

“Ready?” Dougie asked, holding out his hand.

Holy shit. Bring it on.

Ashley smiled up at him, taking his hand in hers, embracing the butterflies that came with the warmth of his grasp. They walked to the coffee shop together, Dougie squeezing her hand gently as she opened the door and walked through.

“Ashley! And…Dougie?”

Andrei’s gasp made her blush, Dougie just laughing. Then Andrei’s face broke into a huge grin, and he spun around.

“Marty! It’s happened! It’s finally happened!” Andrei yelled into the back of the shop.

What the hell?

A door slammed open in the back, and then Marty came barrelling out. He took one look at them holding hands before punching his fist in the air.

“LET’S GOOOO!”

Ashley flinched at Marty’s loud voice, but couldn’t help but giggle when he bounded over to Andrei, swinging an arm over his shoulders.

“Finally! Do you know how long we’ve been rooting for you two?” Marty beamed.

Oh god. Ashley blushed furiously, as did Dougie, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Was I that obvious?” Ashley asked shyly.

“Both of you were. It was so frustrating but so sweet,” Marty shrugged, Andrei nodding enthusiastically in agreement. “We just hoped you guys would take a chance,”

Take a chance. Hah. That’s definitely a good way to describe it. And he was so worth taking a chance on. Dougie smiled fondly down at her, before pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“Well I’d say our second date went pretty well,” Dougie said softly, squeezing her hand.

Ashley smiled back, nudging him with her shoulder, earning coos from Marty and Andrei.

“Okay, you two are giving me cavities,” Marty said cheerfully, not even slightly annoyed, “Coffee and anything you want to eat, on the house. I need to tell Slavs – he’s going to be thrilled!”

Ashley just giggled, leaning into Dougie’s body as she looked over the cakes and pastries on display. Being with Dougie, this fledgling relationship, was scary – but it was also so exciting. She couldn’t wait to see what happened next. This was the start of something amazing, she just knew it.

[seaweedsawyou]

i dont follow you, but i saw your reply on the eskew post with the haunting of hillhouse quote and its been making me WILD. they are honestly so similiar if you get down to it in such fascinating ways.. brilliant n groundbreaking! id love to hear more thoughts on the matter if you had any more. i hope you have a nice day regardless :)

Glad to see someone who understands!! They are integral parts of each other, Eskew being an almost spiritual successor/continuation of Hill House! Down below I try to give my thoughts on it, which start as an essay and end as abstract poetry - thank you for the opportunity.

In the Haunting of Hill House, Eleanor is trying to change the direction of her life by spending time in an insane house, which can survive under conditions of absolute reality (unlike living beings). In Jackson’s context, “absolute reality” is the constant bombardment of realism into our psyche, the only sane escape from which is to dream.

Both Eleanor and David are dreamers at heart, where David’s old notebooks are filled with spirals of an impossible place, and Eleanor invents 3 different magical scenarios of a life she could never have on the way to the House. Why are they so attracted to the places that are devoid of the need to dream, to escape from reality?

It’s- it's about pretending again. Eskew and the Hill House see them for what they are, which is a tragedy. More on that later.

It’s hard to make friends as an adult. Eleanor sets out to Hill House in hope to find companionship, and through it - attention she’s been absolutely starved for. At first she tries to be nice and friendly, but can’t survive an evening without getting extremely self-conscious. Human attention is exhausting. Unkind thoughts about herself and others creep into Eleanor’s mind. After sharing that she is without a job and plans for the future, she can’t let them know she is homeless and friendless as well.

We don’t see David pre-Eskew, but we can assume that he was a lot like Nell. No prospects, no connections, troubled relationship with his mother.  However, he chooses to run away from his home and his mother, in desperation for somewhere, anywhere different. His emotional investment in Eskew has no rivals, and the city is willing to reciprocate. Promise itself to one human.

Words often betray Eleanor when she is trying to tell the truth, especially about herself. 

She doesn’t value them much.

David does not trust himself with words - either to convey or understand important topics. He avoids bringing up the elephant in the room even with Allegra - probably wise, since the question he wants to ask her the most is about how she would define her relationship with Eskew.

Thankfully, Hill House and Eskew operate on a deeper level. More primal, and without the need for pesky verbalization that breeds confusion. Desires are absolute reality. You want a soulmate that understands your pain, even if you never told her about it? Please! You would like to feel the comfort of your mother’s womb and the ultimate sense of belonging it brought with it? Can do! Want to commit suicide? Sure, here's a nice welcoming bridge right next to your house.

David lives in fear of being noticed by the city, of failing to follow one of the unspoken rules he never learned (he’s a foreigner, after all) and incurring its wrath, and simultaneously - of playing right into its hand. Thought crimes are still crimes. At the same time, he can’t announce his plans out loud for they will be heard. Also, and he seems to sincerely believe this at times, Eskew can be swayed with a convincing enough performance. 

Eleanor, soon, slips. Her hunger and self-hatred begin to haunt the House, terrorizing its inhabitants at night, and some of them even start to notice the source (before she does). The sudden shift from a member of the group to an outsider is jarring, and can only be rectified by more fabrications. 

Places become extensions of will - or, rather, minute desires that cannot be put into words. They don’t need to be told, they simply change. Control is a curious thing: on one hand, your surroundings morph according to your whims, on the other hand, you cannot control your feelings and mental illness, which often causes knee-jerk reactions leading to external catastrophes. Simultaneously all powerful, and nothing goes according to your wishes.

People give up on Eleanor. They cannot provide as much patience and compassion as she needs. She needs so, so much attention, and is not willing to give anything in return.

The House has all the time in the world and no social needs to speak of. Eternally welcoming, waiting for the one.

Eskew never gives up on David. Time and time again, it offers him new starts, different circumstances, alternate lives. Their parting is just one among the myriad of previous reinventions.

A place so real it feels like a dream. A portrait of a person so true it seems fictional. A creature so small it can be swallowed whole by a monster, to feel its every tiny movement on a personal level and respond in turn. A loving embrace.

[ladytrelaw]

His hands are red with his own blood and he’s trembling from head to toe, but he doesn’t cry. She suspects he’s simply too overwhelmed.

A couple of bloodied teeth knocked loose by the scythe glint in the snow next to him.

They’re his baby teeth. He still has his baby teeth, for god’s sake.

***

Full fic under the cut or on AO3! The events of, after, and leading up to That Night as told by my namesake, our lovely Lady Trelaw

Though they’ve been planning for this day for weeks now, the morning is still somehow frantic, from the very moment she awakes in his strong, warm arms for the last time. They flit through the house, adjusting already perfect arrangements, repacking already tightly packed cases, unable to meet each others’ eyes, unable to look away. She’s in their bedroom, a moment of stillness, when their son finds her.

“Mother?”

She turns, forcing her face into a semblance of a smile. He’s lingering in the doorway, fiddling with the ratty old comfort blanket he’s had since he was a baby, the tattered end of it trailing on the floor behind him. He’s still at that age where his eyes make up most of his face, huge and deep brown and round as two brass buttons. Her own eyes, filled with curiosity, gazing back up at her from under a mess of curls.  

“What’s going on? Where’s Nonnie?”

She closes her eyes as a wave of nausea overtakes her; she can’t help it. Eleanor, so much more than a housekeeper; assistant and confidant to her; friend to her husband; nanny and aunt in all but blood to their son. Hazlitt didn’t think the palace would stoop to the execution of a servant but they couldn’t be sure, and so she’d fled on their instructions last night, disappearing into the dark on the back of Hazlitt’s best horse. He wouldn’t be needing it after today. 

“We’re going away for a little while, my darling, so Nonnie’s gone back to her family,” she says, swallowing her fear - Eleanor is safe, she has to be, she has to be - and crouching down in front of him. His tiny brow furrows in confusion. 

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going all the way across the ocean, Gwynplaine, isn’t that exciting?”

Hazlitt appears in the hallway behind him, his voice warm and steady, as though it is simply any other day. He catches her gaze for the briefest of moments before scooping their son into his arms so fast that he squeals in delight, dropping his blanket.

“The ocean, Father? On a ship?”

“That’s right, my boy, on a ship, just like the one in your book,” he laughs, balancing Gwynplaine on his hip. They’d agreed not to tell him until the last moment - he’s too young, he won’t understand, and he’ll fight them. Better to let him believe they’re leaving together, to let his last moments with his father be happy ones. And they do look happy; so at ease in fact, so content, that she can almost forget what is coming. But when Hazlitt meets her eyes over the top of Gwynplaine’s head, reality sinks its claws back into her chest. They say a thousand silent words in that moment the way only lovers can; a whole conversation passing completely unnoticed by their son. They always knew it would come to this, or some version of it. But that doesn’t make the burden any easier to bear.

Hazlitt gives her a tiny nod of reassurance before fixing his grin once more and jiggling Gwynplaine so he giggles. 

“Shall we let Mother finish packing then? Big smile now, that’s it.”

It isn’t until later, much later, as they’re trudging through the gently falling snow towards the palace, that any of them remember the beloved blanket left lying on the polished wooden floor.

***

Perhaps it is her fault. Perhaps she was distracted, too busy trying to commit the last of her husband’s kisses to her memory, to press it between the pages of her mind like a flower in a book. Or perhaps they were being followed all along, and nothing she could have done would have prevented it. But when they are pushed into the chamber by that snivelling clown and Hazlitt’s eyes - eyes she had accepted she would never see again - widen in horror at the sight of them, she is overwhelmed by a wave of guilt so powerful she fears she might drown in it. 

Hazlitt fights for them, of course he does, but it is too late. Neither clown nor king pay his howling any mind. 

When the king announces their fate, a fate they had prayed only Hazlitt would suffer, she thinks that he is lucky that she was already shackled. 

If not, for the way he looks at her son, she would have torn him limb from limb. 

***

They walk in single file, flanked by guards. They’ve left Gwynplaine unbound, thank God, and he’s silent as he follows his father up the hill, clinging to a hand shackled in iron. She’s not sure if he fully understands what’s about to happen. She prays that he doesn’t.

There is little time for goodbyes. Hazlitt is torn away from his last embrace with his son, and in desperation she pulls free from the guards holding her and crouches down beside him.

“Gwynplaine. Gwyn, my darling, look at me,” she whispers urgently, but he seems hypnotised, unable to look away from his father as the clown slips a noose over his neck. With her hands bound behind her back, her voice is the only tool she has to keep him from witnessing such horrors, and she grows more insistent.

“Gwynplaine, please.” 

Finally he turns, the evening light through the thick winter clouds turning his skin a ghostly blue.

“Mother?” he whimpers, “Mother, I’m scared-”

“I know, my son, I know, come here.” she murmurs, shifting closer on her knees. He reaches out a hand, nervous eyes still darting back to his father, standing on the stool and gazing at them with something closer to defeat than she has ever seen in his eyes before. She nuzzles her cheek against Gywnplain’s cold palm. 

“You’ve been so brave, sweetheart, it’s going to be alright.” She tries to muster a smile. “We love you so much, my darling boy, so much-”

The guard doesn’t let her finish before he pulls her to her feet, dragging her backwards and forcing her up onto a stool parallel with her husband. The rope around her neck is painfully coarse but she barely feels it, eyes fixed on Gwynplaine kneeling abandoned in the snow, frozen by fear more than cold, staring helplessly between his parents like he doesn’t know where to look. 

Hazlitt, dear, brave Hazlitt, spends his last moments trying to comfort their tiny, terrified child. She watches as he pulls Gwynplaine out of his catatonic state by directing him through the sparring drills she’s seen them practice a thousand times before; with swords of metal in the training grounds of their estate, and with toy swords of wood as they danced, giggling, up the hallways of their beautiful house.

When the clown kicks the stool out from under her husband, as the rope snaps taught, she thinks she screams. She can’t be sure. Everything feels like it’s happening underwater. 

It isn’t until her son’s tiny hands are tied behind his back that she snaps out of her horrified reverie. Gwynplaine struggles as he’s lifted onto a stool beneath a noose that only a monster would build so low to the ground, and she starts babbling, begging desperately for the life of her only child. Hazlitt would do a better job of this, Hazlitt would know what to say, but Hazlitt is a body swinging in the breeze and the clown is raising a foot to murder her son and she screams-

“My LORD!”

The clown freezes. 

She doubles down, grovelling, appealing to a heart she’s not even sure exists. She has one chance, one opportunity to save him. And somehow, in what can only be a miracle, it seems like she might manage it. The clown’s demeanour changes and suddenly he’s untying her, helping her down from the stool, and Gwynplaine is free and clutching at his throat, and she dares to think they might make it out of this cursed place in one piece...

When the clown reaches for the scythe, she realises with dull horror that they were never going to be so lucky. She grabs at her son, turning to defend him-

and everything goes black.

***

It takes her a while to reach him even after she regains consciousness. The ground swims beneath her fingers and she doesn’t trust herself to stand, so she crawls on her hands and knees towards the softly whimpering ball that is her son. Gwynplaine is curled in on himself so tightly that his curls are brushing the icy ground, moaning so quietly that the noise could almost be the wind whispering through the trees. She grasps clumsily at his shoulder and he flinches, raising his head to look at her. 

It is perhaps only the concussion that stops her from screaming in horror. 

Monsters, she thinks. Only the cruellest of monsters could have done this to her child. His brass button eyes are wider than ever, but the whole lower half of his face is unrecognisable; a ragged mess of flesh dripping ruby rivers down his neck. His hands are red with his own blood and he’s trembling from head to toe, but he doesn’t cry. She suspects he’s simply too overwhelmed. 

A couple of bloodied teeth knocked loose by the scythe glint in the snow next to him.

They’re his baby teeth. He still has his baby teeth, for god’s sake. 

He moans, reaching for her, trying to speak, but she shushes him, trying to force her swimming thoughts into motion. The ship. They have to get to the ship, or they’re both dead. She tears a strip from the bottom of her skirt, tying it around her son’s face in a poor attempt at a bandage, murmuring desperate apologies as he cries out and struggles away from her touch. The fabric is soaked instantly, but it’s the best she can do, and she pulls him into her arms, burying her nose in his hair. 

She does not look over his head at the gallows. She fears that if she looks at the thing that swings there, the thing that used to be her husband, she may never move again. 

***

When they reach the ship and see that the gangplank is still down, she nearly sobs with relief. It had been an exhausting walk and her legs had failed her more than once, pitching them both into the snow. They’re dripping wet and freezing, but they might yet live. They might yet stand a chance.

Her head is still pounding, her thoughts still slippery and intangible. Perhaps that is why, when she boards the ship on unsteady feet, she lets the captain lift Gwynplaine away from her, reaching her now empty arms out to accept a helping hand from another crewmember. It is only seconds before that same grip turns to unyielding restraint.

As the captain starts interrogating her son she struggles desperately, though the crewman’s hold is unforgiving. She cannot get free, but equally she cannot lose Gwynplaine again. She will not survive it. She watches in anguish as he scrambles back down the gangplank, away from the captain who lunged for his bandage, away from the crewmen who shout curses at his retreating back. He’s only a child, she tries to say. He’s my child, let me hold him, give him back to me...

“He’s a bad omen!”

“An albatross!”

“He’ll fate us! Doom us! Sink us all!”

She sees him fall to his knees on the docks as the ship casts off, putting churning white water between them. She sees him reach for her, the distance between his hand and hers growing wider with every heartbeat. She sees him screaming her name through a broken grin. 

She has failed him. 

***

The storm takes them within minutes. The ship is battered, torn apart by raging waves and howling wind, and along with the other passengers she is pitched, screaming, into the boiling black mass of the sea. 

She tries her best to swim. She fights as best as she possibly can, with muscles already screaming in exhaustion and eyes that dance with stars, but it is not enough. Death has been hovering at her shoulder for hours, days even, and its weight is now too much to bear. She sinks, fingertips reaching for the churning, thrashing surface of the water...

Hazlitt is with her. 

“Gwynplaine,” she breathes, watching the bubbles from her lips rise to the surface. She needs to know. She cannot rest until she knows.

Her husband smiles. Time appears before her and wraps itself around her aching body like a scarf of the softest silk.

She’s on the docks, on her hands and knees, sobbing as her mother is torn away. She’s in agony, the pain seared across her face like nothing she’s ever known. 

Time shimmers once more, sighing a swansong in her ears.

She knows freezing cold and then the warmth of a fire, a kindly hand, the friendly snuffling of an animal. She knows burning, searing pain; she knows confusion and bewilderment and frustration. Sparks of brightness, of laughter, of songs, of love. The sting of humiliation, the acid tang of vengeful bitterness, the misery of betrayal and grief and then…

And then...

“He finds peace.” Hazlitt murmurs. “It takes time, but he finds peace. He finds clarity. He finds the justice that we couldn’t.”

“You promise he’s alright?”

“He grows to be an old man, my darling, older than we ever were.” Hazlitt says softly. He holds out a hand at the same moment that she reaches to grasp it. 

“I’ll take you to him.” 

Lady Trelaw smiles. And lets herself drift.

[mbcoldstorage]

Transcendence of the analog image

https://forum.arsenal-berlin.de/forum-forum-expanded/programm-forum/ste-anne/essay-transzendenz-des-analogbildes/

"Art is magic, freed from the lie of being truth" (Theodor W. Adorno)

A return to a culture of origin - or an attempt at self-determination that can only succeed if you make peace with your past? STE moves between these two poles . ANNEfor a long time without clearly giving preference to one direction over the other. In any case, it is a film with biographical borrowings: The title of the feature film debut by the Canadian Rhayne Vermette refers to the city in the province of Manitoba where her family once settled. Even before any narrative constriction, there is a poetic evocation: Vermette's film is an ode to the land of her ancestors, who, like herself, are members of the Métis, an ethnic minority that, at the end of the 18th century, emerged from the union of French-born settlers and indigenous people Population groups emerged.

In the film, the land, both a visual object and a “state of mind”, appears as close as it is remote. Close, because for Vermette it is a familiar environment, a landscape that she knows all too well; enraptured because the landscape in STE. ANNE does not offer a realistic setting through which the protagonists move habitually. Rather, it is de-familialized here from the start: Even the first recordings of the film, shot at the interface between day and night, allow viewers to pass a kind of threshold, enter a twilight zone . One looks at painting-like images of a steppe-like nature with mighty cloud formations, in addition to the chirping of birds and a restrained ambient sound that briefly swells threateningly.

Scar in the family structure

The woman who tiredly walks through one of these pictures is called Renée. Years after her mysterious disappearance, she returns to the settlement where her daughter Athene lives, who has since been raised like her own child by Renée's brother Modeste and his wife Eleanor. Before we learn anything about Renée's motives, Athene addresses her mother, who was believed to be lost - in an intimate voiceover monologue, she expresses the hope that she can finally get closer and share the spirits that haunt her with her.

Vermette embeds this inner monologue by Athene in a scene of communal commonality, the film keeps coming back to scenes of this kind: people gathered around a campfire, a folk song is sung; People who gather at the table. After the atmospherically ambiguous beginning, the joy of meeting now prevails. However, the separation has left a scar in the family structure - not least, athenes self-image is challenged. Does she now have two mothers, is she “just lucky,” as she once put it to a friend?

For both her mother Renée and herself, the reunification leads to an attempt to get to know her own roots better. Vermette tells this process of approaching and confronting the past with the rules of a fiction that falls back on conventions. You can see repeatedly how mother and daughter leaf through family albums together, but in the first of these scenes the depicted father himself appears as a transparent ghost in the image section. This is not scary: he is eating an apple and looking down at the others in a friendly manner. One can take the scene as the first indication that STE. ANNEit is more about juxtaposition: about images that can be memories, visions or views or several of them at the same time, but which are rarely realistic documents.

Photographs have a special status as artifacts in film. Renée has a crumpled old picture of a Ste. Anne, which she has acquired and where she would like to settle one day. The picture is an object of longing and at the same time a hand oracle that shows her the way into a self-determined future - although her project only seems possible via the detour of the fulfillment of a mythical prophecy. Athene, in turn, pins her mother's photo from the family album on the wall. When she touches it, this seems to trigger a chemical reaction that trembles the film image and, in the form of changing shades of color, apparently activates an inner intensity of the image, its affective potential.

Physical interweaving of image and world

According to the semiotic Charles S. Pierce, the photographic image (on film material) maintains an indexical connection to reality. It is a physical sign, a light print and at the same time the result of a medial transmission. With her work, Vermette consciously connects to this physical interweaving of image and world. She even goes beyond that when she ascribes a magic to the picture, an excess or residue of transcendence that must remain hidden from the naked eye. Horror films (just think of the horrific photo of the girl at the beginning of Nicholas Roeg's DON'T LOOK NOW) have repeatedly appropriated this mysterious charge of images. In STE. ANNEit is more about a spiritual-cosmic flicker, about the coexistence of different levels of time and being. Images seem most likely to be able to connect to the cyclical principle of the Métis culture. The time level of the film therefore remains deliberately unclear, past and present seem to overlap; At the same time, however, the camera has always been the medium for Vermette itself to relate to these traditions in the present. The fact that she herself can be seen in the role of Renée (and various family members appear) gives this artistic examination of her own history of origin even more urgency.

Recourse to the filmic carrier material is essential for Vermette's aesthetic approach. She shoots with a Bolex camera on 16mm and already with this practice refers to methods of experimental or avant-garde film; in interviews she mentions the tickle that results from the fact that you never know for sure what the finished image will look like in the end. In her short films, she made the materiality of the film an even more explicit topic, or rather linked the fiction itself to the volatility of the medium. In LE CHÂSSIS DE LOURDES (2016), who with STE. ANNE corresponds most strongly, she reflects on her flight from the family network and then works through the films and photographs that her father made with a camera that he passed on to her, as it were from the newly gained distance.

With the help of a flowing, yet high-frequency montage, she creates an undertow with the recordings from the house of her childhood, which, with the help of the medium of film, deconstructs that imaginary place that is commonly referred to as “home”. Memory is identified as a construction and the private environment, which one walks through again in pictures or rather scans through, is expanded into a collective space. By making the film material, the individual frames, the soundtrack and the perforation of the film strip visible, Vermette also turns the semantic units outwards. It rearranges and animates (right down to the processing of the individual cadre) the source material, not least through the sound,

LE CHÂSSIS DE LOURDES, as a (re) appropriation and extension of one's own family history, is nevertheless a differently polarized home movie than STE ANNE. Because only her feature film poses the question of how belonging to a traditional but already fragmented culture can be combined with the individualistic demands of a modern woman. Instead of following a progressive plot, Vermette creates passages which she then relates to one another using a method similar to sampling (she describes hip-hop artist and producer Madlib as one of her role models). Motifs are intoned, take a back seat and are taken up again later. One is the matriarchal structure of the Métis community, which is shown early on in the film in social togetherness, in which anecdotes about the past are exchanged. That sequence is particularly haunting in which the women in anachronistic costumes go from house to house as nuns with their faces wrapped in bandages. If you first believe yourself in a horror film, the scenario is later identified as a ritual that ends with the exuberant feast of the captured delicacies - a rebellious act that creates common ground among the women.

Metaphysics in moving images

Vermette embeds such passages in impressionistic landscape panoramas in which nature (and its spiritual forces) come to an independent present in the materiality of the film. The shots of barren autumn forests, wintery snowy landscapes and rivers, which have fragile textures and changing color intensities, do not just work as poetic inserts. Rather, they form the larger resonance space for the changes that are emerging in the family structure. The grandmother is repeatedly seen looking out into the night, at the moon and a stray dog, as if she saw a portent in them. Nature has a somatic quality that also manifests itself in the grain of the 16mm pictures or the veils of color that flicker around the pictures - an effect which is enhanced by the complex sound design. Once wrinkled hands plunge into a body of water, which seems to trigger a chain reaction on the sound level. When ice flowers on windows, ornate enamel and the swirl pattern on a body of water come together in a figurative dance, then it also tells of a cosmic roof over people and things.

This is also borne out by the highlighted scene in which the immanence of this community - one feels reminiscent of a film by Apichatpong Weerasethakul - emerges most clearly in the film: As in a daydream, Renée first climbs a hill in slow motion with tents on it. Then the horns of a bull glow in the dark, it snorts like a god of nature, while Renée tells of her premonition of a coming disaster. Did it create these pictures? She asks the being. Or is this just the sad result of someone else, i.e. representation itself?

That stays in STE. ANNE, of course, in the balance; But when you think about these questions you inevitably think of the director herself, the real originator of this metaphysics in moving images. Renée's path to independence is not only to be had at the price of breaking with the culture of origin. The idea of ​​standing on her own two feet with Athena paradoxically brings her closer to her own roots. The decisive factor, however, is the film medium, which prepares the ground for the reconciliation of the opposing worlds: their real life and the spiritual space of family tradition. Only this gives form to magical thinking.

Dominik Kamalzadeh is the cultural editor of the Vienna daily Der Standard and member of the editorial board of the film magazine Kolik.Film . He lives in Vienna.

[russian-romanova]

hill house

title: hill house

pairing: none, female crain!reader

word count: 9.1K (longest one yet bbysssss)

warnings: spoilers, mentions of death, suicide, intense scenes and images, language, mature themes explored by ‘the haunting of hill house’, also timelines that don’t match up that great.

notes: thank you so much to anyone who reads this. i’m sure the audience is going to be very small, but i absolutely poured my soul into this for a while and you simply looking at this fills me with joy. feedback is appreciated!  

summary: to the remaining five crain siblings and their father, the death of a close family member seems to bring a renewed remembrance of the nightmarish hill house that haunted their childhoods. 

She was the youngest. This was one of those indisputable facts that Y/N was forced to cling to in life, such as the intangible fact that she would never be mature as Shirley or as smooth as Theo, but she was the best listener out of all of them. 

She was the youngest, and she would always be the youngest. What Y/N Crain never expected, however, was that she would become the youngest of five Crain siblings. 

There was supposed to be six of them, eight with their parents. Mom, Dad, Steven, Shirley, Theo, Luke, Nell, and Y/N. Eight was the magic number, she had been sure of it all 32 years of her life. She would use eight to brag about how big her family was in elementary school (counting Aunt Janet instead of Mom, but no one needed to know that), just as Luke would find himself counting to eight every time he got too anxious or scared. It was supposed to be six siblings, at least until Hugh Crain had called his youngest daughter to tell her the news, to tell her that her sister was gone. Y/N hadn’t understood him at first, but she found out later how normal that was. 

It had been late at night, and Y/N had found herself restless and annoyed. She had shot up at three o’clock in the fucking morning, feeling like she couldn’t breathe. For the smallest moment, after her eyes had opened, the air just wouldn’t move into her mouth and she worried she was dying. Less than a second passed before it rushed in, and her lungs filled up and let it out. Maybe she had been having some sort of a nightmare, Y/N had reasoned to herself in the cold emptiness of her apartment room. Like the ones that Nell would get about the Bent-Neck Lady. A shiver ran through her just thinking about it, and she suddenly became more aware of her surroundings than she had been. The moonlight from the window pierced her view, bringing her back to earth and leading her to her bedroom door. Slippers on her feet, Y/N Crain made her way away from her warm bed and into the unknown. 

She had put on water for tea, a trick her aunt had taught her what felt like forever ago and moved slowly to her counter in search of something to do. She hadn’t brought her cell phone with her from her bedroom and didn’t see much point in going back to get it. ‘Phones make it harder to sleep,’ Theo had pointed out to some degree of what Y/N suspected must have been hypocritical. ‘Something about the lights and radiation and shit like that.’ 

Her eyes fell on already opened mail, a copy of a magazine she had been meaning to read, ads for windows and preschools to potentially work at in the area, her ongoing shopping list, and other various papers she didn’t have the energy to sort through. Halfheartedly, she picked up the magazine and flipped through the pages.

From behind her, the tea kettle began to already let out a growing whistle, the sound coming much sooner than she had expected it to. Pulling her robe closer, she shuffled towards the sound and pulled the kettle off, the sound dying down and the steam dispersing. For some unknown reason, she thought back to her middle school science classes. 

The cup was light blue and warm. Her mind was fuzzy as she moved to her spot at the table, pushing aside the unchosen reading materials and placing her teacup and magazine down. 

Then she was awake. Blinking, she felt the feeling of blind confusion for the second time that night, realizing that the hard surface under her arms and head wasn’t her pillow, but the table. She had fallen asleep, and the cup of tea remained practically untouched. 

Some asshole outside was playing music, she thought as she turned to glance out the window. It was loud. It was loud and it was coming from inside her house. Murderer? Kidnapper? Pop-up DJ? Clarity came and with it a single word: phone. 

Who the hell was going to be calling her at this hour? Sighing, she pushed the chair away from the table and made her way to her bedroom. Sure enough, the screen was lit up and the phone itself was buzzing in place. ‘Dad,’ it read in bolded white letters, and Y/N felt the instinctual drop in her stomach that accompanies a late-night call, especially one from her quiet father.

Her hands were already shaking when she picked it up. “Dad?” The word came out less calm than she had intended. For a minute, Hugh Crain was silent on the opposite end and Y/N hoped that it was a mistake, that her father had never meant to call her. She was close to hanging up when his voice buzzed from the other end.

“Are you sitting down?” 

“Yes,” Y/N lied. “Yeah, Dad, what’s up?”

“Y/N, honey,” The other end filled with breathing for a moment. “Nell’s gone.” 

“Gone? I-” Any fear in her mind froze for a moment as she processed his words. “What do you mean gone, Daddy?” The younger woman’s voice was small and childlike. 

“She killed herself. Nellie’s dead.” His voice cracked, and Y/N found her own voice couldn’t do even do that. It was completely gone. Somehow, this seemed worse than the numerous endings she had seen in her head. Nothing specific ever came to mind, but visions of horrible accidents and even death floated in the back of her mind. Y/N couldn’t have imagined this. Never, not in a million years. 

“No,” The word broke the silence that had accompanied the confirmation. She wished she had sat down and her feet stumbled for footing. Landing on her bed, her hands moved to her mouth. “No, no. Nell. Nellie. Not Nell.”

It was too much at that moment. Y/N felt like she was going to explode, but she couldn’t breathe enough to do so. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes began rapidly blinking away tears. Her father said something to her from far away, but she couldn’t hear him. She couldn’t hear anything past the buzzing in her ears that seemed to want to block out all other sounds, leaving her feeling small and alone. She could feel the distinctive lump in her throat growing, urging her to a complete breakdown. “Dad, I have to go,” Y/N spoke, though unable to hear herself talk. Hanging up before he could respond seemed the only way to save both of them from Y/N’s breakdown, and she opted to instead have it alone on the floor next to her bed. 

Nell had fallen into the role of big sister so quickly and so perfectly. It was as if she was born for it, possibly even more than Shirley or Theo had been. Any minutes she could spend watching Y/N were minutes Nell considered a success, although Y/N never knew this. All that she knew, and all she needed to know, was that Eleanor Crain had loved her so much, and now she was gone.

Y/N didn’t remember when her mother had died, but if she did she would know that how much she cried then was nothing compared to her screams now. Perhaps she hadn’t understood it as a small child, with her h/c hair still in the braids her mother had done them in before she had gone to bed. Her pajamas wrinkled and warm, her eyes sore with sleep as she rubbed them. She had been sleeping with Theo that night, at least when it all happened. It was a strange pull that brought her to Theo that night and not Nell as she had gone to often times before, but it seemed to make sense to Y/N in her young age. 

That brought about another thing Y/N Crain didn’t know, nor would she understand, was that she would have been in the Red Room with her siblings if she hadn’t had a nightmare, one where they sat around their mother’s coffin as it rained and that her nightmare had effectively saved her. 

If not Nell, Theo was the one Y/N went to when she was scared. This lingered in her mind, somewhere behind all of the pain, and she grappled for the phone. Y/N knew Theo’s number by heart, as she knew all of their numbers, but she went first for the contact containing it and paused. What would she say? Y/N didn’t think she actually wanted to talk, and she was almost positive Theo didn’t either. It would be nice to not be alone, but if she called Theo she would have to be alone after anyway. The pain of hanging up from that call might have been worse than she felt now. 

With a click, the phone’s screen went black. Y/N sighed a rough and uncomfortable sigh that bounced around in her throat as tears pushed against it. There was nothing left to do except cry, because what else can you do? After losing someone so close, so suddenly, and so horribly, there’s no way to process that. This must have been what Nellie felt like after her husband died, Y/N thought, before the picture of Nell she formed in her mind brought tears to her eyes once more. 

She would have to book a flight. It hurt, but one could only spend so much time wallowing before you have to move on. Isn’t this what being an adult was like? When Olivia had died, Y/N couldn’t remember seeing her dad cry at all. Granted, there wasn’t much she could remember about that day, but Y/N remembered how every single Crain around her had been so strong. And now, even she had to be strong. 

• • • 

Y/N Crain remembered very little about leaving Hill House, but she remembered almost all of the day they had arrived. The days in between blurred, and her four-year-old memory struggled to keep straight what was important and unnecessary. She remembered the buttons that Nell loved and cared for with such insistence, the time the siblings had all shown up to breakfast with their shirts backward to see if Mom and Dad would notice (Y/N was too giggly and practically gave it away), or the dresses that their mother would wear. No matter how hard Y/N had tried, however, she could never remember the warning signs towards her mother’s death, the horrible storm that shook Hill House, or the day Luke thought he saw a zombie in the cellar.

The wallpaper in the hallways was etched into your mind, the greens and blues that resonated and showed up in your most vivid dreams. ‘One could lose themselves in the memories of that house,’ Y/N reasoned, and yet she remembered almost nothing at all. 

As a child, she had followed Theo around through the dingy halls of Hill House. Theo had always been vocally annoyed by the younger Crain and the constant shuffle of her feet behind her, but secretly Theodora Crain was incredibly proud. And who could blame her? The twins had each other, Steven and Shirl seemed to get each other, and Theo liked to keep to herself, but where would that put Y/N? Nowhere fair, surely. So Theo was the obvious answer, she would just have to sacrifice her free time for a while. 

“Theo,” She remembered asking her from a yard or so behind her, Theo’s gloved hands swinging back and forth in her view. “Why can’t we get a puppy?” 

“Mom’s allergic,” She replied in the way that only Theo seemed to be able to do, without pause or thought but lathered in confidence. “Besides, I think a dog would be kind of annoying.” 

“Annoying?” Y/N repeated, turning the word over in her mind. “Why would it be annoying?”

“I don't know. They’re loud and get mud everywhere.”

“Daddy said they do poop a lot,” She added, ever eager to please Theo. Agreeing with her point seemed like the easiest way to do so.

Theo huffed. “I guess,” Y/N supposed that Theo did a lot of huffing, at least from her experience with the sound. Sometimes her huff was more of a sigh, but Y/N didn’t understand the difference yet, so she assumed they were all huffs. 

“We could get a fish,” Y/N continued with the idea. “Stevie said he wanted a fish, ‘member?” The word ‘remember’ was long for Y/N to say when she was excited or nervous, the times when her voice sped up and words blurred together, so it came out more like ‘membeh’.

“Fish are dumb,” Theo said, walking towards the black, spiraling staircase. “They don’t do much.”

With her dreams crushed, Y/N nodded solemnly. “I guess.” She joined Theo on the staircase, her small hand gripping to the railing. She would never admit it, but this staircase scared her, at least slightly. With its steps painted black and the handrails always feeling cold, Y/N could swear she felt like she was a single misstep away from falling every time. Theo seemed unnerved, skipping up the staircase with such speed that Y/N struggled to keep up. With a final huff, Y/N reached the top steps after her sister, although the two went in different ways. While Theo turned to the left, Y/N’s eyes spotted the younger children’s biggest mystery of Hill House: The Red Room.

The name encompassed most of what they knew about the mysterious room. The door was a vibrant red, with the same lion on the handle that the other rooms had. Hugh, even with the help of Mr. and Mrs. Dudley, had failed to produce a key that could open the door. It hadn’t admittedly been high on his list of priorities, and the younger children seemed to be having a good time guessing what was inside. They would get there eventually and likely be disappointed, so their father had figured there was no rush. 

The locked door had confused Y/N. Sure, she had encountered things that wouldn’t open before, but then she would just ask her parents or Steve and it would open eventually. She understood the concept of not being allowed into a room, but she knew that they were allowed in here. 

Her legs brought her to the right. “Let’s go in,” Y/N urged her older sister, her hand jittering the door. “Help me open it.”

“It’s locked, Y/N. We don’t know what’s in there. We can’t open it.” Theo said from a distance. 

Y/N frowned. “Mommy was in there.”

“No, she wasn’t. It’s locked.”

The younger of the two turned to look at Theo, her own stubbornness coming out to match Theo’s. “Yes, she was. I saw her in there. Luke and Nellie, too.” 

“Okay, well go ask her. She wasn’t in there.” Theo crossed her arms, her eyebrows raised. This was one of the many times she was right -- she was sure of it. Y/N liked to be stubborn lots, but she wasn’t usually right. Theo, on the other hand, seemed to have an ‘intuition’ (a big word that she had caught from a book Olivia was reading to her) when it came to these types of things. As if to drive this point, she added: “I know what I’m talking about.” 

Y/N paused before walking towards the staircase. “Mommy?” She called out, unsure of where Olivia had planted herself in the large house. Her mother responded that she was working on somethings, but Y/N knew that was just an answer to let the young girl follow her voice. 

They arrived in one of the bedrooms, their mother with her back facing the door as she scrubbed furiously at a stain in the corner of the hardwood floor. “Mom, Y/N thinks that you were in the Red Room,” The name felt natural as if she had been saying it as long as she had known colors. “But it’s locked.”

Olivia paused, turning to look at her two daughters. They stood in the doorway, Y/N squished against her older sister’s legs as they fought for space. It took their mother a moment to realize what Theo was talking about, but when she did, a laugh crept out of her lips. “No, I haven’t been in there,” She meant to continue, telling her daughters about how the moment that she or Hugh got in there, they would all get a proper look around and see that it was probably nothing to get nervous over. Before she could, Theo muttered something to Y/N about being right and walked away, probably to hide away so she could read in peace. 

“But Mommy, I know you were in there,” Y/N tilted her head, and Olivia smiled at the action. It would be years before Y/N would grow out of it, moving her head left and right whenever she was confused. “I know it. I saw you with Luke and with Nell. You were having a tea party, ‘member?” 

Olivia Crain looked into her daughter’s eyes, watching with curiosity as she insisted. The ‘special’ talk she had given Theo remained fresh in her mind, and Y/N’s ‘again?’ played in the back of her mind. “Can I give you another really big word?” She spoke softly, gesturing for Y/N to come closer. Her daughter complied with a nod. “Okay, this one is déjà vu.” 

“Dé-jà-vu,” Y/N repeated slowly. 

Olivia smiled. “Déjà vu is just a way of saying that something you see, or hear, or experience, is something you remember, but you just don’t know how,” Y/N nodded, her eyes not leaving her mother’s. It was these images that Y/N would cling onto later in life when Olivia was long gone. Her dark brown hair, practically black, falling in waves over her shoulders. Eyes bright and soft, her face aged but perfectly so. Her mother was perfect. “I think-” Olivia began slowly and hesitantly. “I think that when you walked into Hill House for the first time, you felt déjà vu, right?”

“I think so.”

“Well, I think that’s because you’re special.” 

Y/N was conflicted by the word. Her parents used it with such praise, but sometimes Steve or Theo would say it sarcastically, with a negative connotation as they teased their siblings. She repeated it, feeling stupid as she continued to say the same things her mother had said but unsure of what else to say. Looking back, Y/N remembered so many of the vivid points her mother had brought up as the two of them crouched in the corner. They had blown her mind; sent her reeling. The reason why Nell always seemed to understand things the others didn’t, how Theo had to start wearing gloves, her mother’s headaches and Shirley’s sleep talking. Special. There was no other way to describe it without sounding dumb, and Y/N appreciated her mother giving it a word so many years back. Y/N was special, just as her sisters were, and just as her mother was. 

Whatever Olivia was, Y/N was fine with being. “I think we’re going to get into the Red Room, and to celebrate we’ll have a tea party. I think your déjà vu just gave us hope, huh?” Olivia’s voice finished in a pleasant whisper, and Y/N nodded without even thinking about it. When her mother looked at her like that, with so much love and pride, how could you not?

Politely, Y/N said thank you before moving out of the room to look for better things. Olivia watched her daughter leave, her small bare feet leaving momentary prints on the wooden floor before vanishing like mist. Her youngest was growing up so quickly, she realized. Moments like this confused Olivia so much, the mixture of joy and pain as she thought of how only yesterday it was Steven being born, and tomorrow they would all be gone and through college. ‘We have to enjoy the time we are in now,’ Olivia reminded herself before turning back to the stained carpet. ‘No one knows if we’ll ever get to come back.’

• • • 

Y/N Crain did a lot of thinking on the plane, trying to distance herself from the woman and her toddler to her immediate right, and the man who kept moving from his seat to the bathroom in the aisle next to her left side. In all of those thoughts, Y/N came to this conclusion: 

The house had always wanted Nell. From the moment the family had laid its eyes on it, it knew it would be her. But it could never get the young girl, not then, because she had all of them. Her family. Their poor mother, in her beautiful green and blue dresses and sun hats was vulnerable. Y/N was there, and all of your siblings were there, but the burden of motherhood was too much for Olivia. She was weak, though none of them would ever know it, and the house took her before it could ever get to Nell. 

But it did get to her, and now Eleanor Crain was gone. Y/N’s beautiful older sister, with her buttons and long hair, her converse and sweaters, her visions and her worrying. Y/N didn’t realize this until later, much later, but every time she ‘dreamed’ of the house, Nell was there too. Sometimes the others would be there — Shirley leading the way or Steve telling her to be careful. But Nell was always there, watching Y/N with smiling and empty eyes. 

She had been thirty-one, six months before Nell would die and she had fallen asleep into Hill House. It was crazy how much Y/N dreamed about it, about the details that she unknowingly got correct, down to the number of patterns in the carpet under her feet. In these dreams, she was never younger than her own age. Y/N floated somewhere between who she was then and who she could grow into, but her siblings were always adults. They would act like children sometimes, and Y/N’s mind seemed to blend fiction with reality. 

This time was different.

She had arrived at an empty exterior. It was an empty shell of a nightmare, the windows dark and the door opened just enough for her to see it was dark in there too. In this dream world, it never occurred to Y/N that she may have been in danger. She was only curious, so she kept walking. Her feet froze at the entrance. The door pushed out winds somehow colder than her surroundings. Every bone in her body urged her to run away from the door, telling her that she wouldn’t like what was inside. With cold hands, Y/N pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was like walking into a different house entirely. Where Hill House had looked dark and intense from the outside, the interior was warm and well-lit. Her eyes traced the staircase, the ceilings that seemed to blend into the sky. Slowly, her feet brought her along towards the center of the room. Her siblings were standing there, Y/N realized once she had leveled her vision. Steven, Shirley, Theo, Luke, all standing in one line that blurred near the end. There were more people, she just couldn’t make out faces. 

All of the Crains were dressed in white. White dresses, white suits, white shoes. Y/N’s own outfit, if she had thought to look at it, was a faded white as well. They smiled at her warmly, and she felt comfortable. Y/N always felt comfortable in these dreams, never frightened or unsure. She was confident in her actions, walking her to greet her eldest brother at the head of the line. His hands were crossed in front of him, his whole face smiling. The bags under his eyes were gone, and he had seemingly left the tired author look behind him. 

“I saw her,” Steven smiled at his sister. “I saw her.” He leaned down to give her a hug, warm and comforting. Y/N secretly thought that Steve gave the best hugs, although Nell had been a close runner-up. Steve just had that very loving and caring feel that came from a lifetime of being the older brother. ‘He was never the youngest,’ she realized. ‘He never got to be me.’

From next to her, Shirley pulled her sister in for a warm hug, her eyes smiling in the way Y/N hadn’t see them do for quite some time. As they embraced, Shirley leaned into her ear. “Nellie’s in the red room,” Her voice was soft and comfortable, alright with the unusual statement. Y/N nodded as if she understood, moving onto Theo. 

The dark-haired sister paused when Y/N moved in front of her. After looking Y/N over, Theo seemed satisfied enough and pulled her in for a hug as the other two had done. “Oh, Y/N,” Breaking away from her, Theo took Y/N’s hands in her own pale, gloveless ones. She never wore gloves in these dreams. “I touched her. I touched Nell, and I touched death.” Her blinks were slow and calm, her voice as jovial as everyone else’s.

“I knew it,” Luke admitted from next to them. “I never thought about it, but I knew it without touching her or hearing her or seeing her.” Y/N nodded and pulled her brother in for a hug, wrapping her arms firmly around his. His face was clean, his hair brushed. Luke’s words were terrified, but his eyes smiled at her. Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the dream of her older brother, almost too sad to know she would move on again. 

“Y/N, honey,” The voice of her father spoke from next to the two women, and Y/N turned in the direction of the older man. When she saw him, however, Hugh Crain wasn’t older at all. He was the same age as the rest of the Crains, the age that the house remembered him as, and he looked brighter than Y/N had ever seen him look before. He extended a hand to her shoulder, his lips turning up in a soft smile on both sides. He looked calm, all-knowing. So much like her father, but a foreign being all the same. “Nell’s gone.” Y/N nodded, smiling softly back to him. 

In that second, it was if she understood it all. They would see Nell in her casket, in the same autumn-colored dress she would find herself in over ten years later. It wasn’t sad: they were all smiling. It wasn’t sad because it was a dream, it wasn’t real. “Y/N,” A voice floated down from next to them, a voice like a song if it could talk. Y/N Crain gave her father one more smile before turning her head and letting her feet walk. 

Their mother stood at the end, smiling. Y/N’s breaths continued on normally as if her dead mother wasn’t in front of her. It was a dream, Y/N reminded herself. Only a dream.

Olivia Crain smiled at her youngest daughter. “She came home,” She whispered softly and simply, although Y/N heard every sound. 

“She came home,” Y/N echoed, mesmerized by this dream of a mother. 

“You have to see Nell,” They spoke from behind her, their voices in unison. When she turned back to look at them, her siblings were all children. She guessed that they must have ranged from young teens down to kindergarten ages, although her parents remained the same. Her mother with her soft dark hair, never to be cut. Her father with his blue eyes that seemed to have dulled from this young man to her current image of him. “You have to see Nell.” 

“I have to see Nell,” Y/N turned around slowly, the smile painted on her face. She didn’t know where Nell was, yet she wasn’t lost. There was no rush as her feet moved slowly, her family wordlessly trailing behind her. She walked right of the staircase, the short hallway lit with white Christmas lights, twinkling on and off in rotating sequences. On the other side, they shot off in both directions, lining the top of the room and twirling around the statues that kept her sister company. 

Nell Crain lay in a bed in front of all of them, the white sheets neatly made under her body. She was dressed in red, starkly contrasting against the monotone white of your sibling’s outfits. She could have very well been asleep, but her chest was still. She looked fake like a doll would after she was lovingly dressed and her hair brushed. 

This was not her sister, but she smiled despite herself. “Nell,” Y/N whispered. The body before her didn’t move to answer, but she hadn’t expected that it would. The younger of the two reached down a hand -- a shaking hand, although she hardly remembered this -- and touched Nell’s shoulder, wrapping her grip around it as if it could wake her up with a squeeze. 

“She’s not sleeping,” A young Theo spoke from behind Y/N, suddenly closer than the others had been. Y/N turned to look at her, although her sister’s eyes fixed on Nell. 

Olivia stepped closer. “She’s awake now. Nellie’s awake.” In the fleeting moments of a dream, Y/N looked at her mother. It was when she saw her here that she realized the extent to which she missed her. Y/N had grown up motherless for the better part of thirty-two years, and she spent every moment of that time missing Olivia. She hardly remembered the last few days, when Olivia hadn’t been herself but some evil version of their mother, brought on by the wicked house. The memories Y/N had of Olivia Crain, although few, were all good. This was chiefly because she was a good mother. A great mother. 

She stood before Y/N now, her dress spilling out in folds of cloth across her legs and onto the floor, the sleeves flaring out only to tighten around her wrists. Her dark hair starkly contrasted the outfit, falling across her shoulders and back as if it was carefully placed there. Her mouth moved, repeating the last phrase Y/N had heard her utter, although no sound came out. Turning to where Nell had been, Y/N saw only darkness. It surrounded her, as it always did near the end, and Y/N woke up.

• • • 

Y/N had landed late at night, and gone straight to get a rental car. Shirley had called her the night before, to talk and check-in, and also to tell her that she had a room she could stay in at her house. It was an extremely nice, extremely Shirley thing to do, and Y/N appreciated it more than words could say. The rain that had been falling as she landed turned quickly to a storm and Y/N arrived at her sister’s house wet. She waited in the car for what felt like minutes, scared of going inside. Shirley had warned her that they would be setting everything up -- including Nell. She didn’t want to see her sister, not like this. It was a little funny, in a dark way, that Shirley was the one with a funeral home. She had been the one so scared to see their mom in her casket, which Y/N remembered so vividly because her sister being scared had scared her. Y/N had been attached to Hugh every moment she could since they left Hill House, and she had been holding her father’s hand as he had tried to convince Shirley to go up. They had all been scared, but none of them as much as Shirley. 

Once she got out of the car, she found herself hurrying more than she had been to get inside. The rain was coming down in bullets now, pounding against her jacket with such forces she felt she was practically soaked. Y/N hadn’t thought of bringing an umbrella, so she would just have to push through it. 

She rung the doorbell, thankfully waiting now under the cover of a porch. Shirley opened the door, Theo standing not too far behind her. Y/N sniffed from the cold, smiling at her older sisters. Her only sisters.   

“Y/N, hey,” Shirley spoke Y/N’s name first, her voice pleasantly surprised at the younger Crain’s appearance. Her mouth moved as if to habitually ask how Y/N was doing, before realizing the situation and moving in only for a hug. It was Y/N’s first hug since she had found out, she realized as Shirley wrapped her arms around her. They stood there for a moment, and Y/N had to remind herself to take deep breaths as her eyes watered. In the presence of her siblings, she felt younger than she did every other day, and she had to push to not fall into the role of younger sister waiting to be comforted. “Steve’s going to be here soon. He’s bringing Dad and Luke.” 

“How is Luke?” Y/N asked, voicing the worry she had been carrying for Nell’s twin. 

Shirley paused. “He wasn’t in rehab when they found him.” She said simply, her eyes darting between her sister’s to gauge her reaction.  

Y/N’s mouth formed an ‘o’, silently realizing what that meant. Nell had fucking died, and Luke had been off shooting himself up. She couldn’t help but feel bad for her brother, though. Nell and Luke always had their special connection; their ‘twin thing’. 

From out of the corner of her eye, Y/N saw Theo step closer. Y/N moved to her next, Theo forced to balance her almost empty drink as she was met with a hug from Y/N. It wasn’t nearly as warm or as long as the one she had shared with Shirley, but that was what she had expected from Theo. “Hey, kid,” Her voice was warm as she stepped back, crossing her arms enough to balance her drink. “How was your flight?” “Fine,” Y/N said, looking around at her surroundings. It was dimly lit, the blue walls making the room feel big enough that she almost didn’t see the front of the room, the shiny casket balanced near the wall. 

Shirley had followed Y/N’s gaze, and said softly, “You should go see her.” 

“Who?” Y/N said dumbly, before muttering that she was sorry. Who else would she be talking about, who else could she be talking about? These were the female Crains now, Y/N realized. Shirl, Theo, and her. No Mom, no Nell. Slowly, her body turned the direction of her dead sister, seeing the top of her face peeking out from above the edge. “Oh, God. Fuck.” 

She wished that either of her sisters would say something, keep her away from the casket. If she saw it, especially if she saw it as she had in her dream, that would make it true. More than anything, Y/N was praying that it was anything but. There hadn’t been much to say, however, and they all knew it was time for Y/N to do as they had done. “She looks really nice,” Shirley tried to ease her forwards, using the voice that she would bring forward when the small children were scared of the funerals. “You’ll feel better when you do.”

“I know,” Y/N brushed her sister off, taking her first step forward. “I have to see Nell,” The five words were uttered unconsciously, and only to herself. Her walk was slow and deliberate as if she could see it happening in some cheesy movie. Nell came more into the view as Y/N walked, scared to see what she knew was in there. Nell was in there, she saw when she reached the edge. Oh God, that was her Nellie. The same one who would give her two dozen hugs every time they saw each other, the same one that Y/N thought of every time she saw a button. “Shirley, I-” Y/N began, but her voice faltered. Her vision clouded, and she turned around blindly. “Shirley, I wanna go. I don’t wanna see her,” Y/N’s fragile voice echoed in her sister’s ears. Y/N walked clunkily away from her dead sister and towards the two remaining sisters, clutching her own torso as she cried. Shirley met her halfway, catching Y/N in a hug. The younger began to cry harder, Nell echoing in her mind. There was no reason to look at her any longer than she had; Y/N not only knew her sister’s face but she knew the situation. 

Shirley held her sister for what felt like five minutes. She had looked to Theo three times, but the first two the middle sister had been too engulfed with the bottom of her drink, and the third time Shirley Crain had realized there was nothing she could say or do to make it better. It was one of the hardest things as an older sister, having to assess the situation and leave it as it was. She held her sister because that was all she could do. 

By the time Steve and Luke entered, the three had sat down. Y/N had calmed down, her eyes still red and puffy but her voice steady. Shirley stayed next to her, letting Kevin fuss over the minor details of Nell’s appearance. They were discussing their father softly, the three sisters realizing that he had never been to the funeral home before. The doorbell broke the bubble the three had created, although Kevin jumped to get it. He was taking the reins, Y/N noticed. That was good. Shirley needed that break. 

None of them stood up. No one was eager to anything, which she had understood. “It’s funny, Nellie was always trying to get us together in one place,” Shirley spoke in her still voice, clearly uncaring at the familial appearance. “Even Dad tried for years,” Steve said something from the doorway, and the sisters stood up. They would face this burden together, they had agreed silently. 

Theo, who was the last to rise, said something from behind Y/N that she could hardly hear.  Her eyes were focused on Luke and Steve, their coats wet from the rain. Shirley made small talk, and Y/N could tell it was more forced than any conversation the two of them had shared that day. She was still mad at Steve for the book, Y/N reasoned. The younger patiently waited for a little behind her sister as Steve gave her a hug, fiddling with the sleeve of her jacket. She was nervous and hardly understood why. 

“Hey,” Steve moved to her next. “You okay?” It was clear that he had noticed her tear-stained eyes, although she couldn’t blame him. 

Hugging her oldest brother, she answered honestly, “No.”

Steve softly chuckled. “Fair enough.” He moved towards Theo, who walked past him.

Luke was next. He didn’t look high, you had noticed cautiously. In fact, he looked only as bad as the rest of the siblings, which was alright by Luke Crain standards. “Lukey,” Y/N extended your arms out and embraced him. He was cold under her grasp, and she wished that she could make him warm at that moment. Words left her brain, unsure of what to say as they hugged. They released, and Y/N could already tell his eyes were on Nell. She could watch him but refused to follow his gaze any further than when the chairs began. 

There was nothing that dictated who should go first between twins. For the rest of life, it’s supposed to be the oldest. Steve used to always joke about the five younger Crains planning his funeral, and it’s a worldwide regret when a child dies before the parent. Steve especially could see this in Hugh’s eyes, no matter how much he tried to brush it off or hide it. But Luke and Nell were twins. How were they supposed to know who ended in the coffin first?

Certainly not like this, Luke realized as he stared at his sister. Nell looked so serene, not like she was sleeping necessarily, but as if she was at peace. The harder he looked, the less she looked like Nell, however. Maybe the Nell lying there looked like the hundreds of pictures they had of her, but that wasn’t Nell. She was never some picture, and she wasn’t supposed to be some memory. She was Nell, and this was not Nell. Maybe it was better that way, for her to look like a memory of Nell and not his dead twin sister. 

From somewhere far behind him, lost in the emotions of it all, Shirley cleared her throat. “Dad’s not with you?” 

Steve nodded. “Uh, he’s still at the hotel. He told us to go ahead. He, uh, kept changing his clothes.”

Y/N joined her siblings. “He’s nervous.” 

“Yeah.” Steve looked at his sister. She looked more tired than he had ever remembered her seeming, her hair still damp from coming inside. His author’s mind formulated the words to match these pictures, the adjectives coming out sad and forlorn. Watching his siblings hurt like this was painful to Steve. He could hardly bring himself to look over at Luke, he wanted to tell Y/N to go take a needed nap, to tell Theo to try some water instead of the drink she was pouring herself. Steve even wanted to hug Shirley, who he hadn’t been on the best of terms with, and tell her it was going to be okay. 

Y/N spun out of his view as Luke rushed by, unable to even look at his twin sister in this state. No one moved to help him, because no one knew how. Luke needed to be on his own, and that was okay. Shirley brought the attention away from the awkward moment. “He seems a lot better than I expected.”

“Yeah,” Y/N agreed. “I don’t know what I expected, but I guess... higher?” 

“I know,” Steve said, nodding. “I think he’s actually clean a little while now.”

“So what was with the jailbreak?” Shirley asked. 

Steve shook his head. “Long story.” Not sure he wanted to tell it, he moved away to follow his brother. Y/N moved almost in sync with him, as if his movement had triggered her feet instantly. 

She let Steve do the talking. Everyone seemed to form in a circle around the two as they talked for a little, finishing with a hug. He knew how to do it, and all of the other Crain siblings recognized that.

• • • 

Hugh Crain arrived a little later, and things didn’t go as smoothly as Y/N or any of the others had hoped. Steve and Hugh were fighting it out, Shirley had just found at that Kevin had accepted the book money, and Theo seemed to be along for the ride. Someone had put buttons over Nell’s eyes, Steve had blamed Hugh, and the power chose the perfect time to go out. 

Things had only gotten worse from these, with Steve telling his father that the wrong parent had died, and Nell’s coffin came tumbling down. It took a moment like this, one so powerful and heartbreaking, to stop their fighting. Nell never liked it when they fought. 

Y/N had taken the silence to speak. “ I need to tell you something,” Y/N spoke quietly, but loud enough for her family to hear.

“Y/N-” Shirley began, her voice cracking. 

“I see things,” Y/N blurted out, and all five Crains looked towards the younger woman. “Future things.” She glanced from face to face, examining their reactions. Shirl’s eyes widened and her gaze seemed to focus like a camera at her sister as if she could see into her mind if she tried hard enough. Luke seemed to sit up a little straighter, his shoulders tensed and his head pushing forward. Steven looked as Y/N had expected him too — eyebrows raised, his position shifting to balance on both of his feet. If the circumstances had been altered, she almost would have giggled as his hands moved into big-brother-lecture-position on his hips. Theo just stared at her, face unmoving as she took a swig of her liquor. It was brought down with careful precision, her body swaying a little with the movement as she looked at Y/N, almost as Shirley had done. Theo’s gaze was more assertive, more final. Where Shirley wanted to see what was inside Y/N’s head, Theo was reading it. Hugh’s face remained focused and kind, nodding slowly. It was nice to look at him, unusually calming.  

“Future things,” Shirley repeated slowly. It took a momentary pause for Y/N to realize that this had been a question, and she nodded. “What kind of future things?” 

The h/c woman was stunned for a moment. For some stupid reason, she hadn’t expected they would ask what you saw. “Lots of things. Um, somethings are pointless. Like I saw Theo falling asleep during an AP exam a while back, or us picking out bridesmaids dresses with Nell.” She swallowed. “But then there’s... bigger things.” 

“What do you mean? What is this supposed to mean?” Steve scoffed, his voice confused and brotherly. 

“What kind of things, Y/N?” Luke asked softly. For a moment, Y/N looked to him without being as sure as she had been before. Unsure if she wanted to tell them, unsure if she wanted to reveal thirty-two years of safekeeping to anyone, even her siblings. 

Oh well. 

“I saw Steve’s book.” She gestured in his direction. “I saw Shirley get married. I saw Nell,” Y/N froze, suddenly too scared to say what she had really seen. In their eyes she could see that they all knew, however, but she looked down and croaked out, “I've seen Nell’s funeral.” 

What Y/N Crain had neglected to mention that when she walked into Hill House for the first time, she had said “Again?” firmly and distinctively. Olivia had smiled, although you didn’t see it, as if she knew something secret. She did, of course, but this was something Y/N would never find out from her, never find out at all for a long time. ‘It was as if she had been there before,’ Olivia had explained to Theo later on. ‘As if she knew the house from somewhere else.’ 

The siblings looked stunned. Theo was the only sibling to regain her cool composure, but even her face focused more on Y/N as she breathed heavily for a moment. 

“You what?” Luke’s voice was cracked, and Y/N almost heard the echo of the boy he had been. 

Closing her eyes for a moment, Y/N continued. “It was different, but we were all there. Mom was there.” She opened her eyes, glancing from person to person. “Nellie was lying down, and no one was sad. But it was a funeral. It had to have been.” 

Silence fell for a moment. They were all processing, thinking of the implications brought with the news. “When?” Theo spoke finally.

“What?”

“When did you see it?” Her voice was soft, the cold softness that only Theo could produce. 

“Um, a few months ago?” You guessed, struggling to remember. “Half a year, maybe. At most.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Shirley’s voice, which had been harsh and bitter minutes earlier was now kind again. She had sat up a little straighter, her shoulders pushed back and her face a little paler than it had been before. Y/N never thought it would be this easy, never in the millions of minutes she had thought about telling them. Maybe they all knew, deep down, just as Y/N suspected they all knew about Theo. 

“I was scared,” Y/N admitted. “I had hoped it wasn’t true. But they always are.” 

“Always?” Luke repeated. 

Y/N nodded. “I’ve had these ever since Hill House. I don’t know, I hoped that maybe this time I-I was wrong.” 

“I think that’s one hell of a coincidence,” Steve said.

“It’s not a coincidence,” Hugh spoke up, and Steve rolled his eyes as he looked towards his father. “Your mother didn’t think it ever was, at least. She was hardly ever wrong.” 

Y/N jumped back in to prevent another father-son argument. “I know it’s hard to believe. I’m sorry. I just needed to tell you guys. I thought you should know.” 

Theo nodded. “We knew.” No one argued or said anything. 

• • • 

It was of the most stressful nights of both Y/N and Theo’s lives. The two had gone over to Theo’s place, bringing a few bottles of alcohol with them. Y/N Crain didn’t drink often, but when she did it was hard liquor. She supposed it was because when she needed it, she often really needed it. And with her mind flashing back to the fall of Nell’s coffin, the same moment she had felt her own chest fall.

“I feel like I shouldn’t have said that, not then.” Y/N admitted to her sister. The two were sat in chairs, practically side by side as they held clear cups in their hands. “It was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Theo said. “What’s stupid is that you felt an obligation to tell them at all.” 

Y/N chuckled. “Easy for you to say. You’ve already sworn off telling anyone.” 

“No, I haven’t sworn off telling anyone. I’m just not ready.”

“When will you be ready?” Y/N asked, looking towards her sister.

Theo paused. “I don’t know. I’ll know when I need to.” She met her sister’s gaze before adding, “You did.”

Y/N chuckled slightly. There was a comfortable lull in the conversation, the air filled with silence and the soft scent of booze. “I feel like I’m drowning,” Y/N admitted out of the silence. “In all of it, all of this shit.”

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed.” 

“No, no, I know that. It’s just-” The words froze on her tongue and she sighed. “I miss Mom.” The admittance was soft. “Maybe she was an asshole and maybe she wasn’t, but I love her and I miss her.”

Theo nodded. “None of that was her fault.” 

“It wasn’t.” Y/N said confidently. “I mean, we don’t even know what shit went down in there. We may never know, Theo. And you know, I think I’m okay with that.” 

“Ignorance is bliss.” Theo nodded, her silky glove rubbing circles on the glass. “Fucking bliss.” 

“Fucking bliss,” Y/N repeated, mocking the action like a small child. “Not always, though. I’m glad I’m not ignorant about Mom. I’m glad I remember her, at least a little.” Y/N coughed after downing her drink.

“It’s good to remember,” Theo said, the way Y/N used to say ‘member’ lingering in her mind. 

“Yeah,” Y/N chuckled, looking down at her legs as she crossed them. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Theo nodded as if expecting more. “Got anything?”

“I remember this one time when we were all going somewhere, on a trip or something,” Y/N began, twirling the bourbon in your glass to watch it swirl. “Mom was sick and we were all so confused. Why can’t Mom come? Why does she have to stay at home? We were so angry and so confused and Dad -- poor Dad! -- he had to explain that we would be fine without her, that it was time for us to go and that she was sick. God, I can only hope we calmed down.”

Theo Crain froze but said nothing. Her youngest sister, Theo realized, had misremembered the most disturbing night of their lives, and perhaps she was better for it. Maybe it was better as a trip that they all took, hidden in a place where Mom’s problems were the flu or a cold, and Hill House was only a house. 

Only a house. she had told herself for years that it was only a house, just wood and concrete, and glass. The wallpaper was just a fresh covering, the paint a disguise. That there was nothing in those bedrooms, nothing in the cellar, nothing in the dark that could hurt her. And if it could, she had her family there. Her brothers would calm her down and her sisters would surely be able to take on whatever was intending her harm. In her parents’ eyes, she saw that they would never let it come to that, not willingly. And it never was willingly, not with their mother and certainly not with Nell.

There was some hidden comfort in that thought, Y/N supposed before smiling softly to herself. They had gone away, yes. Even though it had been at their own hands, she knew that it was never their intention to hurt everyone like this. She hoped it wasn’t their intention -- especially Nell’s -- to bring them all together in some twisted way. She would never admit it, but she was going to hug her siblings a little tighter and a little longer when they said goodbye again. 

They were Crains, and Crains were as strong as hell. That didn’t take much thinking. You could look to any one of your siblings and see time after time when they had overcome, both individually and as a family. When it felt like it was going to be too much, because it would certainly come to that, Y/N made sure she would be there a little sooner and a little longer. 

Looking up at Theo, Y/N smiled. “What?” The older woman said, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Y/N remarked softly, her eyes turning to the table. She looked back up, adding, “I love you.”

Theo gave her a curious smile. “I love you, too.”

Y/N knew that when her sister spoke, it was final and for all of them. They all loved her, she knew that. It was nice to hear it, to know for sure that she was loved by these people she gave her heart and soul to every day of her life. They loved her, and at that moment, that was all she needed. 

[harley4l]

Epilogue: The sister named Nelly

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” ― Oscar Wilde 

Beginning / Previous

From the minute they were born, it seemed like twin sisters Eleanor and Kara were one and the same. They’d speak in unison, smile in unison, cry in unison, they always came up with the same ideas and refused to go anywhere without their other half. Often the twins would finish each other’s sentences as if sharing the same mind. Although Nelly was the slightly more charming twin, the slightly more popular one at kindergarten and later at school, there had never been bad blood between the sisters. Sometimes Nelly’s sister grabbed her hand and beamed at her. You’re my idol, Nelly, Kara would breathe into her ear.

The twins had lain in Nelly’s bed and held hands while they watched the shiny space mobile dangling from their ceiling next to taped plastic stars. I'm gonna blow the math test badly tomorrow, Nelly sighed. I just don’t get it. I suck. Kara had tilted her head and squeezed her sister's fingers. I could do it for you. Nelly met her gaze and smiled. This was the power Nelly had over her sister, Kara’s blind adoration. And their teachers were clueless. Yes, she'd said. They‘d been doing it for years. When Kara first proposed the switchs after their babysitter had continuously mistaken them for each other, it sounded like the ultimate prank. The twins switched clothing between meals at home and between classes at school. Twice a week, Nelly played in Kara’s soccer team and Kara took over Nelly’s role as Susan, the main character of the new musical in her theater club. Sometimes Kara ate with Nelly’s friends during lunchtime. Kara had the better grades in math and english and she wrote Nelly‘s essays in her place. Admittedly it was flattering, how Kara went out of her way, just to play pretend. At first. Once they turned seven, their parents bought them a kitten for their birthday. Cloud was a fluffy, white ball of adorableness and he followed Nelly's every step. Kara on the other side, had not particulary liked Cloud. She’d complained the kitten was skittish and smelly and she often riled him up for fun when their parents looked the other way. According to Kara, Nelly spent too much time with Cloud when she should be playing with her instead. One day Cloud sat on Nelly’s lap in the backyard, playing with a bundle of yarn, when Kara strolled out through the sliding door. She’d danced around them, urging Nelly to play dolls with her upstairs. Pleeeaase, she’d pressed her palms together as Nelly held her gaze reluctantly. You promised this morning! Nelly had gently pushed Cloud from her lap. Okay, okay. She’d padded up the stairs while Kara ran into the kitchen to grab a glass of orange juice, saying she’d follow right after. 

Nelly sat on the floor of their shared room for several minutes waiting, but the house was oddly quiet. Nelly?, she called, poking her head out of the door — they currently had a switch going on until dinner. When her sister didn’t answer, she went down the stairs through the empty kitchen and back into the garden when she heard a piercing scream. Kara stood next to the jacuzzi, clutching her head and screaming so shrill that Nelly’s head hurt. Their parents came rushing out of the house instantly and Kara threw herself into their arms, sobbing uncontrollaby. Mom, dad! Kara threw Cloud into the tub! He’s dead, he’s dead! Their parents eyes locked with Nelly’s who stood on the lawn alone, frozen. Kara? her mother asked horrified. But Nelly only saw her sister, whose eyes were filled with actual tears. She felt as if she’d been tipped into ice water. Barely visible, a smirk danced across Kara’s face — and it was as if a switch had been flipped.

A few days following the incident, their parents had decided to send Nelly off to boarding school. We think this is for the best, her mother informed her after she’d come to the twins’ room and handed Nelly a brochure for Happy Hill Harbor — a boarding school for “troubled boys” and “struggling girls”. Nelly had thrown the brochure back into her mother’s lap. I’m not Kara, Nelly had insisted angrily, turning away. That evening after Cloud died, her sister had refused to switch back with her. She’d been downstairs whispering with their parents for hours while Nelly cried alone in her locked room upstairs. She had tried to convince their parents that she was Eleanor, not Kara, but of no avail. They’d been switching places so excessively over the past years that she couldn’t think of anything to say to prove her true identity. Nelly had sat in the backseat of her father’s car while her sister stood with her mother at the opened window and waved her hand with a solemn face. It was actually happing — Nelly had never felt this helpess in her life. Her fingers clenched around the window frame while her father started the engine.

Bye, Kara!, Kara had chirped, simple as that.

Officially Nelly had been sent off to Britechester’s School for Young Artists to preserve the good family image — or else what would the neighbors think. But Happy Hill Harbor was neither happy nor in any way related to art. Her roommate Joan was a creepy girl who would moan for hours at night and rip out her hair in chunks. Nelly had suffered a nervous breakdown after she’d found two tufts of Joan’s hair underneath her own pillow. Her roomate after Joan, a girl named Willow, wasn’t exactly an upgrade. She was humming to herself so loud and crooked all day that that Nelly’s head ached from covering her ears. Months and years passed. She wondered what Kara was doing with her life at home. The year after Nelly had been sent to Happy Hill Harbor, her mom got pregnant again and her younger sister Miranda was born. It was a weird feeling meeting the baby, almost as if her parents moved on and replaced her with another daughter. When Nelly was visiting on weekends twice a month, she felt like a stranger in her own house. By the time the twins turned sixteen, Kara had gotten mega popular at Brindleton Bay Private School and she spent every minute of her time to rub it into Nelly’s face while she was home. Usually she positioned herself in front of Nelly’s room while she chattered on the phone, as if to show off how cool and popular she was — and committed a grave mistake without realizing. 

The weekend before summer vacation Kara was talking to her friends and contemplating what to wear at Daniel Prescott’s party, one of the boys the twins had occasionally played with when they were children. Their fathers were business partners and old college friends. Kara even showed off the brand new outfit she was going to buy for the party to Nelly on her phone. That evening Nelly had quietly climbed out the window of the guest room and followed her twin in a distance to Prescott Estate three streets away. For hours she’d crept around the house and checked the windows for her sister, contemplating how she could insert herself inconspicuously into Kara’s place. When she spotted her twin being escorted outside by security, she’d entered through the back door — the chance seemed too perfect not to take it. She’d driven home with two other girls from Nelly’s grade late that night, her body tense with anxiety when she saw her parents waiting on the front porch. After she’d climbed out of the car, her mother informed her that Kara had left the house unpermitted and came home drunk that evening, hence they'd decided to drive her back to school early. They barely even looked at their daughter, perhaps they’d simply assumed she was Nelly because she’d come home with her classmates. A switch had been flipped, just as simple as nine years before.

She was herself again, but she barely knew what “herself” had been doing those past years. Kara’s phone could’ve been helpful if only she’d known her sister’s pin code. She’d tried the date of their birthday first, then the birthday of Kara’s boyfriend Spencer, her fingers hovering cluelessly over the display during her third and final attempt. She’d shut off Kara’s phone and shoved it underneath the clothing in her dresser. With the purchase of her brand new phone, it felt like all ties to Kara’s deed had been capped, just like with her new friends. She’d been quick to decide that it was too risky to keep hanging out with Kara’s best friends Rachel and Jillian. They‘d realize that Nelly was clueless about them in no time. Instead she went for the girls who’d driven her home the night of the switch, Kirsten Fisher and Rebecca Stuart-Hayes. Both of them were outsiders longing for friends, and they had instantly jumped on the opportunity as soon as Nelly extended her offering hand. 

Kirsten was wild, sharp-tongued and a fun person to be around. However, she came from an overbearingly religious family like Nelly soon discovered, which was probably the secret cause of her lack of friends. Kirsten was only allowed to wear super prudish clothes outside, long-sleeved shirts and plain jeans—even in the summer!—, she was (officially) not allowed at parties and had to be at home at 6 pm. When Nelly hung out at Kirsten‘s house and stayed for dinner, she was forced to join the Fisher‘s traditional table prayer and could feel the judging eyes of Kirsten‘s mother on her when she rattered down her prayer unenthusiastically. The all knowing god is always watching and their judgement falls upon us all, Mrs. Fisher preached with a grim voice. Then Nelly would resist the urge to roll her eyes. She was pretty sure that no one was watching.

Rebecca was a creative overachiever with a flourishing imagination, it felt like there was no after school activity she wasn’t a part of and no instruments she didn’t know how to play. She lived at the shabbier, less expensive edge of the town and despite her home’s rundown exterior, it was always in a pristine shape. Rebecca‘s dad raised her by himself after his wife had taken off and Nelly got the impression Rebecca was cleaning up a lot after him. One day, they were sorting through old photos on Rebecca‘s laptop when Rebecca tapped the screen, pointing at a picture of a birthday cake. It was strawberry cake with pink frosting and a younger Rebecca was blowing out the candles. Remember Spencer‘s sixth birthday? His mom made that same cake for him and he refused to eat even a single slice because he thought it looked girly. You and I munched it up all by ourselves. Our shirts were full of frosting afterwards. Dad was so mad. Nelly felt her brain blanking out for a second. She gaped at Rebecca—wait, they had met before? But then a lightbulb went off in her head. Of course, Rebecca had been Spencer Prescott’s cousin. She had the same white blond hair like his mother and brother, and both girls had been to all his birthday parties back when they were little. It felt so long ago ... before Kara‘s permanent switch. We had a lot of fun back then. Rebecca sounded dreamy. But we got older, I guess. Nelly nudged her elbow. It sucks we never really hung out anymore. Rebecca simply shrugged. It was fine. You changed. And you had other friends. 

I didn’t change, Nelly wished she could tell her. I‘m still the same old Nelly, I‘m the girl from that memory. But Rebecca wouldn’t understand. The whole switch dilemma sounded absolutely insane, even in Nelly‘s own head. Kara had broken her old life apart and all Nelly could do at this point was try and pick up the shambles. 

Recruiting Olivia was a challenge. Nelly had initially set her eyes on her because it seemed Olivia Marshall, a girl who attended german, sports and art with her, was always by herself. Between classes, when all the kids gathered at their lockers in crowds to exchange the newest, juiciest gossip, Olivia stood at her locker alone, back turned. She sat alone at a table during lunch and always was the first to storm out of class once the bell rang. When Nelly asked Rebecca about her, a frown settled onto her friend’s face. Olivia kinda keeps to herself since ... you know. Nelly didn‘t know, unfortunately, but she kept dancing around the topic for a while and Rebecca ended up spilling the info anyways. Apparently, Olivia‘s best friend Tatum Rutherford had killed herself two and a half years ago with an overdose of party drugs. She was kind of a junkie, Rebecca added dryly. When Nelly approached Olivia after class a few days later and asked her to come sit at their table for lunch, Olivia had made a strange face. Are you ... are you serious? she‘d whispered. Nelly had nodded. Sure, the other girls and I would love some fresh company. Watcha say? She‘d winked. 

After what you‘ve ... what you and Rachel and Jill have done? Is this a prank? Olivia sounded like she was choking on air. Nelly‘s eyes darted around nervously. For the first time since she‘d stepped back into her old life, she felt like an actress who‘d forgotten her script. What, uh ... what exactly do you think we did? she enquired, cracking a frazzled smile. But Olivia had whirled around on the spot and stormed down the hall. Nelly followed after her, into the girls‘ bathroom where Olivia had locked herself into a stall. Standing there at the sinks, Nelly could hear her crying softly. Olivia? ... Are you okay? Please, talk to me, Nelly said cautiously. There was silence for a long time, then a faint sniff. You killed her, Olivia had quietly sobbed. You and your friends, you all killed her! I know you’re happy you did, too. Nelly was speechless. She didn’t know what do do, so she just stood there while Olivia kept on crying, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her sister‘s face stared back at her, but this Nelly looked haunted. 

Two days later, Olivia had joined Nelly, Kirsten and Rebecca at their table for lunch. She didn’t bring up anything regarding what she‘d said in the bathroom previously—it was as if the conversation never happened in the first place. When Nelly caught her gaze, the distressed tension in Olivia‘s face had disappeared. I’m glad you thought things over, Nelly smiled. 

The last one to join her inner circle was Ava McCullough, a new classmate whose family went on constant road trips all across the country. Ava always joked she basically lived in a car. It was hard on her to change schools a lot. I never really had friends before, she‘d admitted to Nelly shyly while they were lounging at the docks, their legs dangling lazily over the edge of the boardwalk. I didn’t either, Nelly replied—and in the same second wanted to clasp a hand over her mouth. She wasn’t Kara anymore, she was Eleanor. And Eleanor had been the center of the crowd all her life. Ava propped her chin onto her palm. Liar! I thought you were the star of this town. She chuckled, poking Nelly‘s leg. That's me. Nelly waved her hand dismissively, then swiftly changed the topic to both girl‘s respective crushes. 

And crushing she did—on Matt Rodgers, a Michelangelo reborn, basketball prodigy of Brindleton Private School and the hot dream of every girl around. Of course Nelly told her friends, her friends told other people and soon everyone at school seemed informed. Eleanor DeSantis had always been the talk of the town and she was used to drawing attention. Unfortunately, this included the unwanted attention as well. She‘d broken up with her sister‘s boyfriend on the spot after the switch, but Spencer Prescott hadn‘t been able—or willing—to accept this new reality. A few days after the talk had spread through school, she’d opened the door to Spencer who was holding a pink flower in hand. Dude... She’d scrunched up her face. Spencer met her gaze with pleading eyes. Come on Nelly, can‘t we just talk? She was about to close the door on him, when he called out: what the hell did I do? She’d bitten her lower lip hard. You’ve only been in love with my worst nightmare, she thought to herself. And you’re still in love with her. 

Learn to take no for an answer, she replied instead, shutting the door. 

Nelly and Kirsten had „borrowed“ the car of Nelly‘s father in celebration of her newly acquired driver’s license and sped down the country road near her house with booming high-end stereo. The girls howled along to the music, their hair fluttering wildly around their faces as Nelly went to full speed. Cute jocks at twelve! Kirsten screeched to overtone the stereo and pointed at two boys trudging along the road with sports bags hanging from their shoulders. When Nelly slowed to a halt next to them, Kirsten let down her window. Hi, Danny, Hi Matty, she’d called breezily, batting her long black eyelashes. What’s up? Matt smiled lazily, his gaze shifting to Nelly. Just finished training. Hey, Nelly, how are you? Nelly crossed her legs on the seat and threw back her hair. I’m wicked! Want a ride home? Daniel Prescott shook his head vehemently, while in the same breath Matt answered: sure! Nelly reached across to open the door for him, but Daniel held his friend back. Dude, no! Matt shook him off and rolled his eyes. I‘m just taking my chances, bro! Not my fault you’re into dick! Kirsten shifted in her seat uncomfortably while she gazed back and forth between the boys. Daniel stepped away as Matt climbed into the car, he looked absolutely mortified. So? I like gay people, Nelly quipped to ease the tension and padded the empty seat behind her. Come on, Daniel. Daniel’s hands clenched into fists and for a moment he looked like he wanted to tackle her. Then he whirled around and stomped off without another word. Kirsten shrugged and when Matt shifted closer to Nelly she could feel his warm breath against the back of her neck. His loss, he‘d rasped. 

As summer came to an end, Nelly and Matt were officially dating. Beyond a few flirts here and there at boarding school, Nelly never had a real boyfriend before and the experience was wonderful and scary at the same time. Wonderful, because Matt was an adorable, goofy ball of energy. Fun, tender and he always knew the right things to say to make her blush. Scary because he‘d known Nelly—the other Nelly—long before, and well enough. When did your handwriting get so bubbly? Matt asked while they were doing homework on his patio. Her hand had stilled. It’s always been like that. Matt wiggled his eyebrows. Nell, last month I teased you that your handwriting looks like a granny’s and you insisted that it looks vintage. No offense, you don’t have to force yourself to write differently. I kinda liked your granny twirls. Nelly had shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts so Matt couldn’t see them shaking. She simply flashed a smile and kissed him, avoiding an answer. After she‘d stepped back into her old place she‘d figured she could handle things with her eyes closed. But since she‘d become Nelly again she realized that perhaps she hadn’t known her sister as well as she thought. 

She was aware that she was dancing on eggshells. The summer passed, then fall. Yet she still found herself slipping up once and then. Admittedly, she was getting slightly paranoid. Were people catching up on her? At first everything seemed just fine between her friends and her, but they had started to grow distant lately. They were keeping secrets from her and whispered behind Nelly’s back when they thought she wasn’t noticing. One day after gym class she found Kirsten texting someone on the phone and Kirsten explained she was talking to her crush, but when Nelly wanted to sneak a peek at who it was the other girl shielded her phone and refused to show her. It’s top secret, Kirsten purred, her voice irritatingly smug. Nelly was sure it was the older pastor she’d caught her friend making out with in church before. She tried convincing Kirsten that pastor Javier was gross and predatory, but Kirsten hadn’t wanted hear any of it. She wasn’t the only one who’d stopped listening to Nelly. For months Rebecca had written countless postcards to her mother, dead certain that her mom was going to visit her during winter vacation if she remained persistent enough.

She’s never coming back, Nelly had scoffed, fed up with the same old topic being beat to death since literal months. Rebecca’s mother had been an irresponsible teen mom and she most likely moved on with her own life. It was ridiculous to think she would be stepping back into her daughter’s life after thirteen years of blissfull ignorance. Rebecca had looked so hurt by Nelly’s callous declaration. You’re wrong! she’d insisted and Nelly wanted to stomp her foot in frustration. It bothered her how much her friends had started questioning her. When did they become so ungrateful? They’d been nobodies before Nelly came around and given them a purpose. It was as if her friends had long forgotten what she’d done for them. And who she was.

By the time Nelly’s seventeenth birthday was around the corner, she felt like she was basically friends with a bunch of strangers. It seemed that even Matt was slowly slipping through her fingers. He’d taken off with his family to Granite Falls for winter vacation instead of attending Nelly’s party. My family has been planning this all year, Matt had tried to excuse the trip. Even my sister will come join us from college. When Nelly suggested he’d stay for her birthday and to join his family later, he’d just shrugged, asserting: it’s nothing personal. But it was personal. And this happened at the worst time possible, now that her twin was coming home to celebrate together with her. Nelly had been fighting with her parents over this the past days, but they stayed firm. They’d even urged her to be nice to Kara! She’s your sister honey, her mother had stated the obvious. Can’t you at least try to get along with her?

No! Nelly had roared, locking herself into her room. Kara just wanted to stir trouble like she always did when she came home. Nelly had tried to avoid talking to her these past months, always sleeping over at a friend’s house, while Kara was here. But she couldn’t avoid the birthday party. What if Kara tried to fool everyone again ... and switch? And what if everyone believed her? Nelly’s gaze locked onto her drawer, she pulled out her sister’s old phone again. If only she knew all of Kara’s secrets ... the dirtiest of them. Those were the only weapon she’d have against her twin. Her fingers ghosted over the display screen. This was her last PIN attempt, it was nothing or all. Nelly entered the date of june fifth, the date of Cloud’s death ... the day she lost her name to Kara. The screen flashed, a row of messages were popping up. Short of breath, Nelly scrolled through the texts. Most of them were from Spencer, who’d tried to win her back after the breakup. And some were from Jillian and Rachel. Those were the interesting ones. Nelly flopped down on her bed to read.

For the first time since Kara went away, she felt brave to face her sister again. Though she hadn’t been ready to stroll into the kitchen to store the remnants of her birthday cake inside the fridge and stumble across Ava sneaking a silver candlestick into her handbag ... What are you doing? Nelly gasped. Ava froze like a deer caught in headlights. It’s not ... what it looks like, she stammered. It’s exactly what it looks like, Nelly shot back. This was unbelievable! But it only confirmed what she’d privately been thinking these past weeks. That her friends were really just taking advantage of her social status. They stuck to her because she was cool, and rich, and popular and certainly they hoped that Nelly’s sparkle would rub off on them. When asked to leave, Ava had pressed her palms together pleadingly. Nelly, please don’t do this. I didn’t mean it, I swear. You don’t have to go to the police... I thought we were friends. Nelly actually laughed out loud. You really think we’re friends after this? After you ... Nelly’s voice died in her throat. Something was moving at the window. Was that ... a person? She felt her blood running cold. During the past two months she’d constantly gotten the strange inkling that someone was watching her, following her around. At first she’d thought it was still Spencer until she’d realized an unsettling pattern. It happened too rarely. And it only ever happened on weekends her twin had been home. The room around her started to blur, even Ava. All she could see were two distinctive fuming eyes staring at her through the frosted window, wide and unblinking. Those were her sister’s stark blue eyes ... and then they were gone. Nelly could swear she heard her twin’s mocking laughter outside.

She just left Ava standing there, her mind racing furiously. Her sister had been stalking her, that much was clear. She was so done with Kara. The glass door slammed shut behind her as she barged outside into the freezing cold. I know it’s you!, she growled. You aren’t scaring me anymore, do you hear me? She glanced around wildly, arms wrapped around herself, but the porch was empty and dark. She paused — uncertain for a moment. Are you looking for me? someone asked behind her, but that voice wasn’t her sister’s. Nelly turned and saw Daniel Prescott leaning against the white wooden railing. Daniel, Nelly breathed out, relaxing her shoulders. She hadn’t exactly invited him, but the Prescott’s came to every family event. I thought ... She took a puzzled look around. I thought you were someone else.

Who? Daniel’s bow shaped lips warped into a blank smile. Something seemed ... off ... about that expression. She couldn’t exactly point a finger at it, but he was giving her the creeps. Nevermind, she muttered, her voice repellent. She hoped he was going back inside. She had to confront her twin and fast. But Daniel casually propped an arm against the sliding door, blocking the way. I haven’t congratulated you in person, Nelly. He stretched out his words in a strange way, as if mocking her. She huffed, mildly annoyed. Okay. So get it over with, she wanted to add. Daniel regarded her silently, almost predatory, as if she were a fresh piece of meat, his wide smile turning plain creepy. Why so tense? Just wanna exchange a few words with my sister. You’ve been so quiet lately.

Hold on, what? Nelly gaped at him. I’m not your sister, she said carefully, trying to wedge herself around him. It was past the time to excuse herself. Her head shot up when she heard a faint high-pitched giggle in the distance. She started to walk towards it, but Daniel grabbed her arm, pulling her back roughly. You ain’t going anywhere, he snarled. I want that evidence you have on your phone! You’ve already proven incapable of keeping secrets to yourself! Nelly let out an incredulous sound. I have no idea what you’re talking about!, she spat. Her twin was watching them, she was right here. She was probably laughing her ass off. Nelly tried to peel Daniel’s fingers off her arm, they were digging into her soft skin violently. It hurt! Leave me alone, you creep! You’re delusional! Nelly was yelling now. She wiggled around furiously, then tried to hit him but only managed to scratch his face. Daniel leaned in close, his breath tickling her cheek. Perhaps I am, he smiled. He shoved her hard against the shoulders, sending the world around her into a spin. Her back hit the floor with a dull sound and with that all the air was knocked out of her lungs. 

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The falling snow around her flashed and blurred with the rhythm of her pain, while Daniel stood above her and watched with a blank face. He looked completely out of it. Nelly's eyes fluttered close and she stilled, the coldness slowly seeping into her jeans and sweater. Three seconds passed, then five, then ten. Nelly? Daniel asked. His voice sounded softer now, almost guilty. Nelly kept her eyes closed, trying hard not to breathe. After a few more seconds she heard heavy footsteps slowly moving away. The sliding door opened and closed quietly. Nelly shot up and inhaled frantically, her lungs screaming for air. Her back ached so badly that her eyes watered with tears from the pain. She’d almost screamed out when a boney hand clasped down on her shoulder. Don’t worry, a voice just like her own hummed above her. I’m here.

Kara wanted to switch back. She’d seen it coming miles ago. You’re not suited for this role, her sister hummed after she watched Nelly scramble up onto her feet. Everyone can see it. I can only hope Daniel knocked some sense into you. Kara chuckled as if the situation was funny. So she had in fact been spying. No, they don’t. They aren’t figuring out shit, Nelly hissed through clenched teeth. Her sister only rolled her eyes. Oh, Kara. If only you knew how badly you messed up. Everyone around is full of you, even your own „friends“. She wiggled her fingers in quotation marks. You have no idea, Nelly spat. I’m not some kind of role to act out! I’m Eleanor DeSantis and I’m taking back my life, there’s nothing you can do about it. She clucked her tongue. And guess, what? I’ve figured you out too, so try and set me up one more time, and I’m going to tell everyone what you've done.

Kara let out an amused laugh. And what would that be? 

Nelly stepped closer. I know that you killed Tatum Rutherford. You were just stupid enough to never delete your text messages with Jill and Rachel from your phone. You told Tatum the pills were going to help her social anxiety and that she had to swallow lots of it with alcohol to work. That she’d be so much cooler once she did it. And then you went around and told everyone that Tatum overdosed on purpose because she’d been a junkie. All of this, just because you saw her slipping a pink letter into Spencer’s bag after gym. Say Kara, was that worth it? 

Yes. Kara shrugged, completely unfazed. Her boots were scraping over the floorboards as she shuffled very close to Nelly. I texted Jill and Rach that I wanted to do it, I never admitted it as much. Your measle proof doesn’t exist. Besides, who are you going to blame for this crime? Yourself? When Nelly winced, she went on talking. Just accept the facts. That you have lost. You’ve lost the rights to my name a long time ago and now—she gesticulated widely around her—your little game of play-pretend has come to its inevitable end. This is your last chance, Kara. Switch back with me. Nelly felt her fingers clench into fists. Her sister‘s intense gaze was burning on her skin like acid. They had played this game—no this challenge—, as long as she could remember. Long before she’d realized how manipulative her sister was. Kara had always won their silent battles, because Nelly simply let her. She’d always given in, genuinely thinking it would make her sister happy. But Kara wouldn’t ever be happy, she lived off the despair from other people. She had turned into a person Nelly couldn’t recognize and this time ... this time she was not giving in. Nelly slowly breathed out. No, she answered. 

Her sister said nothing. She looked ... disappointed. Not even angry, just like she was over all of this. Nelly turned around to strut back inside, when all of a sudden someone grabbed her from behind and there was a sharp pain around her neck. She gasped, flailing her arms as she was being pulled back. Someone—no, Kara—was pulling violently at her locket. Nelly coughed, the chain was digging painfully into her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Help! she tried to scream out, but it only resulted in a choked noise. Black spots were dancing around the edges of her vision as she heard her sister’s ragged breath against her ear and tried to peel the chain off her throat, but her fingers were so stiff and clammy from the cold. Her entire body tingled and was starting to feel numb. She was ... she was dying. Kara‘s lips were pressed against her earlobe as Nelly‘s consciousness was fading, her words barely a whisper under her icy breath. Goodbye, Kara! she chuckled. Nelly‘s mouth opened, but she couldn’t talk—she couldn’t think. 

The whole world was plunging into black. 

Author's note: Thank you so much for your time and patience and thank you for reading this story. I hope you finished it with a “yay” rather than a “nay”. Anyways, a new project is in the planning so if you liked „A Deceptive Perfection“, I hope you’ll be sticking around for more. :)

[beesonestopcurioshop]

By the pricking of my thumb, something wicked this way comes.

Chapter 1: The Devil has a hold on me.

Photo credit: Google search.

Warnings: None I think? Maybe standard Peaky Blinders violence toward the beginning.

Note: So here it is! A little late, okay a lot late, but my nerves and an eight hour shift got the best of me. I want it to be great for you all! I hope you all like the beginning of this tale.

••

Thomas Shelby found himself stepping out of the Garrison. It was a quiet night in comparison to how the pub usually could be. They just had a small memorial for Danny Whizzbang. After putting on a show for the Italians, they had to keep face. It was chilly and rain had started to fall. He pulled his coat a little closer around the neck and began his trek back to Watery Lane.

He got little more than a few blocks away from the Garrison when he noticed a raven sitting on a lamp post. The same raven he had seen for about a week. He stopped to inspect it. It wasn’t an odd occurrence but this late at night it wasn’t common. The bird was looking at him almost like it was expecting him. He nearly felt the need to address it. Before he could, the bird flew off.

His trademark cigarette hit his lips and he continued to walk. Thomas almost made it to his destination when a mall flapping of wings grabbed his attention. Another raven was perched by the small home. The same raven. The white dot in its chest gave it away. His usual stone face furrowed a bit, and he looked around to gather his surroundings. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary except this bird. It cawed at him. It had to have been at him. He was the only other soul present on the street.

Thomas walked closer to it. Reaching his right hand out to welcome it. The animal looked at him carefully, sizing him up. To Thomas it felt like the bird was analyzing his soul. It just about stepped onto his hand when there was boisterous noise that brought him back to consciousness.

••

Thomas was still at the Garrison. He looked around to everyone. They all seemed warm and in various states of inebriation. It was as if no one noticed he had let his mind wander. He took out his pocket watch. He had an early day tomorrow. It was the day he would be gaining a horse for the races. It was the beginning of a new era for the Shelbys. One that would no doubt put his family on the map.

He gathered his things, mentioned goodbyes to family and friends alike, and made his way out to the street.

The air outside was cold. Cold enough to be brisk walking home and pull his coat tighter, but not cold enough to be catching his death. That was until the rain started. It was a light drizzle so he would be able to make it home before being drenched.

He got about three streets away from the pub and he stumbled upon a raven. On a lamppost. The same exact bird from his daydream at the Garrison and his week before this. His left eyebrow raised in suspicion. There was no way he had imagined this before at the pub, and the night before, and so on. He took in his environment and marched forward.

When he reached Watery Lane, there was the raven. It preened happily next to the abode he strived to make it to. He just wanted to smoke and get some rest. If it could be called that. The raven stopped to glance at him. Inviting him. Normally it would just be a bird and nothing more. However there was something very intriguing about it. It’s pull on him had him standing right in front of it before he realized he had even walked over to it.

Reaching out a hand to it, the animal inspected it wearily. It began to pleasantly hop on over to his hand. There was a loud bang of the door to his home, the children must have been at it again. The bird let out a startled caw in his direction and flew off.

That bird would haunt his dreams along with the shovels.

••

The next morning he decided he would discuss that occurence with his aunt. He needed some insight. Only the kind she could give.

“Pol? I need to speak with you for a moment.” Thomas held the door open to the meeting room in the back of the house for her and shut it as she entered. He went and sat at the table. His arms splayed wide, palms flat on the top, as he thought of how to go about asking. His brothers and himself had to get on the road so he had to be quick. He tried to find some natural balance. The lack of sleep and that damn bird had him feeling off, not that he would tell anyone.

Thomas Shelby was not an entirely superstitious man, but every now and again things could get under his skin and stick there. This avian follower was one that was just not willing to let go. It couldn’t be a coincidence that it seemed to be every single place he went. The same raven. White dot. Always lurking.

“What’s weighing on you? I can see it.”

“Ravens. What meaning do they bring?”

“Ravens?” Polly sat back in her chair with a noncommittal shrug. “Magic. Mystery. Wisdom. Caution.”

“Caution.” Thomas rumbled lowly.

“But also brotherhood. Messengers of the gods. Loyalty.” She sat back and assessed her nephew carefully. “What on earth has you thinking about ravens? Asking me for meanings?”

“One has been following me. While I’m sleeping and awake.”

“And how do you know it’s the same one and not just a regular bird? Murders of them flock to Small Heath, you know.”

“I know that Pol. It’s almost like a call to it. Like it wants me to find it.”

“That’s an omen, Thomas.” Polly sighed and left him to steep in his thoughts.

He leaned back against his chair and rubbed his hands through the hair at the peak of his head and let out a long, “Fuck,” of frustration at the lack of any more clarity than he started with.

••

Ellie plopped down on a small stool next to Johnny Dogs. It was time for a break. The horses had been groomed and there was a lull in pony rides to warm them up for the fair.

“‘Ey there Ellie! Resting your bones there for a minute from tha little tykes?” Johnny nudged her shoulder in a teasing manner.

“Those little hellions have given me a run for what little money I ’ave.” A peal of mirthful laughter tore through her rosy lips. She didn’t mind it at all. It brought them happiness and that’s what mattered. Her own on the other hand had suffered the past few days. Lack of sleep was beginning to get to her.

She worried her lip losing herself in thought. She had argued with herself on whether she should bring up the anxiety plaguing her recently to Johnny or not. It could help, or not solve anything at all. She hoped for the former.

“There’s been somethin’ eatin’ at me though, Johnny. Not to get all mystical but there’s trouble comin’, and it’s got my name on its breath.”

“Whattaya on about, bird?” He glanced up from his polishing a bridle in confusion.

“I keep ’aving this dream over and over again. For at least a week now.”

“The same one?” She nodded in confirmation. “What happens in this dream? Is there anything that stands out to you?”

Ellie however didn’t get an opportunity to explain because a black car came and parked not far from them. Out got two men looking far too fancy to be at the fair, a young boy of maybe ten or eleven. The third occupant opened the door and as soon as his feet hit the ground, it was almost as if she felt the vibrations of his first steps. The burden he carried. Goosebumps adorned her arms.

“And there comes the trouble.” She couldn’t decipher whether the chill was from the goosebumps or from the icy stoic stare that currently held her attention.

“And along came a man on a dark horse. A peaked cap, blades found along the seam. A black cloud trailing behind him.” She knew who they were. Talk ran fast around these hills. ”What can we do for you, Mr. Shelby?”

“We’re here to see Johnny Dogs.”

“Tommy, how the hell are ya?” Johnny asked as he started to close in on the leaders. Ellie looked between them. At the friendship that would have been clear to a blind man. “Ellie, be a dove and go fetch that horse for Mr. Shelby here.”

“Farthest thing from a dove, Johnny.” The chuckle that escaped her throat was low. Mostly for herself and the amusement of being called a dove.

One of the Lee boys had just finished grooming the horse in question. She traded off with the boy and nodded to him in thanks. She lead the horse to Johnny’s caravan to make a quick slip knot. She made a quiet nickering noise against the horse’s nose as she heard the men come up behind her. She felt her spine arch and moved to the front of the horse.

“So this is the horse?”

“And that’s the car.”

Tommy and Johnny seemed to have something up their sleeves. Both of them were intently checking out their prospective rides. Thomas greeted the horse with a gentle rub on its snout. It responded gently back, almost like they were talking.

“He’s strong you know. A little troubled sometimes, but a good heart.” Ellie mentioned. There was a small downward nod from the Stetson cap in front of her.

“And you are?” The low rumble almost echoed back at her.

“Elli.. Eleanor Byrne, Mr. Shelby. A friend of Johnny Dogs.”

His brother interjected about the horse for the car, and she thought she heard something about two up. She leaned against the caravan and crossed her arms with a playful smirk. This should be interesting. The coins clinked and hit the grass with a dull thud.

Ellie watched the few Lee men who were by the water settle up closer to them. Laughing. Immediately she was uneasy. Yes she respected the Lees but they loved trouble. You could practically smell it on them.

Thomas handed the keys over to Johnny and Ellie’s eyes widened.

“I knew it. I knew it. Tommy you bloody idiot.”

“Shut up, Arthur, I won. I promised Johnny a spin in the car if he lost.” Johnny took off toward the car. He stopped short when Thomas’ hackles raised at the Lee boys.

While Johnny tried to diffuse that situation, she slid the reigns into her hand and made her way to the front end of the caravan. No sense in having the horse get stuck in the middle. She heard Johnny mention that their grandfather was a king. That explained the natural way they held themselves. Hearing the slur about their mother come from one of the Lees, she told the horse to hold and walked back around the van. She made it with just enough time to see Thomas use his cap to slice the Lee boy in the eyes. Served him right. But she wouldn’t voice that opinion out loud.

Johnny tried to stop the ruckus but it was no use. It especially wasn’t after Thomas’ brothers joined in. Ellie wouldn’t have expected any less from what she had heard and seen around Small Heath. The horse came to stand at her shoulder while they stood there and watched the bloodshed. There really was no contest. The Shelbys were vicious.

Ellie reached behind her to pat the horse on the chest. She moved the reigns around his neck so he wouldn’t get caught up in them and gently muttered, “walk on.” They made the short trip to the truck the Shelbys had brought for him.

She unlocked the hatches and caught the door as it fell. She placed it on the ground softly as to not spook the horse. There had already been enough ruckus and his eyes looked a little too wide for her liking.

“Hey, come here boy. It’s okay.” One hand placed under the sturdy jaw and one grasped the muzzle of the grey beauty.

She began to speak softly. Murmuring encouragement and telling him about all the good things he was going to accomplish at the races for Mr. Shelby. She heard heavy breathing as the men made their way around to the back end of the truck to get the horse.

“I ’ope you don’t mind I got a head start on gettin’ him in there, Mr. Shelby.”

He locked eyes with her again, but didn’t say anything. Her right hand was still on the horse and she gripped his mane for comfort. There was definitely a weight that he carried. Not all of it was good. It jostled her around. She was sure that underneath the calm façade, he was really trying to gasp for air. He nodded at her.

She looked over to Johnny, “Johnny I’m gonna make my way to the fair with the other horses. You come round when you’re ready.” She looked at the Shelby men. “It was fancy meetin’ ya.”

••

“Miss Ellie please please??”

“Yeah Miss Ellie, give us one more go round!” The brother and sister duo she was walking around wiggled excitedly.

“Give us one more go round… what, Alexander?”

“You have to say please Alexander!” His sister Mabel chimed in.

“Please, Miss Ellie. From the both of us.” The boy had a sheepish blush across his cheeks in embarrassment for forgetting his manners.

Ellie laughed softly, “It’s alright, Alex. We’ll keep going. Then Miss Ellie has to take a quick break.” There was a chorus of disappointed awwwws from the two children.

She clicked her tongue to get Stevie to walk on. Looking up she saw a fox. This had been what she was going to tell Johnny about earlier. It had been in her dreams and while she was awake. She knew it was the same fox from the one cropped ear it had. It was everywhere. In her dream it would almost call out to her. Never speaking but a gentle tug.

Out further in the fields like this wasn’t out of the ordinary, but not every single time. Foxes usually tended to hustle away from folks.

Orange eyes seemed to entrance her. Stevie kept going but her steps faltered every other step. The fox’s gaze was definitely leveled on her. The level of intensity felt warm, inviting, but dangerously enticing. The fable of the fox and the crow came to mind.

Ellie shook her head and focused on finishing her job for the day. She clicked her tongue and Stevie sped up to a gentle trot. The children loved it and peals of laughter rang through the air.

••

“I’ll be back Stevie.” Ellie patted his chest before walking away. His turn down had been a struggle. He was grumpy from all the rides he participated in. ‘You’re really gonna love me on the way home then.’

A shot of Irish whiskey could be heard calling for her. She had earned it the past few days helping Johnny out. Her plan was to find that bottle she left here somewhere.

Her pack was around the front of the stable. A flash of burnt orange caught her eye. It was darting into the trees nearby. Her eyes rolled involuntarily. The trickster circling her was getting real old. The bottle toppled over and she snatched it up in an ‘aha’ manner. The first sip was greatly appreciated. It burnt and tingled in just the right ways.

The restlessness began to grind at her. Heading home was in her future. She had to find Johnny and let him know that she was on her way out, and thank him for letting her help. Stevie would be okay for a little bit while she went to find him. He would probably enjoy the silence.

••

“Bird! ‘Ello ‘ello! Thought ya left us!”

“‘Ello yourself Johnny. Glad I found ya.” Ellie smiled warmly in his happily inebriated direction and noticed the Shelby brothers with him. “Nice ya see ya again, gents.”

“I don’t think we caught your name earlier, love.” The youngest of the three mentioned.

“It’s Eleanor. You’re John, right?”

Thin light eyebrows raised into the cap that adorned his head, “Seems you’ve heard of us.”

“No one comes out of Small ‘eath and doesn’t know the Peaky Blinders.” A playful knowing smirk graced her lips as she took in the three men.

“What you doin’ all the way out here with the likes of Johnny Dogs then?” Arthur, the oldest, questioned.

“I was giving him a helping hand for the fair here so he wouldn’t get bogged down. Plus I needed time away from the city. Stretch me legs.”

“She’s an angel I tell ya.” She shoved Johnny’s shoulder playfully.

“Dats enough of dat. Farthest thing from it.” Raucous laughter followed from all but one.

Thomas stood quietly. Calculating. Trying to perceive her. His weighted stare caught her and a loud ringing in her ears accompanied the stare off. It was almost like the fox earlier. Shaking her head she continued.

“Now I ‘aven’t left yet, but I will be shortly. Givin’ Steve a rest before heading on. Just wanted ta find ya before I did.”

“Come ‘ere little bird,” Johnny wrapped an arm around her shoulders, “I’ll meet up wit ya soon.”

She giggled, “Yes, Johnny. If ya need anythin, just send word.”

Thomas’ stare squared on her again. The air became thick. If she had wings she would flutter away. Continuing to hold his stare she refused to back down.

“It was nice seein’ yas. Maybe we’ll run into one another.” She gazed at the others with a friendly smile. “But I should probably jog on if I wanna get to town before Christmas.”

She gave Johnny one last hug and waved to the leaders on the Blinders and made her way back to Stevie. It was beginning to rain. It was going to be a long ride home.

••

If you’ve gotten this far, I really hope I do this story justice as well as the characters already written and my Ellie girl. I can’t wait to hear what you all think! 🧡🐝

[thecrains-hillhouse]

The Haunting of Hill House - Fanfiction Luke/OC

Faded

Anna Spencer was no stranger to the horror of Hill House and now it was calling her home.

[Chapter One] [Chapter Two - Current] [Chapter Three - Coming Soon]

Faded

Chapter Two

Sun filters through the trees like waves of sunlight breaking onto shore. The grass is a luscious green, the flowers in bloom and beautifully fragrant and the picket fence that surrounded the property sat proud like a pristine white halo. The picture perfect house in front of me had a porch that wrapped itself around the walls like a safety blanket, with a swinging chair hung towards the left hand side of the large wooden door. Blue shutters adorned the windows and the faint smell of apple pie drifted through the warm breeze.

This was my home… Or at least the one I had created for myself in the deepest most sacred parts of my mind when I was nothing but a child. Everything down to the garden path and the oak tree that shaded the yard was perfect and right now, so evidently real.

“Momma!” An angelic voice sounded bringing me out of my dreamy gaze. A mousey brunette girl bounded from the house, her curls bouncing as she skipped towards me. “Momma, come on!” She shouts and I instinctively reach out for her, pulling her close to my chest.  “Momma?”

“Yes, baby?” I ask, planting a kiss on her forehead as if it was the most natural thing in the world. This was my daughter, of this I was certain.

“Daddy said that dinners ready!” She tells me excitedly, pulling me towards the house, her little hand fitting perfectly in mine.

I follow her in wonder up the garden path, she leads me up the stairs, across the porch and through the large wooden door and I’ve never felt more at home.

“There’s my girls,” a familiar voice sounds from inside the kitchen and the small girl lets out a perfect laugh.

“Daddy!” She calls releasing my hand to launch herself in to his arms. “I got momma like you asked.” She tells him, and I take a step forward to peer round the corner.

“Hey baby,” He says to me and my heart almost stops

Like Crain stands before me, holding our daughter in my childhood dream house. Pictures begin to adorn the walls and I watch our perfect life play out like a fairytale. Tears sting my eyes and I breathe a sigh of relief. This was exactly where I was supposed to be.

“You okay?” Luke asks, his rough hand gently caresses my face, his expression full of concern. I nod and offer him a tearful smile.

“I’m perfect.” I tell him as I lean into his touch. “For a second there I thought I had stepped into a dream.” We laugh together and it’s magic. We spend the afternoon eating apple pie, playing hide and seek and laughing together. We’re a family and it feels so good.

As it gets late, and the sun begins to set, we curl up on the couch. Luke holds our girl close and my legs are slug lazily over his, with his hand resting naturally on my knee. I pitch myself to make sure this is real and as I feel the sharp pain against my skin, I find Our daughter fusses in Luke’s arms but as I reach out to touch her, she turns to me with dark eyes.

“It’s time to wake up momma. It’s time to go home.” Lightening sounds from outside and I stand quickly from the sofa. I watch as everything that was once picture perfect turns into the perfect nightmare. Mould creeps up to walls like vines. Rain and hail slammed against the windows and a silhouette of a red head clouded the door.

I can’t move, I can’t speak, I can’t do anything other than stand and wait for whatever fate has is store for me.

“Anna?” Luke calls to me and suddenly he’s ten feet away, and she’s there in place of our baby. The lady with the fire hair. And she’s holding something... A needle.

No.

I scream out for him, but no sounds pass my lips. The redhead slams the needle into Luke’s chest and the ground swallows him hole.

I can feel the tears streaming down my face, I want to run to him, to follow him to whatever abyss he’s fallen into but I’m frozen in place.

“Sleep never helped you before, honey.” Red says, her charismatic smile firmly in its place. “You can’t escape,” She tells me. “Now I won’t tell you again.” She lights a cigarette and strolls over, taking long, slow drags as she does. Red stops a few feet away and flicks her cigarette in my direction. I watch helplessly as it hands but inches away from my feet.

“It’s time to come home.” She demands before I’m engulfed in flames.

I wake up with a start gasping for air, the smell of cigarettes still lingers in the bedroom, to a faint banging on the front door downstairs.

04:02

What the fuck?

“Anna!” A voice calls me as I stumble clumsily down the stairs. I fumble around with the lock and the door swings open.

“Steve?” Steve Crain stands before me, his eyes bloodshot.

“Anna, I’ve been trying to call you for two fucking hours.” He half shouts at me, hitting the brick wall with his palm.

Something’s wrong.

“What’s happened?” I ask, and I can already feel the hairs on my body stand on end.

“Have you heard from Luke?” My heart drops.

“You know I haven’t seen him since dinner, Steve.” I answer defensively. Luke and I hadn’t been on speaking terms for a while now and Steve knew this. It was a sensitive subject and I was half offended he even had the cheek to ask. I move to the side and let Steve move into my home. He makes a sarcastic comment about ‘still leaving the light on for him’ and I ignore it effortlessly as I had done for the past 25 damn years.

I cross my arms over my chest, and ask “Now tell me why the hell you’re standing on my doorstep at four in the morning.”

“Are you eating?” Steve asks innocently.

“Yes.” I snap and he doesn’t push me any further.

“It’s Nell.” Steve continues slowly and as hard as I try not to see the tears gather in Steve’s tired eyes, they are more than evident. My stomach churns as I await the news that tastes so bitter on his tongue. “She... She went back to that damn house.” Fuck, Nellie. You promised. “She’s dead Anna. She killed herself.”

Time itself stops and everything good in this world falls apart molecule by molecule. Steve and I stare at each other with broken glances, and behind him a flash of red. I can feel hot tears fall down my cheeks, and Steve presses the sleeves of his jacket firmly into his eyes. Steve Crain; logical strength.

“No,” I shake my head. Pure denial crossing my entire being. It didn’t make sense. Especially after Olivia. Nell wouldn’t hurt the ones she loves like that, not after the damage it had done to them all when we were kids. “There’s no way. She wouldn’t do that to us, Steve.” I tell him and Steve scoffs at me, like maybe he believed that just a few short hours ago.

“Yeah well she did. She’s gone.”  He tells me, and I feel heavy with grief. We do not say anything for a while, we stand in silence taking solace in each other’s presence.

“What do you need me to do, Steve?” I ask quietly.

“I need you to help me find Luke, he voluntarily left his rehab last night and no-ones seen him since.” Fuck. “Following that junkie girl like a lost puppy... He’s 90 days clean, did you know that?”

“I did, actually.” I nod and Steve rolls his eyes at me. Of course I damn well knew, I called that centre so many fucking times, the actually picked up by saying hello Anna. I give Steve one of my infamous looks and he holds his hands out in surrender. We both sigh in defeat. “Does Luke know about Nellie?”

“Not yet, that’s why I need you.”

“Give me five minutes.”

---------

The night is dark and the air feels as heavy as my heart. I watch the outside world pass by and it’s hard to contemplate that Eleanor Crain, my best friend and soul sister no longer walks this world with us. She doesn’t breathe this air, she doesn’t see the blackness of night or the light of day. She doesn’t do anything, she doesn’t feel anything... She’s just gone.

Luke’s sober coach talks aimlessly at Steve and I can see it goes in one ear and out the other. I look at each and every individual that we pass, taking the time to register if they are strangers or Luke, the first boy and only boy. Their faces blur together and I wonder if we’ll ever find him in this ocean of beings.

I can feel the emptiness of my stomach churning once more, the gold necklace hung around my neck feels unusually heavy. My hand instinctively reaches for it, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I find it exactly where it should be. The necklace sits just above my heart and from there hangs a  diamond ring. An old promise made in another life.  A different life.

Bile rises in my throat and I have to close my eyes for a moment and remind myself to take a breath. I count to myself and I can feel my heart slow, my fingers in a death grip around the white gold promise.

I can hear Steve swear to himself, cursing every addict in this dead-end city and as I open my eyes to cuss him right back, there he stands... Like an angel in the darkness.

“There he is, I see him.” My voice is quiet and the tension in the car hits its highest. Steve pulls the car over and I hesitantly step out. I watch as Luke Crain takes seven steps. He waits for a moment and then counts seven more.

“Luke,” I call to him.

“Anna.”

There has to be seven. That’s what keeps you safe.

-------

Thank you for reading, please do let me know what you guys think and whether I should continue. Apologies for any errors, I have a bad case of tonsillitis so I’m 100% blaming that! Until the next chapter :D

TAGS: @iamthemaskhewears @currentlythinkingofacoolusername @inhumanhacker @southernmistake @coolyoungbouquetdestinylove

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: xvi

who has two thumbs and no self-control? there’s just gonna be... so much garcy fic this week, you guys. so much.

part xv/AO3.

April 15, 2013

It’s Monday, it’s tax day, and it’s the week that midterms start. If it was possible for a group of people’s collective moods to actually be little black stormclouds over their heads, the entire history department would be drenched, but they have mostly confined themselves to double doses of coffee and bitching about the IRS, as well as various passive-aggressive email chains to the idiots who thought it was a great idea to schedule three faculty-search-committee meetings this week. Lucy is sitting on two of those, was up until three AM last night reading the various CV submissions (besides, it’s hard for her to sleep for other reasons these days) and trying to draw up her shortlist of candidates for the new Assistant Professor of East Asian History that Stanford is preparing to hire. She is all for more diversity in the workplace and the academic realm, but as timing goes, this could be. . . greatly improved.

Still, she supposes, she can’t complain too much, and she’s about to be away from it for several months anyway. Her leave starts at the end of next week, and she won’t be returning until the start of the fall quarter, so there’s plenty of stuff that needs to be finished up before that. Her in-tray has been apparently cursed with a magical charm to never go down no matter how much Lucy works on it, but aside from one of said committee meetings in an hour, she is free to hack at it for the rest of the day. Flynn said he’d bring lunch over, too.

A faint smile curls up the corner of her mouth, and she decides that coffee (decaf, unavoidably) sounds like a good idea, even if she’ll have to fight through the zombified departmental hordes to get it. She submitted her taxes three weeks ago, so at least she doesn’t have to mess around with that last-minute headache, though she is sure that any number of replacement headaches will pop up in its place. She does feel bad for her colleagues, even if they did bring this upon themselves. You’d think academics would be more organized, but honestly, they really aren’t.

Lucy hauls herself to her feet, picks up her mug, and heads out of her office, down the hall to the staff kitchen. Her friend Eleanor and Paul from Late Antique and Byzantine History are leaning by the coffeemaker, having an involved argument about someone amusingly named King Boso, but while this is potentially a fascinating subject, Lucy definitely needs them to move. She clears her throat. “Hate to interrupt, but I have a need.”

“Good timing, you just missed the stampede.” Eleanor empties the grounds out of the percolator and reaches for a new pack. “Decaf, I assume?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I haven’t been properly awake in weeks.”

“I thought your leave started on Friday.” Eleanor puts in the capsule and presses the button to start the cycle. “Or is it this Friday?”

“This Friday. I have no idea how I’ll finish everything.”

Paul, as if sensing that the conversation might devolve into girl talk (he’s a dazzling genius, but the kind with absolutely zero people skills who should just stay happily shut in a library learning dead languages), makes his excuses and scuttles out. Eleanor digs in the fridge. “The Huns just took the last of the half-and-half, but we have powdered creamer.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m drinking it black these days, anyway. Garcia’s rubbing off on me.”

Eleanor raises a slightly impish eyebrow. “Clearly.”

Lucy blushes, but can’t exactly deny it. She waits until the coffee has brewed, then tips it out into her mug. God, she can’t wait to drink the real stuff again (and see her feet, and walk without feeling like a lumbering juggernaut, and not have to pee every five minutes, and be woken up with auditions for the  Olympic gymnastics team, and all the rest, even if she will obviously then have different problems). She and Flynn were not exactly planning for her to get pregnant after six months of dating, but it happened, in the way that life tends to do, and they’re ready to make it work, as much as anyone can possibly be. Flynn is clearly beside himself with excitement and apprehension at the idea of becoming a father, and Lucy – well, she’s obviously had ambivalent feelings about kids in the past, to say the least. Felt it was something to do more to please her mom, rather than anything deeply desired. But dammit, something has changed. She’s thirty, she’s in a stable and loving relationship with a man who worships the ground she walks on, she has a good job, they’re financially stable (though again, better not to ask how exactly Flynn has chipped in), they’ve just bought a cute little bungalow/fixer-upper of a starter house, and there is the unspoken understanding that this summer, after the baby is born, they will probably get married. Lucy has grown up, or at least grown older. She’s ready for this. Their family. Them.

“You’re due the second week of May, right?” Eleanor asks, sitting down at the table across from her. “Picked out names yet?”

“We’re kind of waiting to see what feels right.” Lucy raises an eyebrow, as if to acknowledge that this is a very San Francisco thing to say, but while they know that the baby is a girl and that her middle name will be Maria, for Flynn’s mother, they still haven’t settled on a first name. “We have a couple ideas, but nothing’s stuck quite yet. Item number one on things not to screw up for your kid, huh?”

“You’ll be fine,” Eleanor says. “Garcia’s a little. . . rough around the edges, but anyone can see that he adores you. And he’s gorgeous, and a medieval history nut. Clear sign of good taste.”

Lucy snorts. “Hey now. He’s definitely taken.”

“Trust me, I know.” Eleanor raises both hands in mock surrender. “Honestly, though, you two are one of the best couples I know. Lucy Junior is going to be so lucky to have you as parents. But – ” She pauses, well aware it’s a delicate topic. “Your mom come around yet?”

Lucy grimaces. Amy is absolutely thrilled at the prospect of becoming a cool young aunt who can spoil the kid rotten, but her mother, well. . . let’s just say that Carol Preston looked at Flynn like he was a dead slug the first time she met him, and her reaction hasn’t gotten much warmer since. Flynn also clearly doesn’t like her; he’s coolly cordial to her for the sake of familial civility, but that’s it. Carol thinks that Noah was a far superior choice, that Lucy callously threw him away to get knocked up by some idiot ex-lawbreaking hooligan (Lucy loves him, but has to admit this is not an inaccurate description) and that while she’s prepared to have a relationship with her granddaughter, Flynn should definitely not think that applies to him. Lucy gets the feeling that Carol will just pretend Flynn does not exist, as if she closes her eyes and blinks hard, he might happily vanish. For his part, Flynn thinks it’s rich of Carol to assume that she gets to have a relationship with their daughter at all, given what she did to her own. As Lucy’s pregnancy has progressed, they seem to be getting farther apart, rather than closer. They haven’t been in the same room since Flynn and Lucy broke the news.

Eleanor can see the answer on her face, and winces in sympathy. “Shit,” she says. “I’m sorry, Lucy. Forget I asked. That sucks.”

“It’s what it is.” Lucy tries to keep her tone light. “Sometimes people don’t like each other. I’m sure Mom and Flynn will work it out.” She pauses. “Eventually.”

“They’re both very stubborn, bossy people with strong opinions,” Eleanor says. “Usually doesn’t mix well. But hey, sure, maybe they bury the hatchet when the kid arrives, let’s think positive. Anything else I can help you with?”

“No, Eleanor, thanks. I really need to get my stuff ready for this committee meeting. Then I can come back and tackle the In-Tray of Death.” Lucy finishes her fake coffee in a few more swallows, puts the mug in the sink (cheerily ignoring the “Wash Your Own Dishes Please!” sign taped above it) and waddles back to her office. She gets her dossier of papers together, winces as sharp heels trod her spleen, and gives her side a poke. Then, feeling like a barge needing a tugboat to reverse, she heads for the meeting. Since she’s a small woman, it feels like her belly precedes her everywhere by about two feet. Maybe they can tie on a flasher.

Once that’s done with, and they’ve narrowed the overall shortlist of candidates from twelve names to ten (so, a productive use of everyone’s time, then), Lucy chats with the department chair, accepts his congratulations on her impending arrival, and then makes her escape before Debbie from student services can bustle over with her latest round of well-meant advice about what Lucy should be doing at this stage. Once the morning sickness stopped, Lucy hasn’t minded it too much, but she is not a fan of the (in her opinion, frankly creepy) Mommy Culture that surrounds it. No, she is not going to eat her placenta, or take tasteful black-and-white bump pictures. You will not catch her dead at a gender reveal party, she accepted a baby shower but only a small one with a few women, and the “my labor was TEN HOURS with NO PAINKILLERS!” kind of talk makes her run for the hills. This is 2013. Lucy will have all the drugs, thank you, she doesn’t think a natural water birth is the only proper and fulfilling way for her child to enter the world, she isn’t going to start a blog detailing their toilet training milestones, and the breastfeeding wars make her wonder if these people have real hobbies. Not to bag on women who do it that way, of course, and there have been a few times (thanks to hormones) that Lucy has found herself genuinely weepy over the Miracle of Life. But still. She is, at heart, just too practical.

She rounds the corner into the department reception area, stops, and grins at the sight of Garcia Flynn holding a large and greasy bag from her favorite sandwich shop and looking too tall for the room. (Which, to be fair, is most rooms.) There is paint in his hair, so he’s probably been working on the house again. It’s livable, but they’re still trying to get the finishing touches out of the way before their time becomes unavoidably caught up in caring for a newborn. The nursery is mostly done, decorated in tasteful, gender-neutral colors (Lucy has nothing against pink, but she’s also not slapping it everywhere), and she clears her throat. “Hey, you.”

Flynn starts, nearly drops the sandwich bag, then comes over for a kiss, which is even more of a cumbersome business than usual. The other nice thing about this is that Lucy has not had to lift a finger at home for months; Flynn waits on her hand and foot. He hasn’t been patronizing about it, just that he seems to know what she will need before she does, and makes it available as swiftly and conveniently as possible. He does his best not to hover, fully aware that she is a grown woman and can handle this herself, and that he is decidedly of secondary importance in whose opinion matters the most. Still, he almost never is more than three feet from her side, is usually touching her even with just a finger or the back of his hand, and gets jumpy if she’s out of sight for too long and he doesn’t know why. It must be really hard to adjust from “permanent outlaw on the run from international terrorist organization” to “suburban dad-to-be in loving relationship and DIY home refurbisher,” so Lucy tries to be understanding.

“Hey,” Flynn says, when he’s straightened up. “Free for lunch?”

“Yeah.” Lucy links her arm in his, and they walk out to the foyer, down the stairs, and out into the sunny midmorning. Campus is busy with its usual commerce, and they walk until they find a shady spot under a tree. Sitting, especially on the ground, is a production, so Lucy takes Flynn’s hand and does so with care. Once he’s joined her, he opens the sandwich bag and offers hers, as she leans against the trunk with a groan. “Yep. Ready for this to be over.”

“Only what? Three more weeks?” Flynn says that as if he hasn’t been watching the calendar as anxiously as her, and Lucy gives him a tolerant my-husband-is-an-idiot look. Well, basically her husband. He’s had a bag packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice since month seven. “Your sister was over to drop off the last things from the shower. Helped with a bit of the painting. Oh, and she says your mother isn’t feeling as well again. Watch her announce that the cancer is returned on the very day you go into the hospital.”

Lucy glances at him sidelong. Flynn doesn’t make much of a secret that he can’t stand Carol, but for Lucy’s sake, he rarely speaks this angrily about her. “Garcia, if – if it does come back, she can’t control that. I know things between you two aren’t the best, but – ”

Flynn snorts, taking a bite of his sandwich and doing that head-turn thing he always does in crowded public places, scanning for threats. He still carries a gun, even if only a small one, and he has definitely terrified people he thinks are following them too carefully or staring too long. It’s that fine line between remaining vigilant for Rittenhouse, and turning into a full-on paranoid lunatic who rants at rosebushes. He’s mostly managing it, though as her due date gets closer, he seems to be more on edge. But they’ve bought a house under their real names, they’ve been a normal couple, they’ve opened bank accounts and phone plans and whatever else. There have been plenty of opportunities for Flynn to ping in the system, to draw the attention of the omniscient electronic overlords, but nothing. Smooth sailing.

Flynn himself is suspicious of this, thinks it’s too good to be true, but Lucy (if perhaps naively) is holding onto the hope that he just disguised his tracks well enough with all his false identities that nothing has managed to stick to his real one. It has been over a year of domestic bliss. They’re expecting a baby. Surely if Rittenhouse was going to strike by now, they would have done it. Wouldn’t they? They need to be smart about this, of course, and Lucy has battled the ever-present anxiety that they are doing a child a tremendous disservice by bringing it into the world with no sure guarantee of safety, but then, no parent can give that to any child. There could be a car accident, or some pedo at the playground, or falling out of a tree, or. . .or. . . (yes, Lucy has spent too much time aware of all the various things that could happen). How does anyone ever have children, to give them this world and let them go? Who knows. She still doesn’t.

“Hey,” Flynn says gruffly, drawn out of his anger at Carol by sensing her melancholy. He reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing it with both of his. “Lucy? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Lucy musters a smile. “I just hope you’re wrong. She’s still my mother, I’m her daughter. I don’t want the day I have ours to be mixed up with losing her somehow.”

Flynn coughs, as if knowing that badmouthing your mother-in-law to your wife’s face never goes well, and changes the subject. Finally he says, “I should walk you back. You have a lot to finish. So do I.”

“Oh?” Lucy takes both his hands and allows him to winch her to her feet. “More than just the house?”

Flynn glances both ways and lowers his voice. “I promised Wyatt a name,” he says. “I still haven’t given it to him yet. And I’m quite sure we both remember that.”

Lucy starts to say something, then stops. Yes, she supposes, they do. Wyatt fulfilled his part of the bargain to the letter, took the fall for them, even if he got out of jail quickly. He’s stayed in the Bay Area, in fact – has become roommates with Rufus Carlin, the techie at Mason Industries who Flynn threatened for information. (Lucy does judge her beloved’s life choices, like most people, but there you have it.) He’s done this because there still has been no news whatsoever on his wife. Jessica Logan has been missing over a year, it’s clear she either ran off to start a new life in Rio or she’s dead in some drainage ditch, but either way, she’s not coming home. But without a body, without any firm closure, there must still be that awful, tiny itch of hope in the back of Wyatt’s mind. Maybe she is trapped somewhere, held in some lunatic’s basement. Maybe she’ll escape and come home.

Lucy isn’t sure if she should try to visit or not, drop in for casual catch-ups or what have you. Wyatt did them a major favor, she can understand why Flynn still feels obliged to come up with his end of the bargain. Still, the whole point is that they weren’t seen together, and. . . well. She isn’t sure if Wyatt wants to see her pink-cheeked, doe-eyed, and bulgingly pregnant, in the middle of the domestic life he himself has lost, with the guy he likewise still isn’t very fond of. It just seems like it might be insult to injury.

She and Flynn don’t talk much on the way back to her office, as Lucy eyes the stairs but decides that since she gets winded on flat surfaces, she can wait a little longer to be an exercise hero. But as he’s kissing her at her door, she grabs hold of his arm. “Whatever you’re digging up for Wyatt, however you’re going about it – you’re being careful?”

This is always a relative question with Flynn, and she is well aware that he’s not collecting evidence like a Boy Scout earning merit badges. Knows that he might be kicking tires and turning rocks, nicely or otherwise. She isn’t even asking for the full truth of what he’s doing. Just enough to put her mind at ease.

Flynn’s brow creases briefly, but he brushes a thumb across her chin in a quick, tender gesture. “Of course. I’ll see you later, hey?”

Lucy nods, bites her lip, then pulls his head down for one more kiss, just because. He lets go and blows her one last extra over his shoulder, because it turns out that this terrifying murder machine in love is the softest imaginable thing in the universe. Lucy watches him go, then takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. Marches back into her office, and gets to work.

She manages to make at least some sort of dent in her in-tray, and is just wondering if she wants to go to a conference at the University of Virginia in August (it sounds really interesting, but Charlottesville in August is going to be unbearably hot, and the last time she stayed on the Lawn, there was no air conditioning) when there’s a rap on her door. Then, before she has answered – it’s  not her office hour, she wasn’t expecting anyone – it opens. “Lucy?”

It takes a moment for her brain to process this. Then it connects, it burns through her, and she leaps awkwardly to her feet, almost knocking over her office chair and looking around in search of something she can grab. Her heart is racing, pounding in her mouth, which is half-open as if to scream, and her chest seizes up. She backs away. “You!”

“Lucy, please.” Benjamin Cahill holds out both hands as if to pacify a wild animal. He’s casually dressed in jeans and blazer and plaid shirt, looks like he has just strolled down from another department for a professional chat. “Don’t be alarmed.”

“Don’t be alarmed?” Lucy eyes her phone, on the desk, and wonders if she can call Flynn in time, if he’s anywhere near here and can come racing back. If he discovers Cahill in here, it’s going to get messy, and she almost doesn’t care. “How dare you show your face.”

“Lucy.” Cahill looks pained. Almost genuinely. “I haven’t come to hurt you.”

“So you’ve come to deliver more veiled threats about Rittenhouse, or – or tell me that your offer stands, or – ” Lucy’s grip tightens on the back of her chair. “You have to understand there is absolutely no way in the world I am pleased to see you. Leave, or I’m calling campus security.”

“I’m sorry for causing you stress,” Cahill says. “I’m sure you don’t need it right now. I’ve heard about your happy news, on the grapevine.” He nods at her, as Lucy crosses her arms protectively over her swollen stomach. “I just wanted to let you know once and for all that you’re safe. I know things were. . . mismanaged, before. But that’s all been called off. A little present for my grandchild. Rittenhouse may do some things you don’t understand, but it’s about family. We’ve always believed that. A time for a fresh start, and mending fences.”

Grandchild. Lucy hates hearing that word in his mouth, a word to which he has no right. “So what? You have been spying on me this whole time, but you’ll stop because – what, only now that I’m procreating I have value as a woman to you people? The way men only care about rape because ‘I have a wife and daughter?’ Is that it?”

“No, no.” Cahill manages to keep smiling. It’s not at all comforting. “Honestly. I wanted to ease your mind. You’re in the clear. You’ve probably been wondering. If you really can’t forgive me, I’ll understand, but there you have it. Your whole life.”

Lucy keeps staring at him tensely, heart hammering in her mouth. “What do you really want from me?”

“Nothing. I don’t want anything. I just wanted to see how you were doing, if you were well. As I said.” Cahill shrugs. “It’s just a time for new beginnings all around. I’ll let you get on with your day, Lucy. Bye now.”

With that, he smiles and steps out of the room, leaving Lucy shaky-kneed, dry-mouthed, and still tempted to call campus security and order them not to let Cahill anywhere near the history department again. Was that supposed to be a warning, a veiled insinuation that he could return the surveillance or whatever else? Do she and Flynn owe their happy life thus far purely to the fact that Rittenhouse is letting them have it, was that the takeaway? Is there going to be a second part of this conversation later, where Cahill returns and lets her know what the price is, if she wants to keep this sweet little deal? Turning over new leaves, her ass. If that was supposed to reassure her, it has comprehensively done the opposite.

Lucy’s concentration is shot, she can’t focus for the rest of the day, and she locks up her office and jumps a foot when she sees the janitor at the end of the hall. She drives home in distraction, goes inside, and Flynn, who has been stirring something on the stove, drops the spoon with a clatter at the sight of her face. He almost rushes over and grabs both her hands. “Lucy? Lucy!”

“I’m all right,” Lucy says faintly, even as it is relatively apparent that she is not. “It’s – I’m just – ”

“Do we need to go to the hospital?” Flynn starts looking around for his bag. “Should I call the midwife?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s – ” Lucy inhales a rattling breath, and allows him to sit her down on the couch. “Benjamin Cahill came by campus this afternoon. After you left.”

Flynn’s face goes blank, then thunderous. “He what?”

Lucy explains, feeling like she’s making a bad job of it, stumbling over her words. Flynn’s expression goes darker and darker, and she doesn’t need to ask to see that his conclusions over it are the same as hers. He gets to his feet and starts pacing as restlessly as a caged tiger, running both hands over his face and swearing. “It was a threat,” he says. “It was definitely a threat. He knew you were expecting a baby, someone told him, or they’ve been keeping an eye on us. They’re obsessed with bloodlines, they believe Rittenhouse has a right to pass on its superior genes, like any other creepy cult eugenics fanatics. Probably think you’re having some – some mongrel half-breed, and they have to – ”

“Garcia, stop.” Lucy reaches for his hand, trying to tow him back to the couch and next to her, but he doesn’t appear to notice. “Garcia, stop.”

She doesn’t know what she’s saying – stop with the pacing, stop with the paranoia, don’t stop because it’s not paranoia, stop and come back here and hold me – but it cuts through some of his mania. He halts in his tracks, looking at her with rumpled hair and anguished eyes, the thought vibrating in the air around him that he cannot protect her or their daughter, and this is exactly their worst fear coming true. There’s a long pause, and then he whirls on his heel. “I need to go out. Ask a few questions. See what I can turn up.”

“Now?” Lucy stands up with a grimace. “You’re really going to rush out and – look, I think it was a trick just as much as you do, but if you take the bait, if they can frame it as they’ve changed but you haven’t, they give you a fresh chance and you throw it away – ”

“They’re not really giving us a chance, now, are they?” Flynn doesn’t look at her as he answers, because he’s already halfway across the room, clearly heading upstairs to get his gun out of the safe. “It’s a carnival shell game, any way they set it up, we lose! And I’m not sitting and waiting for that to happen!”

“Garcia!” Lucy starts heaving herself up the stairs. She should have guessed he’d react like this, and she almost wonders if she should have told him, but obviously she never could (or would have) lied. “Garcia, please!”

She reaches their bedroom, which he is already tearing apart, pulling his gun and its holster out of the safe, slamming extra clips into his belt, looking wild-eyed and frightening. She grabs at his arms, wrestling him to a halt like a runaway bus, as she ends up with her back against the wall from the sheer force of his momentum. She grips his face in her hands, pulling him down to look at her. “Don’t,” she says, scared and small. “Don’t.”

He closes his eyes, shuddering out a deeply pained breath. He passes a hand over his face, trying to control himself, realizing that he’s scared her and clearly ashamed of it. “I’m sorry,” he says, struggling to modulate his tone. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I just – I have to go, I can’t just sit here and pretend it’ll be better in the morning. I’ve spent two years chasing these people, I know what they can do. I’m not – I’m not – letting that happen. Call Amy to come over and stay with you, turn on the house alarm, don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Lucy doesn’t answer at once. Her hands tighten on his face, even as she slowly forces them to let go. Then she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him, and he wraps his arm around her, pulling her as close as he can. “Please,” she says shakily. “Please be back in the morning.”

He nods, then lets go of her, striding down the hall to the stairs as if knowing it’ll be too hard for both of them if he looks back one more time. She stands at the top, watching him. Hears the door open, and shut, and hears his car start. Tires crunch in the driveway, headlights swing across the front foyer as he reverses, and then he’s gone.

Lucy presses her knuckles to her mouth, holding back a sob. Just for a moment. Then she shakes herself – I’m fine, I’m fine – and goes to get her phone.

Flynn’s head is a roaring, whirling maelstrom for at least the first twenty minutes out. He feels like he’s been electrified, he can’t stop or slow, he drives well past the speed limit, and he’s lucky not to be pulled over. He has a personal black site where he keeps his Rittenhouse materials, well away from the house, as he’s obviously not going to take any chances with that being raided. It’s north, up in the woods, and it has all the files he’s kept, the intel he’s collected – he’s not letting those two years go to waste, and he still adds to it where he can. He’s going to go up there and check all the things that might have pinged, run all the diagnostics and pull anything he can off whatever server he can think of. There has to be chatter, there has to be traffic. Some kind of reference to whatever covert surveillance operation that Rittenhouse has to have been running. He’s looked for everything, he’s never really stopped – how could they have fooled him?

The urge to drive to another location in Marin County – the Rittenhouse mansion in the woods where Cahill took Lucy the first time – and just go in guns blazing, try to take out anyone who’s up there for an evil retreat, is considerable. Flynn knows he can’t, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. Every anxiety, every lurking terror from every time he’s woken up and looked at Lucy sleeping, the covers sloped over her stomach, has been triggered at once, and it’s a battle to keep his head clear enough as it is. He’s going to ask her to marry him. Should probably have done it before, but – well, one thing at a time. He knows he loves her with his entire mind and heart and soul, and if she came back to him from the future, well. Something must have happened there.

(But what if it doesn’t?)

(What if Rittenhouse takes his wife – well, soon, anyway – and his daughter away from him? What if he loves two people more than anything else on earth, and he loses them? After all this, after everything?)

(He’s not brave enough, he’s not strong enough, to stand that without going mad.)

Flynn’s hands are almost vibrating on the wheel, and he accelerates again. He’s on the Bayshore Freeway, as it happens, the stretch that runs right alongside the Bay between South San Fran and Little Hollywood. He saved Lucy not twenty miles from here, just over ten years ago. Strange that that was the moment that connected them so inextricably, that wound them up where they are, and –

He sees headlights too late. Just out of the corner of his eye.

Hears the screech, and the swerve. Then the crash.

Then there’s nothing but black water below him, and the car is falling.

[thirdpersonperspectiveuniverse]

The Disappointment

While the book and the movie can be seen as siblings to each other, the 1999 movie can be seen as the drug-addicted younger sibling who, despite still being acknowledged in the family lineup, everyone has slightly given up on ever getting better (if you’ve seen the miniseries, I hope you understood that reference). 

In 1997, Steven Spielberg and Stephen King partnered to help create a remake to the classic film, but both soon ran into problems with development. First, King left the project over creative differences with Spielberg, and later Spielberg himself was pushed to the producer’s role, with his replacement being Jan de Bont, who previously directed Twister and Cruise 2. It’s also worth mentioning that the project was burdened with reshoots and rewrites, seemingly like people couldn’t decide how to make the remake good yet different (Which brings up the question as to why you need to remake it if the original would still be better- we’ll get to that later). Finally, the film was released in the summer of 1999, staring Lili Taylor, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Owen Wilson, and Liam Neeson, to critical panning.

The plot mostly follows the same as the book, but has small yet noticeable changes all throughout it. Eleanor “Nell” Vance, an insomniac, is now rendered homeless after her invalid mother passes away when she is 32. Looking for refuge, she accepts an invitation to join a study on insomnia, along with Theo and Luke, under the researcher Dr. Marrow. Little do they know, that Dr. Marrow’s true intention is to study fear, as he picked Hill House as the perfect fear inducing location. Now with all four at the mansion- plus two research assistants- Dr. Marrow relays the backstory for Hill House. The house was built by Hugh Crain for his wife, in order to have a large family. However, Renee Crain, Hugh’s first wife, miscarried twice, and then died on the premises. Dr. Marrow concludes the story by saying that Hugh became a recluse, and died in the house as well. When one of the assistants speaks up, claiming that there’s more to the story, a freak accident occurs, injuring her. With that, both assistants are asked to leave, with only the main four remaining. That night the ghosts begin to make their presence known, with banging inside the walls of Theo and Nell’s bedroom, and the portrait of Hugh Crain being vandalized by blood, the writing spelling out “Welcome home Eleanor.” This leads to a shift in the group, with Theo and Luke blaming Eleanor for it, saying that she wanted attention. Nell, now looking to prove the house is haunted and clear her name, finds old records of Hugh Crain’s mills, which were full of child laborers. She discovers that he would kidnap children from there and kill them in his house, in order to have an “eternal family.” Dr. Marrow soon catches onto the hauntings after a statue tries to drown him, and orders everyone to leave the house. Hugh Crain’s ghost tries to prevent this, by sealing the house and decapitation Luke. Nell, now realizing that she is a descendant of Hugh Crain, sacrifices herself in order to free the children’s spirits and banish Hugh’s ghost. The movie wraps up with Nell being painted in a mural over the fireplace, surrounded by the children she saved, and Dr. Marrow and Theo being able to leave.

You know, it’s interesting how the first one was nominated for smaller film awards, and now this one would’ve been Jan de Bont’s third time on the Razzies’ chopping block, along with six other razzie nominations. Whether he earned it with the other two films or not, it’s safe to say that it’s hard to see why he didn’t finally take a Razzie home with this CGI piece of shit. Critics and audiences alike panned this movie, complaining of the god-awful special effects, the overdobe yet also underdone performances (what an accomplishment), and the clunky, unfocused script. I agree with all of these criticisms, in particular with the script, as I can in no way say that Shirley Jackson would’ve blessed this mess or even acknowledged it if she were still alive. From characters being shriveled down to one characteristic, to a plethora of plot holes (Like why was Dr. Marrow sleeping when he should’ve been studying the participants in HIS OWN study, and why did he not have any equipment or baseline for said study, and why am I supposed to be rooting for the kids when they viciously attacked Luke and Theo in one scene- okay I could go on for awhile), to one of the dumbest and corniest climaxes in all of “horror” movie history. In addition, it certainly doesn’t help that the really bad CGI keeps being emphasized, like the director is proud the the Haunted Mansion ghosts look better than his film. You see, this was during the time of the CGI boom in the 90’s, where, as the public became more and more accepting of this new technology, studios became lazier, believing that they didn’t have to throw as much money at it. In turn, the effects began to suffer, looking at best really fake and at worst downright creepy and sickly, and The Haunting fell into the same trap. It’s a shame that one of the greatest stories of the century was reduced to this endurance test of a movie, that ends up being so predictable and cliche`d  that, as soon as the badly rendered face pops up in the teaser trailer (seen below), you can tell exactly what kind of movie your getting.

Okay, so the movie sucked; I hope you got it. Now, I did mention the decade of CGI downgrades previously, but, other than that, this film didn’t do any smart parallels that I could see. In fact, any new idea that could have been good was either debunked immediately, or done so much better in the original. For example, after they are woken up by the banging, there is a scene that shows the characters trying to debunk the banging as water running through the pipes. Now, the idea of the characters trying to explain away the ghosts could have been an interesting idea; however, this idea is ruined by the previous assistant-freak-accident scene, which shows definitive proof of the ghosts, thereby ruining the possible tension that they could’ve added to this.

Overall, I really didn’t like this movie, and apparently a lot of people agree with me. In fact, two online reviewers went into an angry rant over this movie, and it’s fair to say that they hated it WAY more than I did.

Work Cited:

de Bont, Jan. The Haunting (1999). Dreamworks Pictures, 1999

[christymtidwell]

I don’t often read biographies. I only have 12 books on my Goodreads shelf labelled “biography” that I’ve actually read, and a couple of those might be stretching the definition a bit (e.g., Kate Bolick’s Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own, which includes biographical sketches as part of a more autobiographical project). Looking over the short list of biographies I’ve actually completed, it appears I’m primarily drawn to biographies of women, including the following: Rachel Carson, Judith Merril, George Eliot, James Tiptree, Jr. (aka Alice Sheldon), Rosa Luxemburg, Octavia E. Butler, and Shirley Jackson. The list also includes Rachel Ignotofsky’s Women in Science: 50 Fearless Pioneers Who Changed the World, which is a collection of short, illustrated biographical sketches of female scientists throughout history. There are only three books on the list that are about men (and here I want to mention Philippe Girard’s Toussaint Louverture: A Revolutionary Life, which I listened to on a long car ride and would highly recommend).

I’m not sure what it is that has me reading mostly biographies of women. It’s not a conscious choice to focus on women. Some of this focus certainly grows out of my scholarly interests; my dissertation was about feminist science fiction and feminist science, after all. Rachel Carson, Judith Merril, James Tiptree, Jr., and Octavia E. Butler are all relevant to that work. But my dissertation didn’t focus on any of these women and didn’t require biographical research anyway.

Certainly there’s also an element of admiration in my choices. All of these are biographies of women whose work I value: Rachel Carson’s scientific work as well as her writing about science; James Tiptree, Jr.’s brilliant and disturbing fiction, much of it reflecting on gender and sex; Judith Merril’s writing and editorial work and the way she helped shape science fiction as a genre; Octavia Butler’s revelations of power in her fiction (I especially love Dawn); Rosa Luxemburg’s fight for freedom and justice. And so on.

Another unfortunate pattern, however, seems to be that the biographies I have enjoyed most (is enjoyed the right word? perhaps not) are those of women who have led somewhat painful, constrained lives: Rachel Carson, James Tiptree, Jr., Octavia Butler, Shirley Jackson.

This pattern seems especially to be highlighted by Ruth Franklin’s recent biography of Shirley Jackson (Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life, 2016), which I just finished reading. Franklin emphasizes Jackson’s always strained relationship with her mother, her feeling of never fitting in anyplace, the hurtful ways her husband (scholar Stanley Hyman) treated her, frequently lukewarm responses to her fiction with a couple of significant exceptions, the tension she felt between her life as wife and mother and her life as writer, her late-in-life agoraphobia and serious anxiety, and her early death. Despite some real success as a writer and what seem like largely positive relationships with her children, Jackson’s life is marked by pain, anxiety, and a sense of her lack of freedom.

Reading her fiction with this in mind is illuminating. For instance, her work frequently circles around the supernatural. She typically stops short of relying on the supernatural as an explanation, but it is always a possibility, and it was something she studied for years.

Witchcraft, whether she practiced it or simply studied it, was important to Jackson for what it symbolized: female strength and potency. The witchcraft chronicles she treasured–written by male historians, often men of the church, who sought to demonstrate that witches presented a serious threat to Christian morality–are stories of powerful women: women who defy social norms, women who get what they desire, women who can channel the power of the devil himself. (261)

Shirley Jackson didn’t identify herself as a feminist, but she certainly fits into a feminist tradition. And Franklin points out how her observations about her own life, as well as her fiction, presage Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique. Like many women of the time, Jackson felt she had little to no control over her own life, little to no say in what was possible. Witchcraft, even as a thought experiment, allowed a window out of that world of control.

Later, Franklin’s discussion of The Haunting of Hill House includes a significant, telling detail about Jackson’s sense of the book and, potentially, about her sense of herself. At one point, Franklin observes that, in her notes, Jackson referred to a particular line as the “key line” of the novel. This line comes after Eleanor has been clutching Theodora’s hand in fear as she hears a child crying for help in the next room. When the lights go on, however, Theodora is not in bed with her but in the bed across the room: “Good God,” Eleanor says, “whose hand was I holding?” This line always gives me chills but I hadn’t considered it as central to the book in the way Jackson apparently did.

Franklin’s interpretation builds upon Jackson’s biography:

The people we hold by the hand are our intimates–parents, children, spouses. To discover oneself clinging to an unidentifiable hand and to ask “Whose hand was I holding?” is to recognize that we can never truly know those with whom we believe ourselves most familiar. One can sleep beside another person for twenty years, as Shirley had with Stanley [Hyman] by this point, and still feel that person to be at times a stranger–and not the “beautiful stranger” of her early story. The hand on the other side of the bed may well seem to belong to a demon. (414)

This is an intriguing reading that I will have to consider when I re-read the novel. Whether I find it convincing as a reading of this line or not, however, it is a compelling take on Shirley’s mindset and the feelings about her marriage she struggled with for many years.

Franklin’s biography – as in these two examples – provides potentially useful ways of reading Shirley Jackson’s work through her biography. The next instance raises questions about the limits of such readings, however.

Late in her life, when she became (temporarily) unable to leave her house, she found herself also unable to write. Franklin writes, tying Jackson’s anxiety to her relationship with Stanley, “It was an issue of control, she thought. How could she wrest control of her life, her mind, back from Stanley? And if she could, would her writing change?” (477). Jackson wrote in her diary at this time, “insecure, uncontrolled, i wrote of neuroses and fear and i think all my books laid end to end would be one long documentation of anxiety.” Her books do all seem to wrestle with anxiety and fear, and this is the source of much of their power. Would she write such books if she were a happier woman? If the world made room for her to be who she needed to be? Likely not. But what other books might she have written instead? Her books gather force from her anxiety and fear, but to leave it there is to discount her talent and skill as a writer. I suspect that a less unhappy version of Shirley Jackson could still have been a brilliant writer, but she might have spoken to different concerns. Or perhaps she would still have reflected these fears, for they are not unique to her or to her situation as a woman in an unhappy marriage in the mid-20th century.

Some of Jackson’s commentary on her own writing from earlier in her life indicates the broader reach of her ideas:

In a publicity memo written for Farrar, Straus around the time The Road Through the Wall appeared–only a month before “The Lottery” was written, if the March date on the draft is accurate–Jackson mentioned her enduring fondness for eighteenth-century English novels because of their “preservation of and insistence on a pattern superimposed precariously on the chaos of human development.” She continued: “I think it is the combination of these two that forms the background of everything I write–the sense which I feel, of a human and not very rational order struggling inadequately to keep in check forces of great destruction, which may be the devil and may be intellectual enlightenment.” In all her writing, the recurrent theme was “an insistence on the uncontrolled, unobserved wickedness of human behavior.” (224)

I take this as a reminder that although her personal demons may have shaped her writing, these feelings and themes are not unique to her or to people with similar problems. In fact, this quote seems to sum up horror fiction in a nutshell: rationality attempts (and fails) to control that which is beyond rational, humanity attempts (and fails) to control itself or its “wickedness.”

Shirley Jackson & Biography I don't often read biographies. I only have 12 books on my Goodreads shelf labelled "biography" that I've actually read, and a couple of those might be stretching the definition a bit (e.g., …

[iv-kplpt]

bodyguard au

plot summary: charlie’s a daughter of new york’s mayor. she moves to gotham; and needs a bodyguard. cue oswald cobblepot. or: don’t write during a ~12h long depression/anxiety attack. ~7,8k words rated m for some vague nsfw because of course, charlie and oz have a very sexual relationship

When Crispin - her father - became the mayor for the second time, she decided it's high time to leave the family nest. She didn't have any problems with her family - she loved them and they loved her; but she was young and wanted to see more of the world. To try truly living all by herself.

"I want to move out of New York.", she told her parents one evening, during a family dinner; and Crispin was first to respond, sighing sadly.

"Did I really ruin this city like my opponents predicted me to?" he asked sadly and she laughed, shaking her head. The city thrived during his terms of office; he was a good man, who cared for his people and was determined to make America's second most obnoxious city a place where everyone decent would feel at home.

"Of course not, dad, you're great at your job!" she assured him, and her mother nodded vigorously. "I just think it's time for me to become more independent, you know?"

"Do you have any particular place in mind, angel?" Eleanor - her mother - asked and Charlie nodded.

"Gotham City." she said and Crispin's face dropped.

Gotham had... Peculiar reputation. A masked vigilante was keeping the streets clean; it was the home of two of America's most well-known prisons; and its mayor was Hamilton Hill, one of her father's most staunch opponents.

"Why Gotham?" Crispin asked tearfully. "Of all the possibilities... Why Gotham?"

"Well, maybe I just want to fix your local PR image." she said with a wink. "I dunno, it just... Feels right."

"You are an adult, so there is nothing we can do to stop you..." Eleanor said with a sigh. "But maybe... Rethink this."

"I've done this many times already... And I see no cons. C'mon, I'm a big girl."

"Yes, but for us you'll forever be a kid." Crispin stated tenderly and she groaned quietly. "But alright, this is your life and I respect your decision. We'll get you a bodyguard."

"I have a bodyguard."

"A full-time one." Crispin said firmly. "And one that knows Gotham. I... Insist."

"Yeah." she said, thinking about how Gotham is filled with people like the Joker and Killer Croc. "That's... Probably a good idea."

"I have Bruce Wayne's private number. I will call him in the morning, see if he can recommend someone..."

"Bruce is still single." her mother said in a casual tone and Charlie turned her head to stare her down. "What? He's a wonderful young man! Very, very charming, very handsome..."

"I know, I've met him." she said anxiously. "But I'm not moving for him. I'm moving for myself."

"I'm just saying..." her mother said with a wink. "I'm sure he'll take you under his wings."

"I'll give him your regards." Crispin added and Charlie groaned even louder.

Bruce Wayne did have a recommendation for them - he personally vouched for his childhood friend, who recently returned to Gotham from Europe and had been making a name for himself as a bodyguard.

"I've arranged a meeting." Crispin informed her, as she was browsing houses for sale. "He will meet us here next week."

"I haven't even bought a house yet."

"He knows Gotham like the back of his hand. Maybe he'll recommend something."

"That's a lot of to expect from a bodyguard, you know."

"I want my daughter's bodyguard to be reliable in every aspect." Crispin said firmly and she laughed. "...I'm being too much, don't I?"

"Maybe a bit." she admitted, closing her laptop and putting it away. "Don't worry so much, it'll be fine. I'm just a daughter of the mayor, not the president."

"...yet."

"...well, at least remember to tell the press it was my idea." she giggled. "Drag me down with you. You already did that once, with that punching bag, remember?"

(She once gave him a punching bag, with printed out photos of his least favorite right-wing politicians as a birthday gift; and he told everyone about it.)

"Do you still get those death wishes?"

"Yeah, but I don't care. Those are just words. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never break me."

"Ah, I taught you well." he said tenderly, placing a kiss on her forehead. "Attagirl."

The meeting with a man recommended by Bruce Wayne took place one week later; they met him in their living room.

(He travelled all the way to New York just for this meeting. He seemed to be determined to make a good first impression.)

He showed up about half an hour early; her parents were supposed to be home soon and she was still in her bathrobe, putting dressing up off, when the intercom buzzed.

"Miss Charlie?" she heard the voice of Thomas, one of three receptionists that were working in the building where her family lived. "There is a man to see you-"

"Right." she said with a sigh. "Let him in, we've been expecting him. I'll let my parents know."

"Naturally."

She hastily headed to her bedroom and put some clothes on; she was just brushing her hair, when the doorbell rang.

She opened the door still holding her hairbrush; the first thing she saw was a yellow tie.

"You're early." she said, looking up, her eyes meeting her potential bodyguard's. "Mister..."

She paused for a moment; both because she realized her father never gave her his name, and because the young man was distractingly handsome.

"Cobblepot." he said eventually in a polite tone. "Oswald Cobblepot."

"You're early." she repeated, still staring at him, squeezing the handle of her hairbrush.

"I realize and I'm terribly sorry." he said apologetically, though she could see amusement in his eyes. "But in case of potential contracts like this I try to show up early to spend some time alone with the client first. I was sure I informed your father of this."

"Well, he never told me." she muttered, stepping aside. "In any case, please, come in. I'm... Charlie."

"So I've been told." he said, visibly amused, taking his coat off; she closed the door behind him and finally put the hairbrush down.

"Do you want tea? Or coffee? Or... Anything?" she asked, feeling ridiculously nervous.

(She always felt this way around people she found attractive. Good thing New York political scene was filled with bland people; never gave her an opportunity to embarass herself or her family.)

"Tea. Earl Grey, if it's an option."

"My mother loves it. We... Have a reserve." she muttered, turning around and heading to kitchen; he followed.

"I don't bite, you know." he said suddenly and she almost dropped the cup she was holding. "Am I making you anxious?"

"What if I say yes?"

"Then I won't take the job, because my clients are supposed to feel at ease with me around." he said very seriously and she turned around, absentmindedly noting how tall he is.

"It's nothing personal, mister Cobblepot. I... Always feel nervous around people I don't know." she lied through her teeth and he raised his brows. "...really."

"With all due respect... You're a terrible liar." he said sadly, shaking his head. "What can I do to make you feel comfortable?"

(not being so damn attentive and handsome would be a good fucking start.)

"Give me time." she said instead, forcing herself to look him in the eye. "Come on. Let's sit down. And talk. Like normal people do."

They did just that - and with time, she felt more at ease with him around; in fact she felt so at ease she never noticed half an hour had passed. And then an hour. And another one - and her parents still weren't home.

(Oswald was a good listener, and a very eloquent speaker; one habit of his she instantly fell in love with was using his hands to convey emotions. He had beautiful hands, scarred here and there; his fingers were long and slim and looking at his hands she simply thought yes.)

He told her a bit about himself; he had a very colorful past, and seemed to be a man of many talents. Good at hand to hand combat, decent with firearms, good cook, silver tongue, well-versed in literature and art.

"So, a Swiss army knife of a person." she said with a sigh. "That's... Impressive."

"And useful." he added. "So, miss... We've been talking for about two hours now. How do you feel about me?"

(are you single? please say yes.)

"Good." she said instead, reaching for her phone. "But what about your personal life?"

"I'm married to my job." he replied, and she couldn't tell whether he's serious or joking. "Meaning... No distractions. You would be my top priority, always."

(Her brain was quick to take it out of the professional context.)

"Alright, assuming my parents ever do get home... I'd say you're hired." she muttered, texting her dad. "I still have yet to buy a home though."

"Crest Hill." he replied instantly. "It's a suburb, a very safe, prestigious one. Clean air, lots of green, Wayne Manor nearby... Nothing bad ever happens there, and it's still close enough to the city proper."

"You really do know Gotham." she said impressed and he smiled. "Alright, I'm sold. I think I saw an offer on the internet..."

"And I know exactly whose offer it is." he said hastily and she tilted her head. "I can guarantee everything's in tip-top shape."

"You sound almost desperate to get me to move to Gotham." she said jokingly; and before he replied, her parents got home.

"We've been stuck in a traffic." they announced cheerfully and Charlie sighed, not believing a single word they were saying.

Oswald walked up to them to greet them; and even though they were talking quietly, she could hear him almost charming the pants off them both.

"So, I take everything's settled?" Crispin asked, walking into the room. "Charlie?"

"Uhm, I thought you want to talk to him first-"

"Well, you spent some time with him and you're fine, aren't you?" father interrupted her. "So?"

"You were the skeptical one, dad!"

"But I'm not anymore!" Crispin announced, sitting in his favorite chair. "Well, I'm trying to be more optimistic. Do you want me to look further or-"

"No, no." she interrupted him. "This one's alright. I... Think I like this guy."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." she said firmly. "Also, he was recommended by Wayne... A man who truly has his shit together. Finding me a bodyguard is off the list."

"Well, glad to hear it." Crispin said, visibly relieved. "Mister Cobblepot!"

"Yes?" Oswald asked politely, entering the room, Eleanor - who was giggling like a highschooler - right behind him.

"You are hired, young man." Crispin said, and Oswald's eyes lit up. "Follow me... Let's talk business."

Oswald and Crispin disappeared in the latter's home office, and Eleanor looked her daughter in the eye.

"I trust him." she announced, and Charlie tilted her head. "Do you trust my expertise?"

"You're my mother. Of course I trust you."

"He's charming, capable, and very devoted to his job. You'll be safe with him, and I will be able to sleep peacefully, knowing someone like young Oswald is watching after my child." Eleanor stated calmly and Charlie blinked a few times, her eyes suddenly very wet. "Oh, angel..."

"It's nothing." Charlie muttered, fighting off the urge to cry. "I love you."

"And I love you."

*** The process of moving went remarkably smooth - but not without some interest from the press. Everybody wanted to know why is mayor's young daughter - who's been described as charming and dazzling and simply delightful by everyone she ever crossed paths with - suddenly abandoning New York for the sake of Gotham, city pulsating with danger that loved night as fiercely as sharks love blood.

She bought her house from the last living member of the Crowe family, who decided it's high time to cut ties with Gotham; she redecorated and furnished it, minding the room that was going to become Oswald's lair; and before she knew it, the day had come and she was saying goodbye to her parents and making an excited post on her instagram.

(She had a lot of followers. Some friends - but generally, a lot of strangers, very interested in her personal life and everything that came with being the only child of a relatively well-known politician.)

During that time - between signing the contract and moving in - she've seen Oswald few more times; she made few short trips to Gotham, and he served as her tour guide each time. She really started to feel at ease around him; his presence was calming. She felt safe around him.

(There was still a matter of her finding him irresistibly hot - but she was sure she'll find a way out of this mess.)

And so a new chapter of her life began, just her, her home and her bodyguard, who seemed to be remarkably interested in her well-being.

"I can take care of myself, you know." she complained during her first proper evening in Gotham, as he was closely watching her in the kitchen. "You're supposed to make sure I don't die, you don't have to babysit me."

"Uh-uh." he said, as she almost cut herself with a knife. "Are you alright?"

(His concern seemed to be disturbingly genuine.)

"I'm a big girl, Oswald. I can take a little cut."

"Naturally." he agreed politely; his phone rang in his pocket and he kept looking at her with his calm, piercing eyes that always made her feel almost naked. "May I..?"

"You don't need my permission to pick up a phone, you know." she said with a nervous smile.

He only nodded.

"Bruce!" he said enthusiastically, still not taking his eyes off her. "Yes, yes I am. Oh, it's the mayor's daughter. No, not this mayor's, I wouldn't work for him." he said with disgust and she giggled, knowing he's talking about Hamilton Hill, the mayor of Gotham. "Yes, that one. Thank you again for that commendation, by the way- oh? Yes, of course."

For a moment he put the phone down.

"Bruce Wayne cordially invites you over for tea." he said politely. "Tomorrow."

"Alright, I have a grand total of zero plans anyway." she said with a shrug. "Give him my regards."

"Well, you heard the lady." Oswald said, after resuming the paused conversation. "Yeah, we will be there. Mmmm-hm. Give Alfred my regards. Tatty bye!"

He looked and sounded so relaxed, talking to Wayne; as opposed to how attentive and vigilant and serious he was around her.

(he said we.)

It felt odd, having someone who was not a close friend or a relative in her kitchen, watching her every move; and she was sure falling asleep knowing he's in the house will be even weirder.

(Though she wondered what is he like in the morning. Groggy? Peppy? And does he sleep on his stomach, or side, or back? Does he snore? So many questions.)

She was sure of one thing though - she liked watching him. He was easy on the eyes, with his rugged charm that worked ridiculously well with his custom made, elegant clothes. She'd pay to see him in something casual though.

"Do you only ever wear suits?" she blurted out suddenly and he raised his brows politely.

"Pardon?"

"I was wondering if you have any casual clothes, that's it." she shrugged, trying to play it off.

"I have clothes for every occasion." he replied politely and suddenly she decided she really wants to know what his pajamas look like.

Her first night in Gotham was a bit weird; mostly because she decided to give in to her hedonistic urges. Her bodyguard was hot, and it's been a long while since her last time with anybody; but he was also on the same floor and she could hear his quiet footsteps outside. And she was never a quiet type.

With her one hand tightly pressed against her mouth and her other hand between her legs she let go, closing her eyes and drowning in vivid imagination.

She woke up at an ungodly hour; and Oswald woke her up. He didn't do it on purpose; but his general presence so close to her bedroom was unnerving enough to make her wake up, wrap herself in a blanket and walk out, still half asleep.

The door to his bedroom was open and she absentmindedly peeked in; blinked a few times and felt a sudden wave of heat wash over her body.

There was something mesmerizing in the sight of him doing push ups shirtless, as she could see his arms and back and flashes of torso, marked with scars here and there. He had a beautiful body; and she couldn't take her eyes off him.

He realized she's there after a couple of minutes.

"Did I wake you up?" he asked apologetically, getting up and wiping sweat off his face with a nearby towel; she had to fight off an urge to touch him.

"Yes. No." she corrected herself instantly, yawning quietly. "I need to get used to it, I suppose. To you."

"Is everything... Alright?"

"Yeah." she muttered, looking away and feeling the redness on her face; she blushed easily. Damned redhead genes. "I'll... Go back to bed."

"Yeah." he replied, looking at her with a mix of concern and amusement. "You do that. Do you want me to wake you up?"

"Do this if I won't get up till noon." she replied, already hurrying down the corridor, feeling as if her heart is about to jump out of her chest.

It took her about an hour to fall asleep again; and when Oswald woke her up by gently knocking at her door she woke up desperately craving a cold shower.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked politely, as she shuffled past him, yawning and brushing her hair away from her face; she was wearing an old, very oversized tee from her father's first campaign. It reached her knees and she absentmindedly wondered if he can tell she's not wearing any underwear.

"Mmmmhmmm." she muttered in response, slowly walking down the stairs, desperate to get some food. "Christ. I hate mornings."

"It's noon." he pointed out, as she opened the fridge and stared at its contents. "Do you need... Help?"

"Yeah." she said, giving up and sitting down on the nearest chair. "I'm useless for an hour after waking up. Do you even get paid for this?"

"I am, actually." he said, walking past and briefly brushing her shoulder with his fingertips. "Your father told me everything about your habits... Everything he knew about, that is."

"Did he tell you I talk in my sleep?"

"He did." Oswald confirmed, standing with his back turned to her. "Don't worry, I've had chatty clients before. I can tell the difference between someone talking in their sleep and calling for help."

"I wasn't doubting it."

"I've also been informed of your dietary habits." he added and she groaned. "I know a lot about you."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, watching him, remembering the sight of the muscles on his back. "Did he show you my baby pictures?"

"No, but I'm sure they'd be heartcrushingly adorable." he said with a surprising smirk, setting a plate in front of her, and it took her a long moment to remember how to breathe. "Will that suffice?"

"Who needs a cook, when you're on hand." she muttered, glancing at the most perfect french toasts he made and he snickered in response and her heart skipped a beat at this sound and the way he slightly squinted his eyes and briefly bared his teeth.

(His teeth looked sharp, especially the canines.)

They met Bruce Wayne this afternoon; he took them in the patio of his enormous mansion. Oswald greeted him like an old friend he was; warmly, honestly, enthusiastically.

It was all gone, replaced with stoic professionalism when he turned around to introduce Charlie; but Bruce Wayne only waved his hand and shook his head.

"We've met already." he told Oswald. "During... Crispin's first campaign, isn't it?"

"Correct." she confirmed, smiling nervously. "But I was a different person back then."

"Yes, I can tell." he muttered, briefly glancing at her hand, where an engagement ring used to be back when they first met.

"What brings you to Gotham, Charlie?" he asked, after they sat down and his butler - Alfred, Charlie remembered - was pouring them jasmine tea.

"I want to have a life of my own." she said shortly, stirring her tea and inhaling the aroma. "Also I'm sure dad could use some positive PR here."

"Ah, being unable to escape from the family business... How painfully relatable." Bruce said with a smirk and Oswald snorted quietly. "Well, do let me know if you'll ever need something. Your father has my full support and I'd do everything to see Hamilton Hill squirm with you around."

"I can't believe he still runs this town." Oswald muttered, turning a biscotti between his fingers. "When will someone replace this guy?"

"Who knows." Wayne said with a mysterious smile. "Maybe sooner than later."

"He's been the mayor since... Forever." Oswald said, turning his head to face Charlie. "He was the mayor when we were kids. And it was... What, twenty years ago? Huh, Bruce?"

"Yeah, about that."

"My father was this close to replacing him." Oswald muttered suddenly, absentmindedly crushing the biscuit with his fingers. "This. Close."

"I know, Oz." Wayne said quietly, and heavy silence fell; Charlie nervously sipped her tea, wondering what exactly are they talking about.

They spent rest of the afternoon on pleasant conversation about nothing and everything; Bruce's butler chimed in a few times, and he seemed to enjoy bickering with Oswald. They both had sharp wits, and were not afraid to use them; and Bruce and Charlie stared in silence.

(Oswald's tongue was sharp like a razor and his smile was theatrically, infuriatingly condescending. She glanced at him dreamily, her chin resting against the back of her hand, her elbow on the table; she wanted to wipe this smile off his face, preferably by kissing him.)

"He's always been a show-off." Bruce muttered to her eventually, and she giggled, still staring at Oswald. "I'm glad to see this hasn't changed."

"That's the first time I see him so... At ease." she said quietly, glancing at Wayne. "He's very prim and proper around me."

"He's a professional. But give him some time. Once he realizes he can afford it... He's going to loosen up."

"You know, I can hear you two just fine." Oswald said suddenly. "I know you're gossiping about me."

"Of course we are." Bruce said nonchalantly, as Charlie's cheeks turned red. "You are an incredible gossip material, you know."

"Oh, I do. I have the looks, charisma and an aura of mystery... I'm the perfect gossip material." he said with a self-satisfied grin and Charlie suddenly realized he's very probably very aware of the effect he has on her.

But - as the time flew and she was slowly settling down - neither of them brought this subject up. There simply was no good way to do it; so they kept on living. Oswald was slowly loosening up around her, and she was begrudginly fostering her growing crush on him, only really letting go during the night, letting her imagination run wild, project all of her wants onto him, or: the imaginary version of him.

It wasn't just the two of them all the time; she was slowly building her new social life. She gave an interview, and quickly found common grounds with two journalists that were the question asking part; and Oswald personally vouched for both of them, assuring her they are both ethical and earnest.

(He knew both of them from his previous contracts; and he was quick to assure her he's not going to sell them any information, any secrets, any "spicy stories about what kinds of underwear can be found in the laundry bin" and her face turned red after she started to frantically try and figure out whether he somehow came across her more scandalous lingerie... And if he liked it if yes.)

Being a daughter of Crispin Schiller-Aberdeen, Charlie was seen as exotic curiosity of sorts - so she received quite a lot of invitations. She was very selective; but she did make an appearance at few fancy balls and fundraisers and dinner parties, her bodyguard always few steps behind, watching like a hawk, waiting for someone to slip, to make a wrong gesture. Most people ignored him; they were used to the presence of bodyguards. Some tried to chat him up, mostly old friends; but only mayor Hill manage to get an actual reaction out of him.

It took Charlie about a month to meet her father's loudest critic. She only had this doubtful pleasure once, years earlier, and back then she was in company of her family and fiance; this time it was just her and Oswald behind her, his eyes scanning the crowd, looking for potential danger.

"I'm going to talk to the mayor." she informed him suddenly and he groaned. "Oh, come on. He's not going to kill me... At least not in front of the people."

"Believe it or not, but I don't like him." he muttered, as they were walking in Hill's direction. "Slimey bastard."

"Oh, Oswald. Be nice." she whispered, blindly reaching behind and very gently brushing the back of his hand with her fingertips; that was actually the first time she touched her and it sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. "It's my show, after all."

He hadn't replied; but she could feel his presence behind her, as she approached Hamilton Hill, smiling brightly, glass of champagne in hand.

"Good evening, mayor Hill!" she greeted him cheerfully and he actually winced. "Long time no see!"

"Miss Schiller-Aberdeen, what a... Magnificent surprise." he muttered as she was staring him down. "How's your... Father?"

"Thriving." she replied nonchalantly, taking a sip. "He sends his regards."

Hill sighed and reached out to put his hand on his shoulder - a normal gesture, that happened many times, with many people.

"Don't." Oswald suddenly said firmly, stepping between her and the mayor. "Do not."

"Oh. Cobblepot." the mayor winced again, trying to get past him. "You and your conspiracy theories again?"

"She's under my protection, mayor." he said quietly, not taking his eyes off Hill's face. "And this is the closest I can allow you to be."

"This is insane!" the mayor claimed, rolling his eyes theatrically. "What is the meaning of this?!"

"Oh, you know." she said, nervously glancing at tense Oswald. "Contract details. Some bad blood."

Before any of them said anything else, Oswald - without a word - turned around and walked away. After a short moment of ignoring Hill's blabbering she hurried after him.

"Oswald!" she called out nervously as they reached an empty corridor.

He suddenly stopped and she bumped into him. He turned around and put his hands on her arms and looked her in the eye.

"Stay away from Hill." he said firmy and her heart was beating so fast and hard she was sure she's about to have a heart attack.

(His face was few inches from hers and she fought off the urge to lean in and kiss him. He looked angry and tense and pained and so, so beautiful.)

"Alright." she said softly and he sighed. "I will, I swear."

"I... Apologize." he muttered eventually, letting her go, taking few steps back and running his fingers through his hair. "That was highly unprofessional."

"I don't mind, you know." she said hesitantly. "Just... Be honest with me from now on. I prefer it. I'm not made of glass."

"No." he said carefully, looking at her in a weird, almost tender way. "Whatever you're made from... It most certainly is not glass."

Their almost-moment had been ruined by an unfamiliar voice, coming from behind them."

"Oswald?" the voice said. "I'll be damned!"

"Hello, Louise." he said, instantly turning his attention to the newcomer. "It's been a while."

The woman's name was Louise, Louise McDonagh. Oswald used to work for her, few years back, when she was just starting her law career and was working on a case against one of Gotham's many gangsters; and they seemed to be good friends.

She seemed nice and sharp, but she did ruin a moment.

"Oswald..." Charlie said eventually, and he instantly turned his attention back to her. "I'm tired. Let's go home."

"Naturally. Louise..."

"I'll call you." she said, waving her hand. "I still have your number. Go, take care of her. ...and maybe keep her away from Hill for the time being."

"That's my plan, yes." he said with a faint smile. "See you 'round, Lou."

"See ya."

"Someone important?" Charlie asked as they were on their way to her car.

"Assistant district attorney. She works under Dent."

"That's... Not what I meant."

"...oooh." he said after a short pause. "Well, she's a... Friend, I suppose. But I'm married to my job."

She nodded silently; he opened the door for her and she sank into the backseat, sighing quietly.

Only after starting the car he cleared his throat.

"Lou's not my type anyway." he added quietly and she looked at the back on his head.

"Who is your type though?"

He looked at her in the rear mirror.

"You don't have to know." he said finally and she felt disappointed; she was expecting another answer.

(She was hoping for him to say you.)

*** Her crush on him didn't go away during the following month, in fact - it only got worse. She often found herself enamored with small, irrelevant things - the way he'd tilt his head very slightly when listening to her, the way he'd wistfully raise his brows, or the way he'd help her get out of the car. Small things.

And the fact he finally really loosened up around her didn't help; he'd sometimes engage her in a battle of wits or sting her pride with a snarky comment or make fun of how short she is without her heels. It all felt good - like being around a good friend - but was also creating a fake image of closeness.

She also discovered he looks very hot when he's being an asshole. There was something in his eyes, some mischievous spark; something in the way his lips curled slightly. Something in the way he tilted his head and squinted slightly.

(One morning he firmly refused to make her scrambled eggs until she said pretty please. That was disturbingly hot as well; not the fact he was refusing to make her breakfast, but the fact he made her practically beg. She spent rest of the day rethinking her life.)

Eventually the tension that had been building up reached its peak; but instead of crashing and burning, things went in an interesting direction.

It happened about three months after she moved to Gotham, and their contract began; three months of accidental touches, cold showers, loosening up slowly and furtive, infatuated glances no one else was supposed to notice.

Three months of getting off with one hand covering her mouth; that one night she decided she's a big girl after all, surely she can control herself and just be quiet.

Turns out - she could not. Or maybe she was quiet and it was a matter of timing; a matter of him wanting to ask her something and knocking at her door and thinking she simply didn't hear him, because it wasn't a late hour.

She opened her eyes at some point; and froze, one hand between her legs, the other one cupping her breast, as Oswald was standing in the doorway, staring.

He wasn't disgusted. Or appaled. Or shocked. He simply... Looked at her and her body and probably could hear the sounds stuck in the air between them.

"Do you need a hand?" he asked and she blinked.

"W-what?" she asked feverishly. "What?"

"I heard my name, you know." he said, crossing his arms on his chest and leaning against the doorframe, still staring at her. "On your tongue and on your fingers..."

"What if I told you to get out?" she asked, her heart pounding. Oswald snickered.

"I would get out." he stated lazily. "But is this what's going to happen?"

She hesitated only for a moment.

"No." she almost whispered. "Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked without thinking and her bodyguard raised his eyebrows.

"How about I show you instead?" he asked quietly and she nodded and rest of the night was a blur, an avalanche of sensations.

(He turned out to be an asshole in bed as well; but she didn't mind, she didn't mind at all.)

"Now that was unprofessional." she muttered quietly, lying on her side with her back to him and he only chuckled in response. "Good Lord."

"Mmmm?" he asked, brushing her shoulder with his scruffy chin; she turned around to face him, their faces  inches away from each other.

"I won't tell anyone." she said hesitantly, trying to ignore the fact just how much she enjoys the simple sensation of lying right next to him, naked, vulnerable, safe. "Okay? I'll keep it... To myself."

"I... Appreciate it." he said carefully and for a moment she thought there is something in his eyes, something disappointed, something- "But next time... Just tell me. I'm always happy to help."

(The weird spark was gone, replaced with the usual glimmer.)

"Next time I'm locking my door." she muttered and he scoffed; but then he laughed and kissed her one last time and got up.

"How's your back?" she asked as he was picking his clothes up. "I uh... Kind of went overboard with the scratching."

"I like to bleed out a bit from time to time." he said nonchalantly. "I'd be more worried about your bedsheets."

"I have a washing machine."

"And I know how to get blood out of the fabric. We'll manage."

And they never talked about it again - until it happened again, two weeks later. And again.

Suddenly they became very physical with each other. Oh, they were perfectly proper in public - nobody would ever guess anything. Not Louise, not the journalists, not Bruce Wayne, not her parents. He was polite and a bit stiff and official; but in private he'd sometimes turn to her with that weird spark in his eye and say "Hey, doll." Or she'd ask him to help her out with something, biting her lip and tilting her head. Or he'd steal a kiss from her or she'd casually inform him she's not wearing any underwear (and hadn't been for the past ten hours, her casual coffee date with Vicki Vale included).

They did that a lot - and they never really... Talked about it. Because there was no "they" to speak of - they were a sudden string of one night stands, some very thin strings attached.

(Even if she simply enjoyed his company. And personality. And being in his arms. And listening to his voice. And hearing his heartbeat and making him laugh and existing next to him.)

It felt like with every occurence, her emotions for Oswald were becoming more and more complicated - but she promised him she'll keep it a secret, and so she had nobody to complain to, nobody to consult.

*** It was all very enjoyable, up until the moment she realized she - accidentally - fell in love. She left her crush unattended for a few days, and it accidentally turned into something bigger.

(He was snarky and attentive and beautiful and was making her feel alive.)

Then it became... Slightly less enjoyable. She knew sex and love are not inherently connected, and that sometimes it's good to enjoy the physicality with no emotional attachement - but she couldn't help but mix those two up. Around Oswald, she was vulnerable; willingly, because she knew he wouldn't take an advantage of it.

(He was making her feel safe and cared for and beautiful.)

And it was all confusing; her heart and body wanted the same, but only one of them could get it. Beggars can't be choosers, she decided; if sex was all she could get - fine.

(She could pretend. She was a decent actress; and if she closed her eyes and listened to their breaths and moans, she could almost believe they are in love. She could lie to herself, for a moment; and it was a very well-crafted lie, based on gentle kisses and caresses.)

At that point, Oswald already knew about her short lived engagement; Hamilton fucking Hill told him one evening. Or: he asked her what happened to her ring, to her wonderful partner, to their plans?

She told him to mind his own business and Oswald politely warned him to not try anything. He seemed to be unbothered; why would he be bothered? Everyone had a past, and it's not like she was cheating on anyone with him.

(He did look at her slightly differently though; but she couldn't describe the difference. Something in his eyes had changed; and the first night after he found out she was very determined to make this thing go away. To make him look at her same way he did before finding out.)

So - she had fallen in love, and only had sex as a substitute, only sex and brief moments after, when she could close her eyes and pretend. With his hand in her hair and his arms around her and their breaths dancing together and their heartbeats mixed - she could pretend.

It went on like this for a few months; few hours of fun, no emotional strings attached, back to normal, back to friendly bickering.

And then he took a bullet for her.

It's not like she forgot who she is during those months - the world never let her forget. People demanded her opinion on various issues, wished her death, were claiming she's their role model. Sometimes strangers would approach her on the street and Oswald would then intervene, always vigilant, always concerned.

(He sent quite a few creeps to the hospital, while getting only few bruises himself; she'd later kiss those bruises, same way he was kissing her freckles.)

But one day, someone actually tried to kill her; it was another fundraiser and she was enjoying herself and chatting with Louise and Vicki and he was nearby, looking more anxious and quiet than usual; and then before she knew it he pushed her out of the way and there was a hole in his chest and he was bleeding.

"Oswald!" she called out, dropping her glass of wine, as he heavily fell to the ground, his eyes wide open, his face deadly pale.

Someone called an ambulance. Someone called the cops; and she called her mother, her fingers trembling, her voice shaking.

"Mom..." she said breathily and somehow Eleanor instantly knew. She was at work when Charlie called, in her private clinic; and there was no time to waste.

"You go with him, I'll be there in an hour." she said, as Charlie was trying to muffle her sobs.

(Nobody questioned why is she so shaken over her bodyguard taking a bullet. Or: maybe everyone questioned it, but nobody knew how to ask?)

Her mother and her deft hands arrived on time, and Oswald was handed to her, and he was in good hands; all she could do was wait, wait and cry a bit, her clothes stained with Oswald's blood.

The police questioned her there; detective Harvey Bullock was asking the questions she could not answer. She didn't know anything, she didn't see anything - all she knew was that she's scared and sad.

Her father and Louise showed up eventually, equally shocked; Crispin was also angry.

"It's not his fault!" Charlie said instantly, after realizing her father's actually furious. "He saved my life!"

"I'm not angry at him, poor sod was just doing his job!" Crispin stated, walking in circles. "I'm angry at a son of a bitch who pulled the trigger. Are you sure you're fine?"

"I just need to take a shower, that's all." she muttered, hiding her face in her hands.

Louise carefully put her hand on her shoulder.

"He'll be fine." she said."He's strong and it was just a one bullet. It's nothing."

(In that moment, she was very close to telling them the truth. About being in love.)

Eventually, Eleanor left the operating room; she raised her hand before anyone said anything.

"He'll be fine." she said. "He'll recover. The bullet missed anything vital, so mostly it was just painful. And bloody, but it's nothing a transfusion can't fix. And no, you can't talk to him. He's... Out. Try tomorrow."

"Mom..." Charlie said faintly and Eleanor sighed.

"I know, angel. Come on. We'll get you something for your nerves."

After they were left alone - Eleanor managed to find someone willing to let them borrow their office for a time being - they sat down and looked at each other in silence.

"He's important to you." her mother said finally and Charlie looked away. "Isn't he?"

"He's a good friend." she muttered, thinking about all those times he held her in his arms. "Okay?"

"Is he good to you?"

"...he's getting paid for being good to me."

"This is not going to be another heartbreak, is it?" Eleanor asked quietly and Charlie sniffed quietly.

"It's not like this." she said finally, lying to herself and to her mother at the same time. "There is nothing between us, except for the... Job-related stuff. And I... Wasn't expecting to see someone get shot right in front of me."

"Charlie..."

"What?!" she snapped and looked up, to see her mother's gentle smile.

"He is a very attractive young man." Eleanor stated and Charlie gasped. "Is he single?"

"Mom!"

"Oh, I'm just joking! ...i think."

"MOM."

"Darling, I love your dad too much to hurt him like this. ...plus Oswald could be my son. Not quite my forte."

"Jesus Christ, mom."

*** Oswald left the hospital two weeks later - and she spent those fourteen days in Gotham. She refused to come back to New York, even for such a short period; she wanted to be next to him. She felt like she owes him that much.

They let her visit him for the first time two days after the operation; she showed up with his favorite pillow, an anxious smile and her temporary protector behind her back.

"I am glad you're alive." she said quietly, sitting on a chair next to his bed; and he sighed.

"Yeah, I guess I'm glad too. Are you alright?"

"Not even a scratch."

"Did they catch... Whoever pulled the trigger?"

"Not yet, no. Though I've heard Batman's interested as well, so I suppose... It's just a matter of time." she said with a shrug and Oswald winced. "They'll catch him, Oswald."

"I don't feel right, just... Sitting here." he admitted suddenly. "Are you in good hands?"

"Yeah, the temporary guy is alright... But he's not you." she finished hesitantly. "I miss you."

"Oh, already?" he asked with a smirk. "My God, Charlie, it's been less than a week."

"Yeah, well, my home's just not the same without you." she admitted, nervously playing with the sleeve of her blouse. "Does it make sense?"

"It does." he said, looking at her weirdly tenderly; or maybe his eyes were simply hazy due to painkillers. "Kiss me, Charlie."

"He'll see..." she muttered, glancing in the direction of her current bodyguard, who was standing on the corridor, and she could see him through the glass; he was looking in the opposite direction.

"No, he won't." Oswald insisted. "Come on. Just... Just a quick peck. For a fallen hero."

She gave him a quick peck. And another one. And few more.

"Damn." he muttered, his eyes closed. "I need to start getting shot more often, it might actually be worth it."

"Don't joke about it."

"Ugh. Fine." he said theatrically, and she smiled against her will.

She visited him a few more times, and he always managed to get a kiss from her; but eventually, he came back home.

At first she was simply enjoying his presence back in her life, really. The fact he was there when she looked; but eventually... Something snapped.

Being freshly out of the hospital didn't stop him from anything; and as they were lying in bed and as she was tracing the scar on his chest with her fingertips and as he was marking her neck with kisses, she turned her head and muttered "I love you".

She didn't mean to; really. She meant to say something completely different, like "I'm glad you're back" or "I missed you" or "I want you". Completely, absolutely, not at all meaning the same exact thing as "I love you".

"What?" he muttered back, raising his head and looking at her paralyzed face. "What did you just say?"

"...nothing?" she asked in response, feeling like the Grim Reaper was knocking at her door and closing her eyes. "Don't stop."

"Charlie..." he said softly, gently brushing her face with his fingertips; and this tender touch coming from someone who was dangerously close to death because of her almost made her tear up. "Look at me."

"No." she refused weakly. "And you don't look at me."

"But I love looking at you." he whispered back and her heart stopped. "And I love you."

"...what?"

Oswald Cobblepot snickered quietly and told her the truth; about how he first heard about her few years back, when her father was first running for mayor and she and Eleanor were helping him and she was engaged.

Oswald claimed for him it was love at first sight - he read every article that as much as mentioned her and followed her social media accounts; but never interacted. He was fine with having just an obscure, impossible celebrity crush; but then few years later, a miracle happened. Bruce Wayne called him, asking him if he'd be interested in this gig, as a bodyguard for her - and he didn't hesitate, because it would be a dream come true.

(And then he had absolutely no idea how to act around her, because he never planned that far ahead; and then an even bigger miracle happened and he accidentally heard her that one night, moaning out his name.)

"So." he said eventually, probably still staring at her; her eyes were still closed. "We good?"

"Kiss me." she demanded instead of responding. "Now."

"Mmmm... But where?" he muttered, and instead of replying or opening her eyes she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, kissing him deeply, just the way she did many times before; but something was different this time 'round. Not better or worse  - just different.

But it was alright. She liked this different; same way she liked the sudden difference in a way he touched her.

Her heart and body wanted the same and finally, they both got it.

[cb150681]

Jaspenor Story - IN BETWEN

Chapter 2 - "The Text"

Read on FF.net on ao3 and on wattpad

Queen Helena stormed out from King Robert's room, stumbling upon Jasper on her way. She looked at him with contempt and spit her words. "Good Luck in there! Jasper!"  

Jasper smiled and walked in the room, not acknowledging the despite as she said his name. She was upset and he always was one of her favourite punching bags, so he didn't give her the pleasure of him returning the rudeness and entered the room. 

King Robert was at his desk reading what appeared to be a newspaper, without even facing Jasper he asked. "How many surveillance cameras are around the library?" 

 Jasper took a moment to think, "If I recall right there are three, each one facing one door. May I ask why your Majesty?" 

King Robert smiled and still not facing him said. "Yes you may ask but that doesn't mean I have to tell you! Mind your manners Mister Frost. You can go!"  

Jasper felt the heat in his stomach burn, the king was trying to get on his nerves since Eleanor left. But Jasper was not going to give him reasons to fire him so he turned his back before he excused himself and left closing the door behind him but King Robert added a last order. "And call Mr. Hill here please!" 

Jasper didn't give himself the bother to answer him, just nodded and left the room.       

It's had been two days since Eleanor left, two days that Jasper didn't sleep for more than three to four hours. He kept playing in his head ideas on how to keep in touch with her. He wanted her to enjoy this time of her life but the memory that she was with that Sebastian guy just make him sick. And she did send him that text that he read and read so many times. He answered back but she didn't return. "I will fight for US" he texted her but he got nothing in return. Basically, he felt like a school girl for the number of times that he checked his phone, day and night. But she had been radio silent since she left. 

Jasper was looking at the monitors, feeling his body go numb. The lack of sleep was finally taking over him, he let out a yawn and didn't notice Mr. Hill enter the surveillance room, making him jump in surprise when he asked, "So how long are you not sleeping? Four, five days?" 

Jasper rubbed his face hard trying to look more awake. "More or less, yes!" Releasing a sigh he added, "Basically I spend the nights tossing around the bed trying to figure out a way to make her accept me back."    

Mr. Hill smiled at his commitment. "you have to give her time mate! She needs it!" 

"Yeah, I know!"

"Did you even tell her how you feel about her before she left?" 

Jasper smirked. "Yes, I did! I said I loved her and that I was the one for her!" 

Mr. Hill nodded, "Bold! And?" 

"And what? I watched her leave with that prince or something and did nothing because she will hate me even more if I did something to stop them." 

"Look I'm still not OK with the way you handle things…" 

"I already said I'm sorry!" Jasper cut him off. 

Mr. Hill paused and faced him before speaking. "Jasper at this time a sorry is not enough. Not for me and apparently not for the princess either. By now you were supposed to trust us, but you don't learn and I assure you that you are lucky if she is even talking to you! But as I was saying I'm still not totally ok with you and your manners but I'm a soft heart and a big shipper of your love so maybe, just maybe you should keep with the letter thing." 

Jasper stood silent for awhile. "I don't know, she said she send me a letter on Christmas but there was no letter in our secret spot. Lost me completely when she told me what was in the letter. And guess it gets on my nerves the fact that I will not be able to read it." 

"Use another spot. I think it's a good way to show her how much you want her back. And I can't believe that I'm telling you this!" Mr. Hill finished waving his head and smiling to himself.  As he looked back at the monitors he noticed Prince Liam leave the Palace through the tunnels. "And you better go because your friend is heading to his extracurricular activities again." He said showing Jasper the image of Liam going out with a black hoody with his head covered.  

Jasper didn't say a word, just turned his back and left. He was indeed the King's security detail but he was not leaving his friend going to his fights alone. Who knew what could happen in that place. 

When Mr. Hill was alone in the room he tried to look for the Christmas day footage. The King had asked him to delete that day on the cameras around the library with no reason or justification. After all, he was the King and he could do what you wanted and unlike his father, he liked to impose his sovereignty and didn't like to be questioned about it. 

But Mr. Hill was an old fox and he knew better so he informed his majesty the King that the records had been deleted but he kept one copy for him to investigate when he had time. 

He watched the footage on fast forward to see if something strange popped up but he didn't see anything strange or remarkable, just the Princess entering and then leaving, some staff members and King Robert. 

Mr. Hill put the footage aside but moments later was looking at the videos again, because King Robert seemed to be watching the princess in a strange way, almost like he was spying on her. Playing the footage again he noticed some movement inside the room that was impossible to see clearly because of the angles of the cameras. But Mr. Hill was almost sure that someone was in the library right after Princess Eleanor left. Now he was almost sure that someone had taken that letter from their spot and he could be wrong but he was almost certain that King Robert was the one to blame. 

Eleanor was amazed by Sebastian's property in West Sussex. It looked like a little palace facing the sea, literally on the beach, with an amazing view to one of the most beautiful sunsets she ever saw. She was thrilled with this opportunity, and she owed a lot to Sebastian for it. Her head was bubbling of ideas on how to furnish it and give that old house a new and fancy look of a modern palace. 

They had arrived two days before and she had already planned the guidelines of the renovation project, and she couldn't be more excited about it, but it was bittersweet. She felt good and useful and productive like she never felt before but when they arrived and Sebastian showed her the house and then the backyard with that amazing view the only thing she wanted was to have Jasper by her side.  

"Still can't unplug yourself from home, right?" Sebastian asked noticing her face falling flat and a sad smile taking over her lips.  

She didn't answer him but travelled back to the Palace and to Jasper mostly.   

Sebastian took her silence as "I don't want to talk about it" so he let her be.  

The village nearby, Rustington was a sweet place, small and charming but the beach was a little crowded for her taste. Although she really was enjoying this first spot. "I really like this place you know? Really good choice for my first work!" She said cheerily, trying to put aside the feeling that was consuming he. She somehow felt she was doing something wrong and that she was leaving something important behind.  

Sebastian gave her a big smile and hugged her quick. "Glad you like it! And do you already have ideas for the house?"  

"I have yes! I have a lot of ideas actually! When can we start?" She asked enthusiastically. 

Sebastian let loose a laugh and walked inside the house to listen to Eleanor's ideas. 

The house staff received them with the proper ways for a Princess and Eleanor was not surprised by that, after all, Sebastian was a prince too and she felt very pampered by them. 

At the end of the day when the sun was almost going down, she came to a little outside round terrace that had the most amazing view of the house. For that place, she had planned a breakfast corner. Looking to the sea and listening to the waves she felt herself relaxing and thinking about Jasper again. This place was so beautiful and she really wanted him with her, as upset as she was with him and no she was not ready to forgive him or to have him back. She missed him like hell though.  

When the sunset started she stood and tried to memorize that image like she was taking a picture. It was so so beautiful. She felt a single tear fall down her cheek and her hand unconsciously grabbed the void where Jasper's hand should have been. When she realized what she was doing she went back inside, wiping away two more tears. Why did he always chose the dumbest and wrong way to solve his problems? Why did he still not trust her? The questions swirled in her head.  

She felt conflicted, picking up her phone several times to text him or even call him the last three days. But she never did, something stopped her every time. She didn't know if it was her pride or her being so hurt or even the fact that Sebastian was right there always smiling and making an effort to distracted her from her demons. The truth was she didn't do it! But she wanted to so bad. 

On the second night, she had the feeling that someone was in her room and when she turn on the light Sebastian was sitting on a chair with his hands resting on his legs that were crossed, he looked like a statue. 

"I heard you talking so I came to check on you," He said in a whisper. 

She rubbed her face, trying to wake herself. "What was I saying?" 

Sebastian laughs lightly. "Apparently you were fighting your security detail… again!"

She looked down at her hands. "Well, I have a lot of things to say to him apparently."  

"Hope this time away help you fix that!" 

She nodded, "Well me too! Sebastian?" 

He raised his head facing her, he looked sleepy but his smile was still there. "Yes, Princess!" 

"Eleanor, please! And thank you was what I wanted to say. Thank you for this opportunity, for your patience and mostly for the respect that you have for me and my messy head!" 

He got up from the chair he was sitting on and sat on the bed close to her. He reached for her hand and gave it a little squeeze. 

"You're welcome! And now go to sleep ok! Good night."

She was restless in the bed for a while after he left, trying to not think of Jasper,  until she finally fell asleep but he haunted her dreams all night long! When she woke up the next morning she felt a little more relaxed than the day before maybe the conversation that she had during her sleep were enough to clear her heart.

When she looked at her phone to check the hour she saw a message.

"Sarah Alice wants you to send her pictures from the places where you are working!"

Eleanor grinned, remembering her little friend, she got up and from the window of her room she took a picture and sent it to James. "Here is the place where I'm working this day little friend!"

And before she hit send it came to her that maybe, just maybe James could show the text to Jasper so, out of the blue decided to put there, something that only he could understand. "Still here" She added with two emojis.

So this one wasn't easy for me so let me know your thoughts!

Once again thank you @justkillingtimewhileiwait 😘

[towncalledkingdom]

The first time I rebelled I was thirteen. I waited until I heard my father’s snores from the bedroom and saw the final light go out. Eleanor walked in through the dark, as she always did, to stand over us for a few minutes to make sure we were sleeping. My little brother’s breath whistled in and out of a nostril. I did not attempt to fake sleeping noises. Instead, I did what I always did. I kept my mouth shut and made sure not to move my eyes behind my eyelids. The hyperconsciousness of my facial muscles always made me nervous. I fought to keep the tension from my jaw.

Eleanor stood there for a long time, giving me the distinct impression that she was considering taking my life. Finally she turned and left, leaving the door open behind her. Footsteps. The bedroom door at the end of the hall opened and closed. I continued to wait. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty. The door opened and shut once more, quieter this time, confirming my theory that Eleanor had been attempting to lure out any stray children that might be waiting for her to enter her bedroom. That was the trick with her- you could never stop playing her game. You had to be forever one step ahead, forever planning for the next layer of danger.

I waited another hour and then crept silently out my window into the chilly night. I shouldn’t have left, really. What I wanted wasn’t worth risking Eleanor’s wrath should I be discovered missing. I had sewn a secret pocket into the inside of my pants, a place to stash items I feared she might take from me. Needless to say I never washed these pants. I put them with the rest of my dirty clothes and removed them just before wash day. Three Phylla Fighter cards wrapped in protective plastic tapped lightly against my leg as I crept into the trees. I was continuously glancing back at the house, ears straining for the slightest indicator of trouble.

There was a little cave I had discovered just beyond the edge of the forest near our house. It’s entrance was in the side of a large hill, almost entirely concealed by an outcropping of rock. What appeared to be a thin crack in the stone veered off sharply toward the back, opening into a chasm only accessible by a small body. This is where I stashed my treasures.

I stopped midway into squeezing into the crack when a sound spooked me. A voice was coming from inside.

“I can’t believe it’s really you!” whispered the voice urgently.

“I can’t believe you found us. What on earth are you doing here?” whispered another. This voice I recognized. I pushed myself the rest of the way in, stumbling as my foot stuck in the narrow cleft in the floor.

The first speaker let out a startled yelp as I tumbled in. The second voice was unforgiving. “What are you doing here?” It demanded.

“Madison, please, I didn’t know you guys knew where I was putting my things,” I said. She stared at me blankly, illuminated by a dim lantern she held. “Your things?”

“Nevermind,” I stammered. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“I asked you first.”

I sighed. Madison Washington, my stepsister, had only traces of her mother’s fierce features. The sharpening at the edges of her eyes, and the way her brow quickly sunk when she was about to make demands was all Eleanor. Her dark skin, curls, and ability to smile without being terrifying must have come from her father.

A girl I had not met stood next to Madison. She was short and wore an enormous pair of circular glasses edged in thick white plastic. A tangle of curls spilled from the top of her head, bouncing as she glanced between Madison and I. A heavy backpack rested at her feet, torn in several places and covered in bits of bark and dead leaves. She flashed me a nervous smile. “Hello, cousin!” she ventured, reaching out a hand.

I stared at it, unable to register the greeting. “Hello,” I managed with a nod. She left her hand in the air.

I looked at Madison. She looked at me like I was an idiot. “It’s called a handshake,” she said, slowing the syllables around “handshake” to make sure I felt adequately stupid. “Polite people shake it.”

I blushed furiously and shook the girl’s hand, wiping the sweat on my pants as soon as I let it drop. “I, uh. I need to hide something in here,” I said. “Close your eyes!”

Madison rolled her eyes but raised a hand to her face. “Fine. You have thirty seconds.” The other girl made no move to cover hers.

I scrambled over behind a large rock, located a smaller rock and moved it aside. Beneath it a hole had been stuffed full of plastic bags and oddities. I placed my new treasure directly in the center, hoping to reduce the odds of moisture damaging the cards. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew they would be destroyed anyway.

I began to rise and was startled off of my feet as I came face-to-face with the girl. Her eyes shone in the dark. “Trading cards?” she asked.

“Shhh! Just stay away from my stuff." She pushed past me, ignoring my indignant protest, and moved the rock that hid my treasures.

She sat down, butt right in the dirt, and began rummaging through it all. "What's this?" she asked, holding up a poorly drawn sketch of a scantily clad woman.

My face felt so hot it could steam. She didn't wait for an explanation, just laughed and put everything neatly back in it's place. Madison approached slowly and put a firm hand on my shoulder. "My mom can't know she's here," she ordered. "If you tell her I will make sure you never see your things again." I knew she was telling the truth.

"Yeah, ok. I won't tell her. But what's going on here?" I turned to the girl, who still sat on the ground. "Who are you and how do you know Madison?"

She laughed. "I'm the only person who kept looking for Aunt Washington and her kids after they disappeared," she said proudly. "Everyone gave up the search just a couple of weeks after they went missing. They didn't even want to drive on Sherwood Road."

"So how did you get here? There's no way you're older than me and Madison. What, they let kids drive those deathmobiles now?"

The girl grinned. "No, no one 'let' me borrow their car to hunt down my missing cousins. But I didn't really ask them."

I gaped at her. She rose to her feet. "Madison tells me we're related now. I think I'm going to stick around for a while, probably stay here in the cave until I can figure out a better place to sleep. A couple of people around Town Square told me some places. There's a really great neighborhood you can move into if you have money, but I don't. Some kid with a guitar said that if you go to this old town a person there will make you a citizen and you can go to school."

Madison turned her iron gaze to the girl. "Don't go to Morty's," she commanded. "If my mom sees you around she'll make sure your life is hell."

The girl nodded, "No worries. I'll keep to myself."

I kicked a pebble toward my hidden stash. "You can have the trading cards," I said awkwardly. "I'll see if I can get some better ones for you at school."

The girl beamed, "Come back and visit, maybe I can trade you something cool for them."

Madison slapped her forehead, "Damn, we need to go home," she said, panic rising in her voice. "We can't be gone at the same time." She clenched her jaws and muttered to herself as she pulled me toward the cave entrance. "Fashi, I'll come back as soon as I can. Stay out of sight and make sure you find something to eat. It might be a little while before I see you again."

Fashi gave a sarcastic salute, but her eyes were laden with concern, "Be careful," she said. "I'll be fine."

...

I rushed from the cave behind Madison, sweat already making my scalp itch. "You shouldn't have left," she snapped at me. "Shit! What are we going to do?"

"We can just sneak back in through the window," I said, still feeling like I'd missed something in her words.

She stopped suddenly and I collided into her. A light shone from my bedroom window, casting the long shadow of a woman out onto the grass. We heard her accusations from where we stood. I crept closer and peeked inside.

Eleanor was dragging my little brother bleary-eyed from his bed. It didn't look like he was awake enough to follow her tirade. "Where did they go?" she screamed, putting her face inches from his. "Where did they go?"

The louder her voice went, the harder my brother's eyes became. The lines of rage deepening on his face were far too permanent for an eleven-year-old. She continued to berate him for several minutes as his hatred for her mounted. She reached an arm back as if to strike him. He shoved himself free, throwing Eleanor off balance as she shrieked. His hands flew to protect his face, muscle memory in overdrive. My father stood in the doorway, arriving just in time to see his son shoving his wife to the ground. He grabbed my brother bodily from the ground, smacking him hard on the bottom and carrying him to the front door. He threw him out into the night, grabbing the worn shovel from where it hung on the wall and throwing it out after him. "I want a hundred for this."

Outrage flashed across my brother's face, welling up and pouring from his bloodshot eyes. My father's face was pitiless. "One hundred." he repeated. Throwing the shovel over his shoulder, the eleven-year-old boy marched off into the night, leaving behind the family that had never wanted him in the first place.

"You other two better be able to hear me right now!" my father bellowed from the doorway. "I'm going back to sleep now. If you aren't here when I wake up you might as well just not come back." Eleanor approached him, stammering something about searching for us. He gave her a withering glare, jaw jutting forward in rage. "Are you happy now?" he demanded.

She raised an indignant hand to her chest. "You're blaming me for this?" she cried. He ignored her and walked back toward their bedroom.

"I've had enough for tonight," he said, deflated.

Eleanor changed tactics, "I'm sorry you had to see that. I've been trying to get him to behave but you saw how he treats me." She followed him into the bedroom, casting a final glance out into the night before closing the door behind her.

...

Eleanor made a big breakfast for us the next morning. Roland and our oldest brother ate silently, eyes fixed on their steaming plates as if to avoid being lured into conversation. My father shared their blank stares, cutting angrily into his food but avoiding eye contact. Eleanor searched our faces, a predator poised for a vulnerable moment. When neither Madison nor I took the bait she cleared her throat. "I don't want you two sitting next to each other," she said.

"What?" I asked.

"One of you needs to switch seats so you aren't together," she clarified.

Roland was already on his way over, dropping into Madison's seat just as she scrambled out of the way. She took her plate to my little brother's empty chair and sat down.

"I'm taking you to the Apothequarium," she said, pointing a raised fork at Madison. She turned to me, "and you aren't to speak to her any more."

"How am I supposed to do that?" I sputtered, "We live in the same house!"

"I don't care," said Eleanor, "If I see you speaking to her I will make you hate your life."

"I already do," I thought.