#one of my aunts had a backyard? Garden? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreamwritesimagines · 2 years ago

Text

Garden of Secrets [12] - Hydrangeas

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback and support my loves, it made my whole week, you’re amazing!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Thanks so much to @theskytraveler for helping me with the chapter!

Summary: Planning a wedding can cause tension.

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, some gender specific language and terms, mentions of sex.

Word Count: 5400

Series Masterlist

You didn’t even know preparing a wedding could be this troublesome, but for the last couple of days, you’d barely had any time to sit down. There were so many things to do, and for the most part you felt as if you were doing nothing but saying “Yes” to things you weren’t even paying attention to.

But this?

This you paid quite the attention to.

Your uncle had decided to buy you and Benedict a house as a wedding gift. You hadn’t gotten to see it before because it was being made ready but your aunt had assured you that it was to your liking, and to Benedict’s no doubt. Apparently Benedict had a house in the countryside already and he was planning on buying one here as well before the wedding but your uncle had stopped him, stating it would be a present from him for a new beginning.

The carriage stopped and the coachman opened the door for you and helped you out, Teddy, your aunt and your maid following you. After thanking him, you raised your head to look at the house in front of you, an exhale leaving your lips.

It was so beautiful that for a moment you could do nothing but stare at the impressive building, frozen in your spot. It was large, larger than most of the houses in London but knowing your uncle that shouldn’t have been surprising. The huge windows meant inside the house would be well lit all over and the gate opening to the stone road that led to the house looked like it was polished to perfection. A footman rushed to open the gate and your aunt linked her arm through yours while Teddy ran ahead.

“Teddy, not so fast!” you called out but he didn’t even stop.

“I want to see the house!”

“I’ll keep an eye on him my lady,” Paula said and rushed after him to the house while your aunt took an excited breath.

“You will especially like what I’m about to show you,” she said as she pulled you to the step inside the gate but instead of going inside the house, she led you to right past it.

“Auntie, where are we going?”

“You will see!”

“But the entrance is—” you started but stopped talking as soon as you both reached the backyard.

The huge extravagant garden lying in front of you was absolutely breathtaking. The flowerbeds were full of colorful flowers, no doubt kept in pristine condition by the previous owner’s gardener and you turned your gaze to the beautiful greenhouse by the far end of the garden, across from the fountain by the gazebo.

It looked like something out of a fairytale.

“We chose this one not only for the house but for the garden as well!” she said, turning to look at you better. “A garden of your own and a greenhouse! Do you like it?”

You could feel the burning behind your eyes as well as the slight pinch on the bridge of your nose, a sure sign of the tears. In truth, this was beyond everything you had dreamt or hoped for when you imagined your future, that was why it was nearly a torment to see such a beautiful vision and knowing you wouldn’t get to make it yours no matter how much you wanted to.

You couldn’t keep a garden and live in fear that Benedict could take it away from you whenever he saw it fit.

“It’s so beautiful,” you managed to say before you wrapped your arms around her and pulled her into a hug to hide your face. She patted your back gently, holding you tight before pulling back to cup your face.

“I hope your marriage will be filled with nothing but bliss,” she said. “And that you and your husband will be incredibly happy here.”

Your husband.

Right.

You blinked back the tears and smiled at her.

“I’m certain we will,” you lied and she let out a happy laugh.

“Wonderful!” she said and pulled you by the hand. “Let me show you the house!”

�� *

The house itself was as gorgeous as the outside. With its high ceilings, spacious hallways and well-lit rooms, it was as if someone wanted to make sure anyone who stepped inside would never feel smothered by the walls, instead would feel as free as one would outside. You could already hear Teddy running wild in the hallway and your aunt talking to Paula while you leaned sideways to the window frame, keeping your eyes on the garden.

It looked like a painting, almost.

The knock on the doorframe made you snap out of your thoughts and you looked over your shoulder.

“Benedict?”

“Good afternoon,” he said, his soft smile making your heart skip a beat. “I hope you do not mind, your aunt invited me.”

“Of course she did,” you said, that familiar tension making its way through your veins again but you managed to ignore it. “Have you had the chance to look around?”

He nodded his head.

“I have,” he said. “Is it to your liking?”

You opened your mouth to say yes, then stopped yourself and shrugged your shoulders, crossing your arms.

“To yours?”

“It is actually,” he said. “Did you see the garden yet?”

Your eyes flickered over his handsome face and you shrugged your shoulders again.

“I did,” you said. “Which side do you want by the way?”

He seemed confused at your question. “What?”

You motioned around. “The house,” you said. “Which side would you prefer? I think the east side has better light for your work, but it doesn’t matter to me really.”

A frown pulled at his brows. “We’re—we’re dividing the house?”

“Well not dividing,” you said. “At least not literally but I figured it would be easier for…us both.”

“Easier?” he asked but before you could come up with an answer, you heard Teddy’s footsteps coming closer.

“Y/N I saw a butterfly—” he stopped talking when he saw Benedict, his face pinching in a frown. He made his way to you, shy all of a sudden now that you weren’t surrounded by people like you had been back at dinner. You knew he would be distant with Benedict after learning you would be marrying him, and you squeezed at his shoulder in an assuring way while he half hid behind your skirts.

“Hello Teddy,” Benedict said, kneeling down to get to his level. “You saw a butterfly?”

Teddy nodded quietly, biting on his nail.

“What was it like?”

Teddy paused, then shrugged his shoulders in silence. Benedict looked around the room, then tilted his head.

“What do you think about the house?”

“’s nice.” Teddy mumbled inaudibly, still hesitant to answer and Benedict hummed.

“Have you picked your room yet?”

That managed to get a reaction from Teddy as he gasped, looking up at you. “My room?”

You stared at Benedict, then cleared your throat. “Teddy…”

“I get a room?!” he asked, excitement laced in his voice and he darted before you could even say anything. “Auntie! Auntie I’ll have a room here, did you know that?!”

You dragged the tip of your tongue over your lip and turned to Benedict. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why? Surely he will need a room especially if he’s staying with—”

“He’s not staying with us,” you cut him off, making him frown.

“Why not?”

Because you didn’t want to risk it. You had grown up watching your mother and father and you had seen what happened numerous times when there was a fight. Teddy staying with your uncle and aunt was going to be better for him, at least you trusted them.

Not to mention it would be safer for him. If Benedict got angry and wanted to take it out on the nearest person like your father used to—

You couldn’t let that happen, not to Teddy.

“Mr. Bridgerton, welcome!” your aunt’s voice reached you both, making you turn to her and Benedict bowed his head.

“Lady Thorne.”

“Now that both of you are here, I can finally show you the bedchambers!”

You gawked at her. “Pardon?”

“Come come!” she said and you both followed her down the hallway until she turned a corner and opened a door.

“Here are your bedchambers,” she said with a smile while you stared at the huge four-poster bed. “And Y/N, the cojoined lady’s room we can turn into a close for you! Or a studio for Mr. Bridgerton.”

Oh.

Oh you were to—

Right. Of course you were expected to sleep together, or at least spend some nights in the same bed for the… nightly activities of marriage.

You could feel the fear crashing down on you but you managed to swallow the lump growing bigger in your throat, biting on your tongue to focus. If it were any other time you would’ve thought the room looked even lovelier than your current room, but now all it looked like was a threat of the days to come. Benedict’s gaze stopped on you while you clenched and unclenched your hand, twisting your wrist subtly.

“Or a nursery if you wish but the actual nursery is the room over there—”

“I’ll go and check the kitchen,” you cut her off, the panic roaring through your veins like wildfire as you walked past Benedict, and rushed downstairs.

It didn’t take you that long to find it, probably because the layout was a bit similar to your uncle’s house, at least when it came to floor plan. You entered the empty kitchen and went to the table to pull yourself a seat, then slumped down on it, your heart still beating in your ears.

It was going to be unpleasant yes, but it wasn’t as if you didn’t know it before. You knew what was to take place on your wedding night and throughout your marriage but at least Benedict already had mistresses so perhaps it wouldn’t take place very often.

You rubbed at your wrist, thoughts swirling in your mind but then raised your head when you heard Benedict entering the kitchen.

“May I?” he motioned at the chair across from you and scoffed a laugh.

“By all means. It’s your house.”

“Our house.”

You clicked your tongue. “My name isn’t on it,” you stated as he sat down.

“Listen—”

“I was thinking—” you both said at the same time and Benedict motioned at you.

“You first.”

You could feel your heart leaping to your throat in nervousness but you swallowed thickly, then ran your nail over the wooden table.

“I would like to have my own room,” you said after a beat and he nodded.

“Of course,” he said. “However you like.”

“And I want to go back to it or for you to go back to yours if it takes place in my room, after we’re done.”

He frowned slightly like he didn’t understand. “After we’re done?”

You nibbled on your lip, still dragging your nail over the wood.

“I know what’s expected of me,” you managed to say, your voice very clear and not shaky by some miracle. “At night. And I will comply with those expectations but I’d—”

“Y/N,” he stopped you and let out a breath of disbelief, shaking his head. “Nothing is expected of you."

You rolled your eyes and looked up at him. “We’re having a serious conversation here.”

“Do I look to be jesting?” he asked and you paused for a moment, then sat up straighter.

“Assuming you’re going to keep your mistresses after the wedding…”

“I don’t have any mistresses and I will not keep one,” he said. “Do you really think—”

“You can though,” you stated, making him pull back slightly. For some reason, a pang of pain spread through your chest but you paid no mind to it. “Whatever your prior arrangements were, as long as they’re discreet for the sake of appearances I will not mind. Besides I’d—”

You paused for a moment, nervousness getting the words stuck in your throat but you took a deep breath.

“With you and me, I’d like it if it wasn’t very…often. Aside from our duty of course.”

A silence fell upon the kitchen while he stared at you and you waited with bated breath, your face growing hotter every second. The panic was slowly climbing up your chest and before you knew it, you found yourself unnecessarily explaining the situation.

“Because I know it’s usually unpleasant for—you know, I’m aware that it’s just usually unpleasant for women even in the instances both sides try to make it so. No need for us to try when you already have a working arrangement with others.”

A look of realization dawned on his face, making you pull your brows together and he cleared his throat before clasping his hands over the table, the perfect picture of decorum. His hands were so close to yours that if you moved your fingers just a little you would be able to touch his hand and feel if they were as warm as you remembered. The sudden desire twitched your fingers but you curled them and dug your fingernails into your palm, forcing yourself to focus.

“I will not touch you unless you want me to,” he said, his calm voice snapping you out of your thoughts. “I swear on my honor, nothing is expected of you and you have no duty to fulfill.”

Your frown deepened as you tried to wrap your mind around it.

“And,” he said, a cocky smile curling his lips slightly. “If the time ever comes and you decide you do want me to touch you, I can assure you I will do a better job at it than some incompetent prick who convinced you it was supposed to be unpleasant for you.”

That simple promise wasn’t supposed to send tingles right between your legs and your eyes snapped up at his before confusion hit you, making you tilt your head.

“Wait, what?”

“Whoever that clumsy idiot was,” he said. “He clearly lied to you.”

You blinked a couple of times. “You think I’ve been with someone before?”

He shot you a knowing look. “You really don’t need to do that, I would never think any less of you. I’m guessing it was before you came to London? Was he a friend or something?”

You would have laughed if you weren’t so tense.

“He was nonexistent?” you said after a beat. “I’ve never been with anyone.”

That seemed to take him by surprise, and he pulled back a little, his mouth slightly agape.

“You’re…” he trailed off, still staring at you. “Oh.”

You frowned. “Why are you so surprised by that?”

“I’m not!” he said defensively and your jaw dropped.

“Yes you are!”

“No I just thought—” he motioned at you. “You make a lot of jokes about it.”

“So?”

“So I assumed,” he paused. “Well, Charlie doesn’t even know it exists.”

A scoff left your lips. “And whose fault is that?”

“Not mine, clearly!” he insisted. “I just assumed since you kept making innuendos and you obviously know what it is…”

“I also know a lot about cacti Benedict,” you whispered through your teeth, your voice heated. “It doesn’t make me a goddamn cactus!”

“It’s different—”

“Wait a second,” you cut him off and he ran a hand through his hair, making it fluffier.

“Hm?”

“You were going to marry me even if you thought I…” you tried to find the words but failed miserably. “Even if you thought I haven’t remained chaste?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I haven’t remained chaste,” he pointed out with a small grin. “In case it has escaped your notice.”

“It hasn’t escaped anyone’s notice,” you deadpanned, trying to hold back the sudden laughter bubbling in your chest and his grin widened.

“So why would it change anything?”

You could feel the warmth filling your chest and you nibbled on your lip, but before you could say anything, you heard footsteps coming closer and your aunt leaned on the doorframe.

“What is it with you two and this unstoppable insistence on being unchaperoned?” she asked as Benedict winked at you, making you roll your eyes while a small smile pulled at your lips. “Come on. We still have much to do.”

As it turned out, your aunt had another surprise for you. After you and Benedict got in the separate carriages to go to your separate ways, you realized it wasn’t the way to your home but your aunt refused to tell you where you were going.

It was only when the carriage stopped in front of a very familiar shop that you realized what it was and your heart dropped to your stomach.

“What on earth?”

“Surprise!” your aunt said and turned to Teddy. “My dear, Paula will take you to that pastry shop over there while you wait for us, alright?”

“Yes!” Teddy grinned while you turned to your aunt.

“Auntie…”

“We’re going to choose designs for your wedding gown, and who is better than Madame Delacroix to give you the perfect wedding gown?”

Anyone.

Anyone at all, you were half tempted to stop a random person on the street if it meant it wouldn’t be Madame Delacroix who would make your wedding gown. She and Benedict had been together up until your very sudden betrothal, and you weren’t even sure if that was still happening.

Even the thought of it made your throat burn for some reason.

It wasn’t within your plans to have your wedding gown made by your future husband’s former -and perhaps current- mistress, but it wasn’t as if you could tell your aunt about it.

“Lady Bridgerton is already there!”

Oh dear God.

You wondered if you could just trip on your way down from carriage to fake a sprained ankle just so that you could avoid this very moment, but before you could even do that, Paula and Teddy had already left the carriage to go to the pastry shop and your aunt pulled you out of the carriage and essentially pushed you into the store before you could protest.

“Y/N!” Lady Bridgerton said, standing up from the sofa to come and hug you. “Ah how beautiful you look!”

“Lady Bridgerton,” you managed to say. “What a lovely surprise. Good afternoon.”

She pulled back to smile at you, clasping your hands in hers.

“I hope you do not mind the intrusion, but your aunt says you were quite hesitant about your wedding gown,” she said. “So she and I will help you.”

“…Wonderful,” you said after a beat and Madame Delacroix came closer to you.

“Miss Y/N,” she said silkily, “Welcome. Congratulations on your engagement.”

You forced yourself to smile and gulped down. “Thank you, Madame Delacroix,” you said. “You’re most kind.”

“Caroline have you seen this silk?” Lady Bridgerton asked, pointing at a fabric before walking to the other side of the shop with your aunt following her, and you shifted your weight from one foot to other.

“If you could come with me,” Madame Delacroix said and led you to the counter where the sketchbook was open, full of different sketches of many wedding gowns. “We can make some arrangements if you’d like, these are just so that you can have some idea.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, looking down at the sketches, silence falling upon you. You could still hear your aunt and Lady Bridgerton chatting happily and you absentmindedly turned a page, trailing your fingertips in a lazy manner until—

Until you saw it.

The gown itself looked like it was ethereal, with light tulle and white silk that almost looked liquid. Even though the design itself didn’t have any flowers, you could almost see how it would look if the skirts were embroidered with tiny blossoms along with small leaves over the bodice.

“That one?”

Madame Delacroix’s soft accent made you snap out of it and you scolded yourself in your head before you nodded, keeping your finger on it so that you wouldn’t miss it.

“Let me show you some options,” she said and walked behind the shop before she came out with three different shades of white silk, then laid them over the counter. You bit inside your cheek, guilt washing over you as you took one of the silks into your hand, then stole a look at her.

“I would like to offer you my apologies, Madame Delacroix.”

She raised her brows. “For what, ma chérie?”

“I think you know.”

A look of realization crossed her face but she managed to cover it quite fast.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“We have a common friend whom you know better than I do,” you said, then shook your head when you saw her expression. “I didn’t tell anyone. I would never, I assure you. I’m quite good with secrets.”

She cleared her throat. “Whatever you may have heard…”

“He didn’t tell me,” you added in a haste. “No one did, don’t worry. It doesn’t matter how I know, I just—”

She watched you in a silence and you cleared your throat, then motioned around.

“This wasn’t my idea,” you said. “I recognize this visit may come off as rubbing salt in the wound or tantalizing but I honestly wasn’t aware my aunt and his mother were planning on it until just now.”

She pursed her lips, but stayed quiet.

“I recognize how difficult it might be,” you said. “And if you wish, I can just tell them I want to hire someone else for this.”

She tilted her head. “And why would you do that for me?”

You shrugged your shoulders, then heaved a sigh.

“It wasn’t my intention to—” you paused for a moment, then let out a bitter chuckle. “Despite what Lady Whistledown might suggest, it was never my intention to steal him or get in the way of a certain…arrangement, whatever it may be. So I would like to offer my apologies if I accidentally did such a thing.”

She looked almost taken aback by your words but before she could say anything, Lady Bridgerton came closer.

“Did you find anything you liked, dearest?”

You paused for a second, then cleared your throat. “Actually Lady Bridgerton, I’d rather hire—”

“Miss Y/N liked a very beautiful design,” Madame Delacroix cut you off, making you turn to her. “And I’d love to make it for her.”

You blinked a couple of times, then offered her a smile.

“…Thank you,” you said and she smiled back before you turned to Lady Bridgerton. “And yes. I found a design I love.”

Thankfully most of the ton was convinced of your sudden love story with Benedict, especially after the last ball. Even Lady Whistledown had claimed Benedict’s love must have melted your ice on her last piece and it was obvious while people would be watching you very closely, they believed your ruse.

It was probably more about Benedict and less about you though. He had been so convincing that multiple ladies had come to talk to you and tell you how lucky you were throughout the night.

So you had a feeling this ball wasn’t going to be so different but that did nothing to soothe that nervousness in you.

Benedict was just writing his name on Charlotte’s dance card for a dance when you got to the ballroom with your aunt, and Lottie waved at you before she said something to Lady Bridgerton and Lady Danbury who were with them.

“I was beginning to wonder where you were,” Benedict said as you reached them and pressed a kiss on your gloved hand, making you smile at him while Lady Danbury and Lady Bridgerton exchanged glances, grinning. Your aunt pressed a hand over her chest, obviously emotional.

“Last minute gown issue,” you said as you grabbed a lemonade from the tray a footman was carrying. “Good evening Lady Danbury. Lady Bridgerton.”

“Good evening dear.”

“What was wrong with your gown?” Lottie asked and you shrugged your shoulders.

“Oh, long story.”

“Speaking of gowns...” Lady Bridgerton said and your aunt chuckled.

“I’m so excited about that, you’d think it’s my wedding.”

Charlotte looked from you to your aunt and Lady Danbury snapped her fingers.

“Oh I forgot you were doing that today!” she said. “Violet told me. When do we get to see it?”

“See what?” Charlotte asked and you cleared your throat.

“I would’ve told you beforehand if I knew.”

“Knew what?” Benedict asked, making Lady Bridgerton turn to him.

“Well I kept it a secret from you as well Benedict, because I knew you would tell her,” she said with a smile, “We surprised your betrothed today.”

“With what?”

You looked down at your drink, discomfort hitting you all of a sudden but Lady Bridgerton didn’t notice.

“We took Y/N to the modiste so that she could choose her wedding gown.”

It was apparently a bad idea for Benedict to have been sipping his drink when he heard that, because he choked on his drink and started coughing, making Charlotte slap his back, completely oblivious.

“Oh I would love to come to the next fitting Y/N!”

“You did what?” Benedict asked when he could get enough air and you raised your brows, then nodded your head.

“It surely was a surprise when the carriage stopped there,” you managed to say and Benedict swallowed thickly.

“I can imagine.”

“Perhaps you can join the next time—”

“That’s not a good idea auntie,” you cut her off and Charlotte held her breath.

“Of course, he is not allowed to see it before the wedding!” she said and turned to Benedict. “It’s bad luck, everyone knows.”

You and Benedict exchanged glances and Lady Danbury smiled.

“But we can, right?”

“…Of course,” you said as the music started and Charlotte turned her head.

“It’s our turn, come on,” she said and put her hand on his arm, then pulled him to the dance floor.

“It’ll be so beautiful,” your aunt told Lady Danbury, “She’s having some changes made on the original sketch, I cannot wait to see the final product.”

“Flowers and leaves,” Lady Bridgerton said and you reminded yourself to smile.

“Excuse me for a moment please,” you said and made your way out of the ballroom into the hallway just so that you could get away from the chaos there. You ran your hand over the white hydrangeas in the vase on the small table as you approached the nearest painting, and tilted your head, staring at the brush strokes.

Benedict’s art was better.

You rubbed at your forehead, a sigh leaving your lips as you willed yourself to focus on anything but the storm of thoughts in your head. Today had been extremely tiring for you, and you couldn’t help but wonder if Benedict still had feelings for Madame Delacroix or if he and she ever—

“Miss Y/N,” a voice interrupted your thoughts, making you turn your head but as soon as you saw who it was, you rolled your eyes, a small groan leaving your lips.

Exactly what the situation needed.

A conversation with Kitty Morris.

“What?” you asked tersely and she scoffed.

“Oh dear, what they say about you is true. You must’ve been raised by wolves.”

You shrugged your shoulders. “Yes it’s true. What do you want?”

She took a look at the painting before she stepped closer. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your engagement.”

“Right,” you muttered. “Much appreciated.”

“Quite a hasty engagement though,” she said. “People have all sorts of ideas about the reason.”

“Like what?”

“My friends say that you trapped him,” she said with her nose up in the air. “With what, I do not dare assume.”

You arched a brow. “Do you not?”

“I can assume the reason, not the act,” she said. “Some of us were raised as ladies.”

You clicked your tongue, anger starting to burn at the pit of your stomach.

“And what is the reason, pray tell?”

“You knew he would never think anything serious with you unless you forced him,” she said. “I mean, he didn’t even think anything serious with Charlotte while leading her on for two years let alone someone like you.”

Your eyes sharpened like a cat’s but you forced yourself not to take the bait. Fighting over a man was absolutely beneath you, you weren’t going to do it just because she was trying to start a verbal fight.

You had to draw the line somewhere.

“Go deal with whatever is bothering you on your own, I’m not going to hold your hand through it,” you said as you took a step, but stopped dead in your tracks when you heard her speak again.

“He was never going to marry you,” she called out. “Unless you trapped him. You grew up poor for God’s sake, if it weren’t for your uncle you would be on the streets where you belong. Everyone knows that, they say even your parents didn’t want you. Why would someone like Benedict Bridgerton want to be married to you?”

…Very well.

Fighting over a man was beneath you but you could kneel down a little if she wanted to go there.

You threw your shoulders back and turned around.

“And you think if it weren’t for me, he was going to marry you?”

“Obviously,” she said. “That’s why you sabotaged it the moment he started taking interest in me. It was clear he was going to propose to me, everyone knows that.”

You hummed and pointed at the ballroom with your thumb. “Why don’t you go ahead and ask him then?”

She pulled back slightly. “What?”

“Go ask him if he wants to marry you instead of me,” you said. “He’s in the ballroom, the dance is probably over. He’s not busy.”

She looked at a loss for words and you tilted your head.

“No?” you asked. “Fine, I can go ask him if you’d like.”

You took a couple of steps towards the ballroom but she rushed to get in front of you.

“You will do no such thing!” she demanded and you let out a small laugh.

“Why not?” you asked. “If he wants to marry you, I will not stand in your way. We can break the engagement tonight in front of the whole ton.”

“If you think that’s acceptable—”

“I did ask him about you by the way,” you cut her off “Once. Whether he would propose to you after you and your friends kept whispering about it right behind me. Do you want to hear what he said?”

She glared at you. “You’re lying.”

“Benedict is too polite to break people’s delusions,” you stated. “I don’t have that issue. So I’m not lying, I’ll tell you what he said if you want to hear it.”

A silence fell upon you and you raised your brows.

“I suppose not,” you pointed out. “Alright then. I will go back to my betrothed now if you don’t mind so if you could step aside?”

She raised her chin defiantly, crossing her arms as if she dared you to and you smirked slightly.

“Kitty,” you said. “You will not like it if I make you. Step aside.”

She gritted her teeth and looked you up and down.

“It doesn’t surprise me the whole ton is shocked by your engagement, not just me,” she spat, fury apparent in her tone. “Your less than favorable background is apparent all over you, regardless of what expensive gown they put you in. No wonder we’re all surprised.”

You shrugged your shoulders.

“Maybe,” you said airily. “Whether you find it surprising or not doesn’t really change the outcome though.”

“The outcome?”

You smiled, then nodded in the direction of the ballroom.

“That one is mine,” you said, barely aware of the pride laced in your voice. “And he’s in love with me. Go find your own.”

She took a step back, her eyes gleaming with frustrated tears and you sipped your drink.

“And show some composure, will you?” you asked. “People will think you were raised by wolves.”

She paused for only a moment before a sob escaped from her and she rushed past you to go outside, leaving you there. You scoffed a laugh and shook your head.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered to yourself and downed your lemonade, then made your way back to the ballroom.

Chapter 13

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #regency fic

978 notes · View notes

redahlia-writes · 1 year ago

Text

practical magic. | javier peña x ofc

Abstract: Can love travel back in time and heal a broken heart?

There were some things, after all, that Helena Goode knew for certain:

Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Plant lavender for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

Words: 12k

Content: original female character (helena goode); alternative universe, magic, death, ghosts, cursing, mentions of drugs, mentions of an abusive relationship, mildly suggestive language, inspo both from the movie and the book

A/N: it's still halloween, right? i'm sorry for the late late posting but, alas, shit happens. i hope you all enjoy this nevertheless <3

reblogs and feedback are always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

also on AO3 - masterlist

He will hear my call a mile away. He will whistle my favorite song. He can ride a pony backwards. He can flip pancakes in the air. He'll be marvellously kind. And his favorite shape will be a star. And he’ll have eyes like chocolate, worthy of honesty.

Helena Goode often thought about the petals blowing in the air after her Amas Veritas, her true love. Years had gone by since then—she’d been just a kid, wishing on her true love, her perfect love. Thinking it could not exist—for how could it, when all those women came crying in her aunts’ kitchen in the middle of the night? She’d wished for what she thought could never come to her.

And then there had been Frankie—her love, definitely not perfect, but good, so good. And gone, gone forever, because she had loved him so much. Or so she had thought—maybe that hadn’t been real, maybe there was no such thing as real love, contrary to what her sister said. After all her aunts had played a part in her marriage, and for so long after Frankie’s death she’d tried to believe none of it had been real, so that it would hurt less. So that she would not die of a broken heart.

But, in spite of everything, in spite of her bitterness, in spite of her pain, in spite of the loss, she knew some things had been real. Like the coffee he made her in the morning before leaving for work, like the dinners she fixed before he came back, like the colour they picked to paint the walls of their house; like all the times she’d listened for his whistling as he came back from work; like his kisses, and like their two beautiful daughters; like the laughter during the day and the nights spent awake; like the normal life they’d began living, and the shop they’d dreamed of opening together that now belonged to her only.

Like the State Investigator who stood in front of her at the front door, asking after her sister’s boyfriend. A boyfriend she knew to be dead and buried right there in the backyard. Fuck, she kept thinking, looking at the man in front of her—his eyebrows arched, lips parted under a neatly trimmed moustache, eyes dark as chocolate, and—

“I’m sorry?” she asked, clearing her throat. Dry throat. Sweaty palms. Tongue-tied.

“Is your sister home?” She knew he’d asked that already, and he was being mighty patient about it. “I’d like to speak with her, ma’am,” and then, because she had not moved an inch, “nothing to worry about, really. Just routine questions.”

“Sure,” again Helena cleared her throat, and willed her legs to move. She stepped back, opening the door fully so that she could let him through. “Come on in, I’ll go get her.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, over and over as the man nodded and stepped in, walking past her into the entrance—he smelled of coffee and tobacco, of the desert he came from. Helena closed the door and wiped her hands down the front of her shirt, which she suddenly realised belonged to one of her daughters, with rhinestones adorning the front. Fuck.

“Kitchen is just on your left, I’ll be right back.”

Phoebe Goode was trying her best. Each night she dreamed about James—his eyes, old and clear, staring at her—and each morning she tried to stop carrying him with her, to forget he ever existed, even though she could still see him on her face, in the bruises around her eye, in the split lip on the point of healing—thanks to her sister salve, the one that smelled of roses. She was trying her best, ignoring the awful fact she felt him still, knowing that the deepest relationship with a man of her whole life was with a dead man.

So she wore blue for protection, and had asked Emma, her niece, to lock her cigarettes away, and tried to sit in silence to meditate and push him away, out of her mind, out of her life for good. She was even back at the house, where she’d sworn she would never go back, because it was safer, because of her sister.

Her sister, running up the stairs, out of breath, in a shirt that did not belong to her and a skirt that must’ve been older than her, so dishevelled-looking Phoebe felt her heart drop for a moment, figured the next words out of her mouth would be James, and honestly anything after that could be awful, because he was. Had been.

“There’s a cop. Agent. Someone,” Helena was gasping, her voice an alarmed whisper. “He’s looking for you. And James—but he asked for you.”

“That’s fine, we can manage,” perhaps the meditation was working, because even after hearing his name she could still think without panic closing her throat. “I’ll tell him I haven’t seen him in days, and I came here because we’re done. And if he asks, you’ll just say—” she stopped, frowning at her sister as she shook her head. “What? You’ll just say you’ve never seen him.”

“Here’s the thing,” Helena reached for her chest, still shaking her head, still out of breath. Her head was spinning, and her heart—God, her heart—felt like it was about to explode. “I don’t think I can lie to him.”

“Of course you can,” Phoebe scoffed—but her sister was still having a hard time breathing, her eyes so wide she looked like a deer spooked half to death. “Get over yourself, Lena. It’s fine. You’re just having a panic attack.”

“I don’t think it’s that. I just—the way he looks at you,” she inhaled sharply, a strangled noise scratching her throat and making her sound like a wounded animal, then exhaled, breath stuttering. “I can’t sit there and just lie to him. I know I can’t.”

“You have to, Lena,” but her sister’s eyes darted around the attic, where Phoebe was staying in. She snapped her fingers in front of her face, making her recoil. “Listen to me, you have to. We know nothing, nothing happened.”

Helena and Phoebe had grown up knowing that something was real because they believed in it. That was what gave things power—magic, words, talismans. But what happened when two people believed two different things? How did the universe cope with that? Was James dead and buried in their backyard, under lilacs that were growing wildly out of season (girls in the neighbourhood had begun to whisper that if you kissed the boy you loved beneath the Goode’s lilacs he’d be yours forever, whether he wanted to be or not), or was he back in Laredo, or off somewhere else, left behind by his girlfriend?

Javier Peña was wondering the same as he stood in the odd kitchen of an odd house, there on Magnolia Street.

There were no clocks and no mirrors, in that house, and the floors creaked anywhere but where he stepped; light came pouring in from big, wide windows, showing an even bigger garden with lilacs out of season and more flowers and plants that he could recognise or count—rosemary and lavender, roses and daisies, carrots and an apple tree that reminded him strangely of home, but all seemed like a dream through the thick glass. Each piece of furniture inside seemed dusty, but when he ran his fingertip across the dark wooden surface of this table or that cabinet, no dust came away—no need for polishing anything in there. It smelled of cherrywood. It smelled familiar.

It was a familiarity Javier had not been ready to face—he touched the pocket of his jacket, felt the paper tucked in there crinkle at the touch, and a moment later, as if summoned by thought alone, Helena Goode came back down the stairs, slightly more dishevelled looking than before.

Helena had clearly been in the kitchen when he first knocked. He knew because he could almost see it, like a ghost moving around the stove, stirring a pot that had since been turned off, its content left forgotten on the back burden. He knew because she’d called Hold on at the third rattle of his knuckles across the door, matter-of-factly, as if she’d been expecting him. The mere sound of her voice had thrown him for a loop, the patio under his feet shifting unsteadily, and he could’ve followed the sound there with his eyes closed.

He thought then he could be in trouble—and when she’d opened the door, he’d known he would. Because he’d looked into crystal clear pools of grey and begun drowning, down and down without anything he could do about it. His father had once told him that witches caught you like that: with a look. If you ever meet a woman like that, you run the other way, no matter what, for your own good. There’s no cowardice in safety. But Javier had no intention of running—he’d rather drown, over and over, if it meant she looked at him like that a little longer.

She stood at the end of the stairs, perfectly still, with that ridiculous shirt with rhinestones across her chest and her dark hair down past her shoulder, brushing the sliver of uncovered skin at her waist. She was beautiful, Javier thought, so ridiculously beautiful he got a lump in his throat just looking at her. For a moment, before her Can I help you? at the door, he’d almost forgotten the reason he was there. He almost forgot it again when he saw her shake her head at the end of the stairs, and had to touch the letter tucked next to his heart again.

“Can I get you anything?” her voice sounded different as she strode into the kitchen. “My sister will be right down. Coffee?” she wasn’t looking at him, and Javier wished she’d just stop and turn to face him, if only to forget himself again in her eyes.

But Helena wouldn’t turn. She wouldn’t look at him. She woldn’t look at his face, and his neatly trimmed moustache, and his lovely dark eyes. She wouldn’t look at the lines on his face he was way too young to have, and the loneliness embedded in each of them she knew could be found in the silver strands of her hair, too. Helena figured he was not a man who hid things, just like he was not hiding the fact he was looking at her—she could feel his eyes burning on the back of her head, and she couldn’t believe the way he was staring at her. Looking at her like that.

It was how dark his eyes were, the problem. The way he could make someone—her—feel seen from the inside out.

“Coffee’s fine,” he said, forcing his gaze away. He looked outside, where in the distance, still filtered like a dream, he could see clouds gathering, a distant storm that seemed to have followed him there. Javier’s father had taught him to predict exactly when a storm would hit just by the location of lightning, so that he could prepare the ranch in time to brace for it.

He’d never been very good at it. He thought that lightning, like love, was never ruled by logic. Accidents happened, and they always would.

He looked at Helena again, her back still to him—she was watching the coffee brew, her arms crossed, fingers tapping nervously against her elbow. Javier looked at her and thought she was familiar to him—he’d thought that ever since getting her letter, the one tucked next to his heart, but to see her there in front of him, flesh and bones and long hair and clear eyes, really settled it for him.

He’d heard about it happening to other men—his friend Steve being one of them. Going about their business one minute and suddenly they found themselves without hope. They fell in love so hard they never got up off their knees again.

He’d never thought it would happen to him. Javier was all business—he always had been. It was his need to figure out the why of things, of people. Money, love, fury—those were the motivations he found usually, in his line of work. James Hawkins fell in the money category, of that he was sure, with perhaps a sprinkle of fury in the shape of his ring marked on the bodies.

Javier had been looking for that ring at Hawkins’ place—he’d seen it in pictures, read it in descriptions, remembered it from the few times his path had trailed along Hawkins’, because Laredo wasn’t that big of a place, and faces grew familiar over time—when the letter had arrived.

Crumpled and torn in one corner, the flap already opened, Javier had looked at it and thought he should’ve taken it directly to the office. But an open letter was hard to resist, even for someone like Javier, who had resisted a whole lot in his life. But that letter was something else, something tempting, and he gave into it.

He never regretted it.

He had just sat there, on the patio of the house of the man he was looking for, and read the letter Helena Goode had written to her sister. When he was done, he’d read it again. And again. And twice more midair, and then while he had his lunch, and once more when he’d settled in his hotel room. Even when the letter was folded back into its envelope and stored in the pocket of his jacket, the words came back to haunt him—whole sentences written by Helena forming in his mind.

Javier had been close to people, and while he didn’t have that many friends he was content—he’d even almost gotten married after high school, although that’s a topic no one ever brought up, not even himself. But he’d never once felt like he’d known anyone the way he felt he knew the woman who had written that letter. It felt like someone had ripped a piece of his soul out of him and formed into words. Words he was so taken by he wouldn’t have heard, seen, or felt a thing as long as he was reading them.

I have this dream of being whole. Of not going to sleep each night, wanting. But still, sometimes, when the wind is warm, or the crickets sing, I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for. I just want someone to love me. I want to be seen.

Javier wanted to tell her that he saw her. Right there in front of him, and even when she was not there, when he had not the faintest clue what she looked like, he saw her. He saw her standing, moving the coffee pot from the fire. He saw her pouring the coffee in three mismatched cups. He saw her hands shaking as she did so.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and she recoiled as if startled by his voice.

“I think I’m going to sit down,” Helena said, casually, as if she didn’t seem about to collapse.

Still she brought two of the cups over, almost spilling the contents of one, and collapsed onto the chair opposite Javi with a shuddering sigh, her cheeks flushed, her chest fluttering. She wondered if drinking coffee would be a good idea at that moment, still feeling as if her heart might explode, but needed something to keep herself busy, so she brought the cup to her mouth and gulped down the scalding drink, burning the roof of her mouth and her lips.

“Why are you here?” she asked then, bitterness coating her tongue. She was used to sugar in her coffee, most times a dash of milk. “I mean, I understood what you told me—about Phoebe’s boyfriend—but why here?”

She saw the man hesitate—he did not strike her as someone who hesitated in anything, but he was pondering her words and how to best respond to her, his lips shifting to draw in a breath, and then exhale. He reached for his jacket—he still hadn’t taken that off, and with the movement it hugged his shoulders tight, seams pulling uncomfortably—and, from one of the inner pockets, took a piece of paper that he handed to her.

“I mailed that to my sister ages ago,” Helena recognised it immediately—that letter she was so grateful had never reached Phoebe, but also wished it had a little earlier, so she wouldn’t be in that mess. There’s a halo around the moon tonight. I think trouble is coming. I wish you’d get out of there. Come back home. Alone. “You opened it,” she added then, a little baffled.

He hadn’t just opened it. He’d read it. The paper consumed from being folded over and over again, each line marked deeper where it bent, words slightly smudged as if someone had run their fingers over each and every of it.

“It was opened already,” he retorted, justifying. “It must have gotten lost at the post office.”

“But you read it,” the cup was burning her palm, the letter her other hand, her face was burning too under his gaze.

“Maybe a thousand times,” Javier admitted, his voice dropping.

“It was a very personal letter,” she whispered too, feeling the tightness inside her throat and belly and chest grow, and grow, and grow until it was choking her. That had to be what a heart attack felt like. Perhaps she was about to end up on the floor unconscious.

“I know,” the man said, and at last she looked at him.

He saw her but, Javier knew, she saw him too. She could’ve seen how Javier wasn’t sure how far he’d go to cover for someone—he’d never been in that position before, and he despised the way it felt. But he was there, sitting in her kitchen, drinking her coffee, a total stranger on a humid day, wondering if he was going to look the other way because of her. She could see all that—or at least, she hoped.

And then Phoebe came down. Noisy steps down the stairs, announcing her presence to the entire world—she always had that about her, always managed to bring the attention to her, with her lovely strawberry-blonde hair and her long lashes and full lips. Even with the bruises, even with the wounds, even with her fear embedded so deeply into her skin it was painful, Phoebe was beautiful.

Still, Javier focused on Helena, and it wasn’t until her sister stood at her side that he caught a glimpse of her. Night and day, that’s what the aunts called them. He didn’t know, but he would’ve agreed—so starkly different, yet seemingly in tune with each other.

“As I’ve said your sister, I won’t take up much of your time,” Javier cleared his throat, offered his hand to Phoebe as he stood. He missed the feeling of his letter against his body, but Helena was clutching it tight, pressing it against her stomach. “It’s just a couple of questions, routine checks.”

“Of course—agent, is it?” Phoebe’s voice was soft where Helena’s was strong. She took up space just by standing, her arms folded in front of her as she held the third cup that had been on the counter.

“Yes, ma’am—Agent Peña.” Only then did she take his hand, a delicate shake before turning his palm up towards her face, peering down with an interested hum.

“You’ve come a long way just for a couple of routine questions, Agent Peña.” Her thumb ran along one of the lines on his palm, tracing it with a feather-like touch. Her brows knitted for a moment, confusion locking on her features (eyes darting towards her sister) before she shook herself. “I see here it’ll be worth the trip,” she mused, tapping his palm.

“Right.” Again he cleared his throat, and pulled his hand back. “When was the last time you saw James Hawkins?”

“Ah, a man of action,” Phoebe scoffed lightly, then shrugged. “Couple of weeks, just before I came here. It just wasn’t working anymore.”

“Is he responsible for that?” he asked, gesturing towards her face, the bruises.

“As I’ve said, it wasn’t working anymore,” she tipped her chin up, leaned with her hip against Helena’s chair. “I have no idea where he might be. If a man hits me, he only does it once,” Helena’s breath hitched, her grip on both the cup and letter tightening.

“What about the car? The one with the Texas plate—it’s registered in his name,” Javier thought he might as well reveal all his cards from the beginning. Neither sister was stupid, but still Phoebe was lying—he knew she was. He had seen that look before, countless times: people who are guilty of something think they can hide it by not looking at you. Or looking at you too much.

Helena wasn’t looking at him anymore—again. Phoebe was staring him down. But Helena wasn’t looking at him, because she knew, she was certain, that could not lie to the man. She feared her eyes would betray her too, like her heart was doing, like she imagined her words would if she were to say anything more.

“I took it when I ran,” Phoebe said, sighing. “And I know that’s wrong, so you may take it right away—I just needed a way out. That was the fastest.”

She was good, Javier managed to think in that haze-like feeling he’d found himself in since he’d walked into the house. Since he’d seen Helena. Her eyes.

“And you have not heard from him since?” Phoebe shook her head, sipping on her coffee and grimacing—too bitter, too strong. But it helped keep her mind away from the times she had heard from James—in her dreams, nightmares, really; or when she was distracted, and his voice crept into her head; or when she looked in the mirror and his reflection stared back.

“I have not,” she smacked her lips, the taste of the coffee lingering on the tip of her tongue.

“Alright, well,” Javier picked his cup and drank most of the coffee that remained—he liked it that way, black and strong, it reminded him of his father—then went to the sink to rinse the cup. Helena watched him while his back was turned, and almost smiled at the way he let the water slosh from side to side enough to get any residue off before settling it upside down. “If anything comes to mind, I’ll be around a couple of days longer—I’m staying at the Hide-A-Way Motel.”

“Really?” was the first thing Helena said in what felt like ages. Javier turned around—he was just stalling then. He wanted to remain there, with her. He wanted to keep on looking into Helena’s eyes and drown, drown, drown for days. He saw nothing else but her eyes.

“Lady at the car rental desk suggested it—it isn’t half bad,” he shrugged, and smoothed his jacket down. He felt the absence of the letter when he ran his hand across his chest, and the paper did not crinkle under his touch. Helena curled her fingers around her words. “Nice area.”

“It is,” she should know—her shop was one street away from the motel. She’d picked the area with Frankie because of how nice it was, close enough to the park it gave the impression of being around nature, but not so far from town that nobody would walk by the shop.

Phoebe watched the agent and her sister look at each other and frowned—for a moment, what she’d seen on Peña’s palm flashed before her eyes again. A new beginning, a line cut through by something, someone he could not escape. It had been written on his skin since the beginning. Some fates were just guaranteed.

“If I happen to remember anything else, I’ll come around,” Phoebe said, cutting through the crackle of energy that passed from one to the other. It was as if she’d woken them up from a dream, a dream made of only looks and silence. “You can have the car taken away.”

“Great,” he cleared his throat, and forced himself to back away. He knew that if he lingered any longer, he’d never want to leave. It was hard enough already. “Thanks.”

Helena felt like she was losing her mind.

The night before, a ring had appeared around the moon. A halo around the moon was always a sign of disruption—but it was a double ring, all tangled up, anything could happen. Helena didn’t like the thought, and she hadn’t been able to sleep all night.

The sparrow that used to fly each midsummer’s eve into the house on Magnolia Street had come back, out of season, round and round the dining room—her daughters had counted each circle: three. Three meant trouble, it always had. She’d chased it out with her sister, both of them on edge.

And it rained. All night and through the morning, one of her daughters standing by the window looking at the lilacs being hit by drop after drop, tapping her fingers nervously. Emma was looking at the man in their backyard, who stared back at them like from a vision, a nightmare rather than a dream. She was hoping he would go away, but the bad weather did not bother him—he seemed to relish in the black skies and the wild wind, and the rain passed through him. Emma thought—she knew—it was his fault that things were going amiss in the house, even though she didn’t know the extent of it: pipes rusting and the tile floor of the basement turning to dust, nothing in the refrigerator would stay fresh.

Both sets of sisters fought, loud and mean and just like he wanted them to. Emma would’ve liked them all to stop. Helena thought of chopping the lilacs all night long, but had to go to work.

And then there was Javier. Agent Peña, who walked around town and talked to everyone and was always there when she turned around from the counter. Javier, with a cigarette hanging from his lips at every street corner. Always there, always there, always there.

“Fuck!” Helena exclaimed, when the jar she was trying to place on the shelf fell and shattered on the ground, shards of glass flying around her ankles and the contents—curled dried leaves—spilling across the clean floor. “God, give me a break.”

“Are you okay, Lena?” a voice called from the other side of the shop. Helena didn’t have many friends—it came with the Goode name, being shunned away. But Crystal was one of the few who did not shy away, besides being a good employee. “Let me help you.”

“It’s alright, I just haven’t been sleeping well,” she went to gather the glass and leaves, both crunching as she moved the broom across them. “But could you put the kettle on? Maybe some tea will do me good,” even though she craved coffee desperately.

She’d craved coffee ever since she’d met with the agent. Black and bitter. She could smell it in the air around her, no matter which room she walked in, or which street—along with tobacco and more. She’d never smoked a cigarette in her life but now felt her fingers itch as if reaching for one.

Crystal obliged without question—she’d learned early on that many things around Helena Goode just did not make sense, and there was no point in prying. It had been that way since they were children. Her mother liked the Goode aunts, said that it was not their fault for more than two hundred years their family had been blamed for everything that went wrong in town.

Some people are just different. Most people are just stupid to be afraid of it.

She remembered their classmates being terrified of the day a bunch of cats followed Helena to school—witchery, they called it. A witch and her familiars. Nasty, nasty creatures, the whole lot of them. But Crystal remembered Helena being kind and poised, she remembered her balanced lunches, and the way she always looked out for her sister. She still did. Why people would think Helena and Phoebe had any evil in them escaped her.

Goode women ignored convention; they were headstrong and willful, and meant to be that way.

“Thank you, Crystal,” Helena said from the kitchenette, throwing away the spoiled merchandise..

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home? I can look after the shop,” but even as she asked, Helena was shaking her head, lips trembling with her deep inhale. “Lena, did something happen?”

“It’s not—” a bell. The shop’s bell. Helena looked up from her mug, the smell of lavender easing her headache a little, and then turned. “I’ll get it.”

He was everywhere, always there, always there, in her shop, too. Helena stood frozen next to the counter and looked at the agent who was looking around—a feeble attempt at not immediately turning towards her, not falling into her eyes right away.

“Yes?” she managed to ask, her throat dry once again. Just by his mere presence.

“I’m afraid I forgot to bring enough toothpaste,” Javier lied. He’d thrown an almost full tube in the bin just that morning—still wasn’t sure why. Maybe because so many people had told him about Helena’s shop, just around the corner. How the woman was the way she was, but her products were amazing.

“You could’ve gone to the market,” she said, but placed her mug down and moved to the shelf anyway. Once she wasn’t looking at him, she managed to exhale again, but still his eyes burned on the back of her head, and she suddenly felt conscious of the fact she probably had forgotten to brush her hair in the morning.

“Yes,” he retorted, and didn’t add anything else. He knew he could’ve, but he didn’t want to. And he could’ve told her it was because so many people had recommended her stuff, or because the shop was closer to his motel. But he didn’t.

“Any allergies?” she asked, moving the stool closer to the shelf.

“No, ma’am.” She paused, one foot up the step as she bit her tongue—just a moment, then she climbed and grabbed a jar, the label scribbled so hurriedly it was unreadable, the dark paste inside a stark contrast with the white paper.

“Charcoal—whitens the teeth,” she moved back down, the counter between them as she handed the product to him—her eyes flickered towards the cigarette that he’d tucked over his ear, shaking her head lightly. “Nasty habit,” she muttered, lowering her gaze.

“I’m aware,” Javier chuckled—as he took the jar, he grazed her fingers. Helena pulled back as if she’d been burned, fingertips curling into her palm and pressing harshly. “Does this stuff actually work?” he cleared his throat, turning it in his palm to glance at the label again.

He knew her handwriting. He could read it like the back of his hand. I have this dream of being whole.

“It does,” Crystal called as she walked in from the kitchenette, and Helena leaned over the counter and reached for her mug—anything to keep her hands busy. “See for yourself. On the house.”

“He can’t accept it on the house, Crystal,” she said, moving back. “There’s an investigation ongoing—isn’t that right?” it looked as if she might turn to him while she addressed him, but didn’t. Again.

“That’s right,” Javier cleared his throat, shuffling a little. He was so close to the counter he could feel the edge of it dig into his stomach, and forced himself to look at the other woman. “But are you giving me your word? That it works.”

He was a charmer. Helena knew already—Crystal was just finding out. She wanted to ask what investigation Helena was talking about, what was happening at the house on Magnolia Street that she desperately did not want to go back, and what was happening with the agent so desperately trying to meet her eyes.

“Cross my heart,” she said instead, because she knew this would be another inexplicable moment. She’d made her peace with it. “Swear to God, this woman is a magician. Let me ring you up.”

Helena hid her face with the mug, the dwindling steam turning her cheeks a soft shade of red. At the same time, Javier scoffed lightly.

“Right,” he muttered, reaching for his wallet. “Heard that one before. Thanks.”

It took a moment for Helena to register his words—she was trying so hard to not hear him, to not focus on him, that she didn’t understand what he was saying until he was out of the door, an echo of the bell ringing in her mind.

“Wait, what?” she placed the mug down, looking up at his back behind the glass. “Hold on.”

She shouldn’t have gone after him. She should’ve known better. Helena spent her whole life being vigilant, she spent her whole life relying on logic and common sense, she’d taken care of everything from the moment her parents had died, and then again when Frankie had died—she thought about everything.

She had to, because otherwise how would her kids have made it to fourteen and fifteen?

She had to, because if she stopped thinking about everything, what exactly was she left with? Her thoughts and worries are the only reason she continued to exist, of that she was certain.

Never look back, never change direction, that’s what she had to tell herself. Don’t think about being alone in the dark, or storms or lightning and thunder, or the true love you won’t ever have. Life, she knew, was brushing her teeth and making breakfast for her kids and not letting her mind wander.

But that was a lie—from the beginning Helena had been lying to herself, telling herself she could handle anything: her parents dying, her sister relying on her, her aunts’ reputation, Frankie, Frankie’s death, the spell, the year where everything went grey, her children, and now this. She’d grown tired—she didn’t want to lie anymore. One more lie and she’d be lost. One more lie and she’d never find her way back through the woods.

And it’s all because of him.

“What did you mean?” she stopped abruptly when he did, taking a step back when he turned to look at her. She tugged her cardigan close, the wind whipping the ends around along with her hair, and tipped her chin up with her arms crossed, finally, finally looking back at him. “Heard that one before?” she echoed. “Is that why you were at my shop?”

“No,” he shook his head. “It’s because I needed toothpaste, and I’m just around the corner,” she scoffed lightly, shuffling her feet. “But actually, yes, I heard a bunch of stuff that doesn’t make sense at all, so I’d like to understand.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my job,” he retorted. “Because, seriously, I have heard it all. A family of witches, a curse, your own husband—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, and for a moment Javier recoiled, saw the truth in the words of all the people who had warned him off Helena Goode. With her hair dancing in the wind, and her cheeks still red, and her eyes oh-so-clear, like a storm incoming, he understood. “Do not bring Frankie into this.”

“Hard not to, when it’s everything this town talks about,” he took a step forward, her whole body seizing up. “Do you have any idea how strange this all sounds to me? People tell me you’re here cooking up placenta bars, that you’re into devil worship.”

“You think I don’t know that?” her voice was lower, and pulled him closer. “All my life, this town—I know what they say about me, I know what everybody thinks.” She wanted to move away—she wanted to lean in. She remained still. “All my life I wanted nothing more than to be seen as normal, but that’s just not the way it is. I don’t have a ranch house or a white picket fence, I don’t have a husband that’s alive anymore, I don’t have—” she cut herself off, unsure as to why she was so ready to pour her heart out to a stranger in the middle of the street. “I don’t see how that’s my fault.”

“I never said it was,” Javier spoke softly, a gentleness that felt foreign on his tongue but rolled off easily when he looked at her.

“Then why are you here?” her chin was still up, but she was looking down at her nose, careful to avoid his gaze—it made him believe that she, too, felt that tug in the pit of her stomach. She was just better at controlling it.

Your letter, he almost said. You.

“James Hawkins,” he replied instead. “A guy like that doesn’t simply vanish.”

“And would that be such a big loss?” she scoffed, tightening her arms around herself. “A guy like that—wouldn’t it be so much better if he did just vanish?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, and felt his hands move before he could control himself. “But I made a vow, and I have a job—” his fingertips grazed her arm, and at that she pulled back.

“As do I,” one hand moved to the point he’d brushed, holding the spot as if it hurt, tight against her chest. “So unless you have something you want to ask me, Agent Peña, I’d rather get back to it.”

“Are you or your sister hiding James Hawkins?”

“He’s not here, no.”

“Did you or your sister kill James Hawkins?” he asked, and her eyebrows arched.

“Oh, yeah. Couple of times,” Javier sighed, and forced himself back, his hand now itching for his cigarette. “Is that all?” he put it between his lips, ignoring the frown forming on her brow.

“Yeah, sure,” he didn’t light it up just yet, but reached for the lighter nevertheless—he missed the letter in his pocket whenever he touched it. “Bye, Helena.”

He watched her go back inside the shop with her shoulders pulled back tight, steps unsteady, and only when the door was closed, the echo of the bell ringing in his ears, did he light up the cigarette.

She watched him go away from inside the shop, with his steps matching the thundering of her heart.

“What is wrong with you?” Phoebe watched her sister kneel on the ground, pruning shears in hand and purple flowers all around her, on her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m tired of seeing these every time I look out of the window,” her breath was short—the flowers seemed endless, she cut and cut and cut and still they were there. “And the smell—I hate it. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Lena—Lena! It’s just flowers!” although Phoebe knew it was not entirely true. Mostly, she ignored the lilacs, and everything that was underneath it. Especially what was underneath it. “Stop it, before you hurt yourself.”

“Oh, now you’re thinking about that?” Helena dropped the shears and stood, the soil on her jeans already a stain she wouldn’t manage to remove. “Now that there’s a cop after us? Now you think I might hurt myself?”

“So what? We stick to our story. No body, no crime,” she gestured towards the lilacs. “There is not a single reason why he should think we’ve done something, unless you give him one.”

“But we did, Phoebe. You understand that, don’t you?” she hissed, walking up to her sister. “We fucked up, and somehow I’m still the one who’s cleaning up your messes,” Phoebe’s eyes widened, mouth set in a thin line. “I’m sick of this.”

“I never asked you to, I never—”

“Enough lies, Pheebs. Aren’t you tired?” Helena smelled like the lilacs, and her headache was back, stronger and stronger as the storm approached from the horizon. “I know I am. I’m so tired of lying.”

“What are you talking about?” Phoebe had lowered her voice, and was looking at her sister as if she could not recognise her. “Lena—you can’t do that,” even as she said it, Helena walked past her, brushing her hands down the front of her jeans. “You can’t go to him,” she said, following her. “We’ll both be sitting in jail if you do. What about the girls? Why are you even thinking about it now?”

Helena wasn’t sure why. She knew she’d woken up smelling cigarettes and coffee again, and the lilacs, and the nightmare still clinging to her eyelids, making her feel unrested as she had for the past days. Weeks. She wasn’t sure anymore. All she knew is that her throat hurt from all the lies she’d told Javier, and she wanted to come clean, to tell all—she wanted someone to listen to what she had to say and really hear her, the way no one ever had before. So she’d gone to work, and back home to cut the flowers, and as sundown approached she would go out for Javier.

“Don’t tell me about the girls now, when I spent half my life thinking only about them,” she said loudly, marching in and out of room after room of the house, grabbing things she wasn’t even sure she needed. “And you? You only ever thought about yourself. You left me here. You lived your life. And you dragged me back in just to save your ass.”

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” Phoebe screamed too, from the middle of the house, following the noises of her sister as she stomped around. “I lived my life and you hate me for it!”

“I don’t hate you, Phoebe.”

“No, no, sure—you’re unbelievable. You spent all your life trying to be normal and fit in, but you never will! You know we’re different, and so are your girls,” Helena stopped abruptly to look at her.

“That’s twice now—you leave them out of this,” she said with a scowl so similar to that of their mother’s, if only either of them could remember her.

“All my life I’ve wished I had half your talent—you’re wasting yourself, Lena,” Phoebe cried, and for a moment she sounded just like the little girl who had just gotten to the aunts’ house. “And now you—what? You’re gonna turn yourself in? Or get down on your knees and beg for mercy?”

“If I’ll have to, yes,” Helena said without a second thought, fixing her sister with a look. “I’m done.”

They both measured themselves harshly, always had, as if they had never been anything but those two plain little girls, waiting at the airport for someone to claim them.

If you go against what you believe in, you’re nothing. That was another thing his father liked to say—and Javier knew he was right. So he was going to stick to his plan: fly back home and give up the case to the poor bastard who was supposed to get it from the beginning, had it not been for the letter. He was going to go back to work as usual, forget about the whole ordeal, forget about grey eyes and dark hair and his own heart.

Heart, heart, heart beating to the sound of the knocking on his door, that for a moment he’d thought to be rain pattering on the ground and the roof, such the strength of the storm was. But he heard it, and when he opened the door, Helena was there, shivering and looking up at him.

“You want a confession?”

In his line of work, Javier had been trained to notice things, but he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Part of the reason was that he’d been imagining Helena everywhere he went. So maybe it was just an illusion, a desire of his heart turned into a vision.

“What?” he stepped aside and, water falling from her hair, Helena walked in, trailing mud behind.

“You want a confession, don’t you? It’s why you’re still here,” she was shaking, arms crossed over her chest with wet clothes clinging to her. “We killed James. Technically, I killed James. I used belladonna.”

“I know,” Helena frowned, moved the hair out of her face with trembling hands.

“You know?” she sniffled, part from the cold part from the smell attacking her nostrils—coffee and tobacco and, surprisingly, food.

“I found some in the car—saw the same thing in your shop and had it analyzed,” he closed the door, careful to not turn the lock, leaving her a way out as he moved back towards the kitchenette. “His ring was in there, too. There was blood on it. Have you had any dinner?”

“I—what is this, some sort of joke?” she asked, slightly out of breath, and stepped in his direction. Javier scoffed, his back to her as he shook his head a little.

“Far from it,” he muttered, turning the stove off. Still, he didn’t move to look at her—if he did, he wouldn’t be able to say what he had to. He could feel her shiver, just a few steps from him, and it took everything in him to not reach over and grab her and hold her close. “But I have no idea what to do from here. I can’t say that I’m sorry Hawkins is gone, and I can’t—”

“Javier—” he exhaled—it was the first time she said his name, and he gripped the counter with both hands as he closed his eyes. Through the rain, and the soil, and the smoke in his room, he could smell lilacs and that same scent that had clung to the letter, which had bled onto his fingers each time he reread it.

“I was gonna turn over the case,” she held her breath at his words—he heard the light hiccup as her lips sealed, and slowly turned, though his gaze remained lowered. “I can’t say I’m impartial anymore—I can pretend, but I’m not. I no longer can tell what’s right and what’s wrong and you—you came here, and what did you think would happen?”

“I don’t know,” her voice was small, and Javier knew she was looking at him—the roles had switched, he could feel her gaze burning across his skin. “That’s the thing, I don’t know. I’m tired—of lying, of hiding, of those fucking flowers,” she sniffled, and from the corner of his eyes he could see her rubbing her arms. “The thing is, I’m pretty sure it’s because of you, and I can’t stand it—because I know I’ll get hurt, and my sister will get hurt, and my children, too.”

“Then why,” his voice had dropped slightly, and he took one more step forward, looking up at last—they were standing so close now, heat radiating off of him and clinging to her chilling bones, “are you here, Helena?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her hands seeking him before she could even realise. “Maybe this,” her letter was almost destroyed, wet and crumpled as she held it between them.

Fear or loneliness—she wasn’t sure she could distinguish them anymore. When the deathwatch beetle had started ticking for Frankie, then she’d been afraid. When she’d stopped speaking and seeing colours for a year, and her children had been by themselves, then she’d been afraid. When she was young, and she sneaked down the stairs with her sister to see what the aunts where up to, then she’d been afraid. In that moment, she was terrified.

And lonely. She’d never felt more alone or lonely before in her life. She wished she could’ve believed in love’s salvation, but truth was desire had been ruined for her. She wished she’d never spied on the aunts’ and seen their customers crying and begging and making fools of themselves. She’d become love-resistant because of that and, with her sister, sitting on the roof of the house, they’d wished to look up at the stars and not be afraid of it.

But, just like trouble, love came in unannounced and took over before she’d had a chance to reconsider or even think about it—Frankie first, and now—

Amas Veritas—she thought about it again, looking into Javier’s dark eyes. He will hear my call a mile away—she’d been just a child, so stupid, thinking that love was a toy, something easy and sweet, to play with. But real love, she’d learned, she was learning, was dangerous, it got you from inside and held on tight, and if you didn’t let go fast enough you might be willing to do anything for its sake.

She’d learned that with Frankie, and now—

“Oh, don’t,” she whispered when Javier’s hand brushed along her arms, foregoing the letter—and moved closer to him, pulled by gravity, by forces she couldn’t begin to control. “Javi—”

He believed he was going to cry—because she was saying his name again, soft and gentle and like she’d known it all her life, and his hands were tracing a path up her arms like he knew exactly the shape of her, and trying to learn it by memory all over again.

He wasn’t even sure that was not the case. Perhaps a part of him knew her already, always had.

He had stumbled into love, of that he was certain, and was stuck there. Javier was used to not getting what he wanted, he’d learned to deal with it, but with Helena in front of him he couldn’t help but wonder if that had only been because he’d never wanted anything too badly. He did now.

“I just do this,” he said, voice sad and deep and causing the hair at the nape of her neck to stand on edge as he leaned closer, towards the hand she was offering to him like in prayer, and she brushed his cheek as he sighed. “Pay no attention,” he said, but she did. How could she not?

He was there, and she shifted toward him as if to brush her hand along his face, but instead ended up with her arms looped around his neck, his own wrapped around her, holding her closer.

And Helena was terrified, because suddenly she wanted whatever he was promising her, with his lips so close and words so soft she told herself don’t listen, but she couldn’t, because whispers of I’ve been looking for you forever inched their way underneath her skin, warmed by his hands. She wanted to get lost—she, who couldn’t function without directions, needed it. Him.

Everything she did those days was so unlike her usual self that when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window behind Javier’s shoulder, she couldn’t recognise herself. Looking back at her was a woman who could’ve fallen in love if she’d let herself, a woman who didn’t stop, not even when Javier moved her hair from her neck, the wet locks sending a shiver down her spine that only intensified as the man bowed his head a pressed his mouth to the hollow of her throat.

What good would it do her to get involved with someone like him? She wondered—because the last time she did, she loved so much she got hurt to the point a part of her had forever vanished. Or so she had thought, because with Javier’s lips brushing her skin, the light tickle from his moustache making her eyelids droop, she could’ve believed something had come back alive behind her ribs. She suddenly felt like she had to press a hand down against her chest to make sure her heart wouldn’t escape her body.

“Helena—” he whispered, his arms tight around her—the droplets of rain clung to his lips, the taste of her flooding his senses, overpowering everything else. She sighed again, a shudder running down her spine, unsure if it was from his voice or the cold settling in her bones.

Although, if she were to be honest with herself, she’d say she wasn’t cold. She was burning, really, Javier’s body so close she could memorise it by touch alone.

“Maybe I’m letting you do this so you’ll stop the investigation, even with my confession,” she said, his head straightening—his nose brushed along her jaw, her cheek, and her eyes remained closed. “Have you thought about that? Maybe I’m so desperate I’d fuck anyone, including you.”

There was a sour taste in her mouth with each cruel word, but she didn’t care—she forced herself to open her eyes, she knew she needed to see the wounded look on his face with each bitter word. She needed to stop it—whatever it was—before she no longer had the option to. Before the freedom she had longed for forever slipped through her fingers, and she was trapped again in pain, just like the women who used to come at the aunts’ back door.

“Helena,” Javier said again, mournful, and she could almost taste her own name falling from his lips. The tobacco, too. Her mouth parted on instinct, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw down towards her chin, brushing her bottom lip. “You’re not like that.”

“Really?” she scoffed lightly, the noise remaining trapped in her throat when she lifted her gaze to his eyes. “You don’t know me. You just think you do.”

“That’s right,” he nodded, and the tip of his nose brushed hers—one tilt of his chin, one tip of her head, and the agony would be over for both of them. But for the moment they were just suspended in time. “I think I do. I do.”

“Let go,” she told Javier, and it sounded almost like a plea. “Let go of me.”

He did. He would’ve done anything she asked of him. Let go, hold tighter, kneel, jump into a fire. All of it. So he let go of her, even if it hurt, both of them taking one step back—her arms immediately wrapped around her middle (an attempt to trap his warmth close to her skin), his hands tingling with the loss of her.

“Helena—” he said once more, her name more and more familiar on his tongue.

“You have your confession, and you have your proof,” each word felt like shreds of glass in her throat, while she looked away forcefully—in the window, her reflection was almost familiar again, still a little wild, but recognisable. “It’s up to you. You know where to find me, once you make a decision.”

“I do,” he repeated, somewhat stunned, his mind reeling. She took one step to the side, heading for the door. “It’s still pouring outside.”

“I know,” she only said, and went nevertheless.

For hours her perfume remained in the room, clinging to him for so long he didn’t even notice the smell of his burned dinner. So long the letter had dried on the floor where it had slipped, enough for him to reread it, again and again until he’d managed to fall asleep.

Helena couldn’t stop thinking about Javier. From the moment she’d walked out of the motel room, he had been all she could think about—on the drive home through the storm, in the warm bath to wash the cold away, doing the dishes, in bed, unable to sleep, dreaming about him while wide awake and in the few hours she’d managed to close her eyes, too. Haunted, just like her sister.

She dreamed of the desert, an apple tree in a yard that wasn’t hers and bloomed without water, and horses that ate apples from that tree and ran faster than all the others, and a man who was taking a bite from a pie she’d made, bound to be hers for life. She’d woken up smelling apple pie and cinnamon, coffee and tobacco.

So it was no surprise when Javier showed up that same morning. She almost heard him coming. Yet she couldn’t face him right away, so she hid inside, behind her sister, still skittish, behind her daughters, still confused, behind the pretence of making breakfast.

“He’s staying!” Sophia, the eldest of her daughters, announced, running from the garden to somewhere past the living room—Helena sighed, eyes closing. “Aunt Pheebs! He says he’s staying!”

Helena wondered if, without the feeling of Javier’s hands still on her, she would’ve wondered why Phoebe would care whether or not the man investigating them was staying at their place for breakfast. She wasn’t even sure whether she was glad he was staying or just nauseated.

“Can I help?” Emma, much quieter than her sister, stepped at her mother’s side and pointed at the stove, a half-burned pancake smoking on the pan. Helena threw the failed attempt away and nodded, forcing a smile onto her face—she knew the man was in the room with them, she could feel him watching the two of them from the entrance, could see him in her mind as he leaned against the doorway.

“Be careful,” she murmured, taking one step aside, then another, and more, her own steps echoed by Javier’s. They met halfway across the kitchen, her still not looking at him while his eyes never once left her.

“’Morning,” he hummed, shoulders brushing—Helena moved aside, ignoring the sharp pain in her hip when she bumped into the table.

“Good morning,” she cleared her throat, brushing her hands down the front of her shirt—and then lowered her voice. “Why are you here?”

“You told me I knew where to find you once I’d made my decision,” he replied, matching her tone.

“And have you?” her hands began going numb as she clenched them in fists at her sides. She could still feel Javier looking at her.

“I’m going back to Laredo,” her gaze snapped in his direction, so fast the whole room spun as she inhaled sharply, holding her breath. “I thought you should have this. After all, it belongs to you.”

It took her a moment to manage to focus on the paper he was handing her—her letter, now ruined, a half-destroyed piece of paper she’d poured her heart over, more than once. When she picked it up, their fingers brushed just like the first time, and Helena almost cried out in pain.

“Now, something smells like it’s burning,” she could see the strain in his neck as he turned away from her, looking at Emma. One more moment and then he walked ahead. “Need a hand?”

“I was trying to flip it,” Emma mumbled, a pout forming on her lips that made her look more like her mother. Javier chuckled, settling at her side. “Do you know how?” she asked suddenly, a hopeful note in her voice Helena hadn’t heard in a while. Her chest constricted, watching the man smirk and roll up his sleeves.

“I absolutely know how to,” he nodded with a theatrical gesture. “Step aside and observe.”

Amas Veritas, dancing in Helena’s head as she watched Javier, fitting so well in her kitchen, flip pancakes in the air and making the young girl laugh. It had been a while since Emma had laughed like that, and for a moment she was her soft-voiced and shy 14-year-old again, who liked to look at the stars and sleep with her head on Helena’s lap.

But then her shoulders tensed, her whole position shifting, taking one step away from Javier to turn towards her mother, even though her eyes went past her. Helena knew, without having to turn right away, that something was terribly wrong.

“Mom,” Sophia came running in, breathless, and immediately clung to her arm, tugging harshly. “Something’s wrong, mom,” the panic in her voice settled in Helena’s bones, mixing with her own, and she was quick to push her daughter behind her back, stepping away from the door. “It’s aunt Pheebs, she—”

“It’s not her,” Emma’s voice was grave, so unfitting for a young woman, and she inched closer to her mother, too. Which left Javier at the stove, looking at the three of them with confusion and alarm. “It’s him, it’s the man of the lilacs.”

“What?” perplexed, Javier took a step forward, only to be stopped by Helena’s extended arm, while she pushed all three of them behind her just as Phoebe walked into the kitchen. Accompanied. “What the hell—” Javier exhaled, reaching for his belt.

“Agent Peña!” James exclaimed, translucent as he came into the light. Javier’s head started spinning as he stared at him, then at Phoebe Goode, her arm trapped in his vice grip made of fingers of smoke, then back at him. “Long time no see. How’s Laredo? I think I’m starting to feel homesick.”

As James spoke, Helena had started stepping backwards, her gaze never leaving Phoebe—the two sisters were looking at each other, guilt and fear and resolution in their gazes that no one but the younger girls could notice, the familiarity an ache on the palms of their hands as they held each others’, keeping close, keeping behind their mother.

“Helena,” Javier called, his gaze unwavering as he took hold of his gun. “You said he was dead.”

“Yes,” she nodded, and for a split second, Phoebe’s eyes showed surprise.

“Doesn’t look like it,” he retorted, and James scoffed.

“You’ve all spent weeks pretending I’m not here—well, almost all,” he tilted his head, gaze settling onto Emma, and smiled. Helena pushed her daughter into her back, the girl hiding her face against her shoulder, clinging tighter onto her sister’s hand—Sophia held her chin high, squeezing back. “It’s gotten boring.”

“Then leave,” in Phoebe’s voice there was all the rage of the Goode women before her. But then James turned, his grip tighter on her arm, and Helena watched her sister’s legs tremble. “Just leave us alone,” she pleaded, eyes widening.

“No,” James chuckled, pulling her closer—Javier could see the strain in the woman’s shoulder, her face contorting in pain, and could not wrap his head around it. James Hawkins did not look real, or at least not real enough to hurt them. Still, he felt uneasy, even more so when he spoke again, his head lowered next to Phoebe’s. “I’m feeling very into sisters right now,” his gaze flickered towards Helena, too, a grin taking over his pale face.

Javier wasn’t looking at her, but he felt Helena straighten her back, look at him, and then turn. He heard her whisper to her daughters, possibly holding them closer, to run into their aunts’ room and be mindful of the salt. He heard two sets of steps backtrack, and watched James’ face shift into disappointment.

“Oh, Lena, Lena, Lena—you really do take the fun out of anything, don’t you?” he took one step forward, dragging Phoebe with him—the woman cried weakly, trying and failing to escape his hold.

“Hey,” only now that the kids weren’t in the room did Javier lift his gun—although he was sure it would do nothing to stop the man, and his widened grin only confirmed it. “Let go of her.”

“And you,” James groaned, even as Javier placed himself between him and Helena, “you never, ever learned when to just give up,” the two men looked at each other—Javier’s gun lifting, James’ hand reaching out for him. “You should let the adults—”

Before the sentence was over, James screamed, letting go of Phoebe. Helena ignored Javier’s surprised gasp in favour of her sister tumbling to the side, quick to reach her before she could even touch the floor.

The same floor where a star shimmered, catching the sunlight. Javier carried it with him everywhere he went, in remembrance of his father, the star-shaped badge he’d lived by for ages before retiring. Javier did not believe in luck, good or bad that it was, but he did believe in reminders: of doing the right thing, always. Of never losing sight of who he was.

He picked it up right as James straightened, a hole in his near-invisible hand that echoed its shape. Without thinking, without considering, Javier held it up right as the other man—or whatever was left of him—screamed in his direction, unintelligible words that probably would’ve resounded like threats, had Javier been able to hear a single one.

Instead, he stared as the figure vanished, with one longer scream and a curse, the air darkening in front of his eyes and then dissipated into nothing, leaving him to look at the corridor that brought to the stairs, a ringing in his ears.

“It’s okay, Pheebs,” Helena’s voice slowly brought him back, words repeated soothingly as she still held her sister. “It’s okay, it’s alright,” reassuring, in spite of her trembling voice. “I need you to call the aunts, Phoebe. I need you to tell them what happened. Can you do that?”

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe was still saying, her eyes unfocused though she looked up to Helena.

“I know, I know—but can you?” Javier could almost see it—nights spent with Helena reassuring her sister, hidden under thick blankets or on the rooftop of the house beneath a sky full of stars. “Please, I need to go to the girls.”

“Oh, the girls,” Phoebe exhaled, and released the grip on her arm. “Of course. Of course. I’m sorry.”

Helena didn’t wait, though she lingered enough to rest a kiss to Phoebe’s temple, before standing and walking out of the kitchen. It took Javier a moment to come to his senses, and then he went straight after her.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, his mind still reeling, forgetting for a moment the effect he had on her. “Was that him? Did I kill him?”

“Yes, and no—technically,” Helena didn’t stop, heading for the stairs she used to sit on when she was a kid to spy on the aunts. “It was his spirit, which you banished. But I told you, I killed him. And you can do whatever with this information after, but right now—”

“Hold on just a goddamn second, all right?” Javier grabbed her arm, pulling her right back against him. A split second in which they looked each other in the eyes, and all that had happened the night before came back, all that had been left unsaid before hit them square in the chest, and in that split second, they could’ve almost forgotten all else. “What are you talking about? His spirit? I came here to bring in the bad guy—generally, that’s what I do, and now you’re telling me about spirits?”

“Is that why you came here, Javier?” she stood her ground, her arm still in his hold. “Be honest.”

“Honesty,” he scoffed. “I thought I did—and then you were here, and your letter—maybe that’s what brought me here. Maybe it was you. And I’m all mixed-up about that.”

Helena was looking at him with that storm still brewing in her eyes, and Javier felt his knees threaten to give out underneath him. His hand fell from her upper arm, down her elbow and wrist, brushing the palm of her hand. She took a slow breath in, lips trembling.

“The reason you’re here and you don’t know why is because I sent for you,” she said, quietly.

“I know why—”

“You don’t,” she interrupted him. “When I was a little girl, I worked a spell so I would never fall in love. I asked for qualities in a man that I knew couldn’t possibly exist,” she shook her head, while his fingers wrapped around her limp hand. “But you do.”

“So,” he scoffed, “you’re saying that what I’m feeling is just one of your spells?”

“Yes, it’s not real,” it sounded like it pained her to say, even though Javier knew she was telling the truth. Or at least thought she was. “And if you stay, I wouldn’t know if it was because of the spell, and you wouldn’t know if it was because I don’t want to go to prison.”

“All relationships have problems,” he muttered, and she gave a small, unamused laugh.

“I thought I loved Frankie, but that was another spell too,” for a split second, she held his hand back, squeezing her fingers around his to the point it hurt. “Still, you don’t want to know what happens if you stay. We’re all cursed. You saw that,” and just like that, she let go of him.

“Curses only have power when you believe in them, Helena, and I don’t,” clenching his fists, Javier stepped back from her. “You know what? I wished for you too.”

Helena knew. He’d told her the night before, his lips etching each word onto her skin.

But she watched him go nevertheless, glad he managed to take the steps she couldn’t.

Helena was tired. She had been tired since lying on the floor next to her sister, watching as she was being consumed from inside. But all of that was over. She’d stared at the letter from Laredo for days after that, keeping it stored with the other one written in her own hand that carried the mark of both her touch and his.

She did her best to not think of him. It was near impossible.

James Hawkins’ cause of death was accidental, read the letter. His body was identified by jewellery in the ashes of a body found in Laredo, right by his property. The same ring he’d told her was in his car, the car she’d driven, the car she’d spilt belladonna in.

Sincerely, Javier Peña, special investigator.

“I don’t think you’ll find him there, Lena,” Phoebe said softly, when she caught her reading the letter once more. “But somewhere else, perhaps.”

For days, she let the words linger. Days turned into weeks turned into months, his absence like an emptiness into her chest. She’d almost convinced herself it would pass. That, with time, that too would pass—just another pain, just another absence. She could deal with it. She could.

And then Javier was there, in her backyard, or at least that was what she thought she was seeing, because it couldn’t be. How could he be there, when he was in her dreams just that night?

“What would you do, Pheebs?” she whispered, her heart beating so loud she wouldn’t be surprised if everybody else could hear.

“What wouldn’t I do, for the right man?” Phoebe whispered in return, gently pushing her forward with a wide smile. “This is not the aunts’, this is the two of you.”

All the while, Javier looked at them, standing perfectly still like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to do, one of his hands half-raised as if in greeting but without waving, the other buried deep within his pocket. He looked at them, and watched Phoebe quickly lead the girls away even when they tried to run to him, and then Helena walk in his direction.

“A love that even time will lie down and be still for,” he said as a way of greeting, once they were standing one in front of the other. “Ever since I went back, time hasn’t felt real, because you weren’t there. And maybe you still believe it’s for a spell you did as a child, or your aunts’ fault—”

“How do you know about the aunts?” it was hard not to smile when he fidgeted like that.

“Your sister told me,” he returned, softly. “Your sister called.”

“And you’re here,” she said, a half-step forward in his direction.

“I’m here,” he nodded, moving the hand out of his pocket and reaching for her tentatively. “I’m here because I know this is real. No gimmick, just—”

“Love?” she suggested, and the glint in her eyes reminded him of the moon itself.

“Love,” he repeated, their fingers interlocking. “Helena, I mean all of it. I’ll even quit smokin’ if—”

She kissed him, plain and simple. Pulled his hands so that he was stumbling forward and caught his lips with hers, gentle, slow. She kissed him, and as Javier held her, he felt like he’d finally gone home. She kissed him, and felt that empty space in her chest filling with the taste of coffee and tobacco.

Can love travel back in time and heal a broken heart?

There were some things, after all, that Helena Goode knew for certain:

Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Plant lavender for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

#javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x ofc #javier peña x oc #javier peña x original female character #javier peña x reader #javier peña imagine #javier peña fic #javier peña #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x fem!reader #javier peña x you #javier peña fanfic #javier pena fanfiction #pedrostories #javier pena x ofc #javier pena x oc #javier pena x original female character #practical magic #redahlia

125 notes · View notes

verfound · 2 months ago

Text

FIC: "Mellie's New Friend" (MLB; Lukanette; LBSC Lukanette Month 2024)

@lovebugs-and-snakecharmers is doing a Lukanette Month for September 2024, and we all just kinda tossed some prompts in the disco to compile a list? We ended up with 71 prompts, so I decided I’d roll some dice to pick a prompt, do a twenty minute (ish, bc we all know sometimes they run away from me) sprint, and try to get some short fics out this month?

Read on Ao3

Prompt 64: Nail Polish

There wasn’t a lot to like about Gertie, the old woman who lived next door. Gertie was, politely speaking, kind of a bitch. She took offense to just about everything about the Couffaine household: the dyed hair of its owners, the loud music that cranked at all hours, the even louder children the owners let run around like little hooligans, the constant stream of strangers (family and friends all, not that she cared) always coming and going, the general Chaos that followed them around like an unlucky shadow. She was loud and cantankerous herself, always quick to shoot a barb at Marinette or one of the kids when she spotted them outside of the house.

(She never bothered casting barbs towards Luka. For Luka, she reserved her trademark silent scowl. He had thought she’d actually growled at him one day, but looking back he was pretty sure that had been Poochie, not her.)

Marinette tried, bless her, to be kind and patient and all those good, wholesome things people like Marinette were with her. She always did her best to greet the barbs with a smile. She always reminded the kids that Gertie was alone, and lonely people tended to be…harder than people surrounded by friends and family. And when that didn’t work, she slapped a tight smile on her face, wished her a good day, and scurried back inside.

None of the kids were old enough to remember her Grandpa Roland – he had passed well before Harmony was born – but she did. His memory afforded her the grace the others sometimes lacked, when it came to their old neighbor.

It was a good two years of living next to Gertie’s hateful barbs before they realized Gertie had, at some point, apparently…had a heart?

Because there was a child in her backyard.

Melody was the first to notice, and Luka had to admit he had noticed her before he noticed the other kid. Because she’d been sitting by the fence, acting like she was talking and playing with someone he couldn’t see – and she had long outgrown her last ‘imaginary’ friend. And while it was possible one of the kwamis was out there with her, he was pretty sure he would have seen them zipping around.

“Mels?” he asked, poking his head out the back door. “You ok?”

“I’m good, Papa!” she called. “It’s just Milly!”

Her face scrunched up, and then she rolled her eyes in a perfect imitation of her aunt.

“Sorry. Mildred,” she said, dragging out the name like it was distasteful. “I don’t know why you don’t like Milly – it’s so much more fun than Mildred.”

Luka had walked across the garden to her by this point, and amused expression on his face.

“Mildred?” he asked, chuckling. “And who’s Mildred, songbird?”

“My new friend,” Melody said, grinning at him. She pointed at the fence. “She lives over there.”

And that was when Luka actually looked at the old stockade fence, and while he couldn’t actually see through it…there was just enough of a gap beneath it that he could see the bottoms of folded legs and light-up trainers on the other side.

…huh.

There actually was a kid in Gertie’s yard.

He briefly entertained the thought of Gertie being a possible child snatcher and whether or not he needed to call Captain Roger, but that was ridiculous.

There was no way Gertie had the strength or dexterity in her old, arthritic body to kidnap a fully-grown child. She barely had enough strength to wrangle her dog most days, and Poochie was smaller than even Dewey yet.

“Well, hello, Mil…dred,” he said, remembering the way she had obviously corrected Melody.

“Hi,” a quiet voice answered. A tiny hand appeared beneath the fence, little fingers wiggling at them in a wave. His lips quirked up in a smile, and he crouched down as the hand slipped back under a fence. He glanced at Melody when she giggled, and they shared a grin as he reached his own fingers under the fence and waved. Before he could say anything, there was a tiny gasp, and then little fingers were wrapping around his own. “Oh my gosh! Your nails are so pretty!”

“Not as pretty as Maman’s,” Melody huffed, and Luka stuck his tongue out at her when she pulled a face. “But they’re nice. I guess.”

“You’d like them more if I painted them pink, huh?” he teased. Melody started to grin again, and he stuck his tongue back out. He turned back to the fence and wiggled his fingers. “Thank you, Mildred.”

“You paint them?” Mildred asked. He felt her run a finger along one of his nails, and his smile softened. “Like…on your own?”

“I do,” he said. “I’ve been painting them since I was a little over Mellie’s age.”

“That’s so cool,” Mildred breathed. There was another moment of hesitation, where she just held onto his fingers and tapped against the nails. And then, after a bit, she asked: “Can…can you paint mine?”

Melody started to squeal, but Luka frowned.

“I…don’t know if your…if Mlle. Gertie would like that, Mildred,” he said. “I can if you’d like, but maybe we should ask her first?”

“Granny Gertrude will say no,” Mildred sighed. “I just wanted to be pretty, too…”

And that was, ultimately, what did it.

Because Luka Couffaine was nothing if not a softie, especially for sad little girls. A bleeding heart, his wife would say. And even if he couldn’t actually see Mildred through the fence, Melody was giving him the biggest puppy eyes she could manage, and that was enough to break his heart. So, knowing full well that Granny Gertie was going to give him untold levels of hell for it later, he squeezed Mildred’s fingers before pulling his hand back. He patted Melody’s knee, smiling sadly at her.

“What color would you like, Mildred?” he asked. “We have the whole rainbow upstairs.”

“The sparkly pink one!” Melody cried. “Oooh! Oh, no! The sparkly blue! Or Auntie Jules’s witch one! Or the stardust one!”

“I…I don’t know,” Mildred’s quiet voice said. “They all sound nice.”

He chuckled and reached out, ruffling Melody’s hair. She stuck her tongue out at him, and he tipped his head back towards the house.

“All right, then, Mels,” he said. “Why don’t you go pick out a few favorites, and we’ll let Mildred see which one she likes best?”

“She’s gonna love the unicorn one Auntie Rose got me!” Melody screamed as she raced inside. Luka shook his head and chuckled. He looked back at the fence with a smile.

“So…Mlle. Gertie’s your grandmother?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mildred answered.

“I didn’t know she had any family,” Luka said.

“We live a really long way away,” Mildred said. “We had to drive for hours before we took a plane. Mama and Papa are doctors.”

“Really?” Luka asked, surprised. Gertie had never said anything.

“In Africa,” she said. “We travel a lot.”

“I travel a lot, too,” Luka said, “but not for half as good a reason. I’m sure your parents help a lot of people, Mildred.”

“Mellie said you’re Luke Stone,” Mildred said, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. “You help people, too. We play your music in the clinic all the time. It makes everyone happy.”

…well, shit.

“That…thank you, Mildred,” he said, smiling against the burn in his throat. “I appreciate that. I still think your parents have the harder job, though.”

“Are you really gonna paint my nails?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Anything for such a sweet fan.”

“Nuh-uh!” Melody’s voice said sharply beside him. He looked up to see she had returned with an arm full of tiny bottles. Just like he’d promised, there was every color of the rainbow there – and then some. “I’m gonna do it! Papa, Millie’s my new best friend. You go get your own!”

…he had one, but the asshole wasn’t half as sweet as the little girl on the other side of the fence. He shook his head, laughing as he shrugged. What was he gonna do, though? Melody’s word was almost law.

“Well, if you insist. Are you ok with that, Mildred? If Mellie paints your nails?” he asked.

“Sure,” Mildred said. “I like Mellie. Her nails are pretty, too.”

Melody grinned as she held up her thumb. The sparkly pink paint was already chipped and half-off – she’d need a touchup soon.

“Well, ok, then,” he said, clapping his knees before he pushed himself up. “I’ll leave you two to it. It was nice meeting you, Mildred.”

“You too, M. Stone,” Mildred said.

“Couffaine,” Melody huffed, rolling her eyes. “He’s only M. Stone for the cameras.”

“Be nice, Mellie,” he chided, but he was still smiling when she stuck her tongue out at him. He leaned over to kiss the top of her head, and then he pushed himself up and turned back towards the house. “Have fun, you two.”

Marinette found him by the backdoor a short while later, nursing a mug of tea as he watched the girls paint each other’s nails through the fence. She wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her head on his shoulder, humming when he bent to kiss the top of it.

“What is she doing?” she asked, following his gaze to the fence.

“Making a friend,” he said. He turned to her with a grin. “Did you know Gertie has a kid? A grandkid, for that matter?”

Marinette blinked up at him, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.

“…holy shit,” she said after a moment. “Someone actually procreated with that miserable old –”

“Manners,” he chuckled, tilting her chin up to cut her off with a kiss. “There’s probably a child present. Somewhere. We certainly have enough of them.”

“Don’t you start,” she huffed, squeezing him as she laid her head back down. “I can’t believe she was ever able to connect with someone like that.”

“She might not have always been miserable,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, your nonna connected with Roland like that, and we all remember how miserable he was.”

“Shut up,” she giggled, bumping her head against his arm. “You’re glad they did. We never would have met if she hadn’t seen something in him.”

“And now Mellie has a new friend because someone saw something in Gertie,” he said. She stuck her tongue out at him, then rolled her eyes when he kissed it. He winked at her. “…even if she is a miserable old bitch.”

She rolled her eyes and bumped her forehead against him.

(She was less amused a few days later, when she was walking the twins home from maternelle and Louis saw Gertie walking up her front steps, stopped to wave, and cried: “Hi, missable old bitch!”)

#miraculous ladybug #luka couffaine #melody couffaine #lukanette #endgame lukanette #lukanette endgame #ml fic #ver fic #house band #lbsc lukanette month 2024 #prompt: nail polish #lukanette kids #kid fluff #guys my head feels like bricks wrapped in cotton wool #I'm trying

12 notes · View notes

dark-elf-writes · 8 months ago

Note

I have no clue anything about ff but where is the ‘Harry gets adopted by FF7 characters and finds out what a family should be” au

No one is more surprised than me that I haven’t written this yet tbh like who am I????

ANYWAY

Little Harry who has heard a woman’s voice from a young age telling him that he is not alone, that he is not a freak, that he will be loved and cared for more than he could ever know. He always hears her more when he is working in his Aunt Petunia’s garden. Can practically feel her in the way the plants bloom more beautifully than anywhere else on their street. His invisible friend that helps him find what little beauty he can in his world.

And sometimes she talks about her friends. About a woman who is as strong as she is kind, who loves freely but took no shit, who welcomed those with good intentions with open arms and threw anyone without them out on their arse. About a ninja with sticky fingers and the blood of a princess who would give anything for her people and have fun every step of the way. About a father who demanded the world to change for his little girl and decided to be the push that set it all in motion. About an inventor trapped in the place he should have been able to do good but unable to make anyone listen so he sent his inventions out to make change for him. About a pilot who was grounded against his will and decided to make those that would clip his wings choke on that decision. About a man who was only doing his job and was hurt over and over again for doing the right thing and who learned slowly that the things done to him did not make him a monster.

About a hero that led them all, each of them broken and shattered in their own ways, into a better world.

Harry liked the stories of the hero the best.

Then one day things get bad and Uncle Vernon gets far more angry than he normally is. Harry runs to the garden, hoping somehow that his friend, his only friend, could save him, and she does.

In a space that is more light and glowing green energy than any “world” should be, he sees her for the first time, softly smiling and reaching out to rub her fingers through his hair. She is the prettiest lady he has ever seen. Another voice laughs when he tells her so and a big man with kind eyes, a scar on his face, and hair just as wild as Harry’s grins at him as he announces that “this kid knows what he’s talking about.”

She smiles though there is something sad in her eyes when she speaks.“I can send you somewhere that will help for a time, but eventually you will have to come back. This planet is quite certain that it needs you in the future.”

Harry wants to cry, wants to scream. How does he have to go back! He doesn’t want to.

But something else sticks with him, something that makes him hurt before he even realizes what it was.

“Send me somewhere. Not us?” Not his friend who had told him so many stories and helped him grow flowers? Not this pretty lady and the man with such a kind smile? After everything he would still be alone?

It’s the man’s hand that lands in his hair this time, a comforting weight as he ruffles the tangled locks. “Spike and the others will be waiting for you on the other side. They’ll take good care of you. SOLDIER’s honor.”

Harry doesn’t understand, can’t understand really but “You’re my friend,” he tells the woman, frustrated tears gathering in his eyes. He doesn’t have the words to say anything more. To name the swirling mass of hurt and yearning in his stomach.

She seems to understand smiling sadly at him again before she leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. “You’ll still be able to hear me. More clearly than most I think. I will not leave you Harry Potter.”

Harry Potter is seven years old when he goes missing from the backyard of his Aunt’s house in a swirl of green light. He is seven years old when he wakes up in a shallow pool of water in a church that has seen better days with a man with wild blond hair and shining blue eyes watching him in stunned silence. He is seven years old when his first friend sends him to his hero for safety.

#the elf talks #ff7 #harry potter #help this grew legs and now I have T H O U G H T S

31 notes · View notes

pelorsdyke · 1 year ago

Text

ronancetober - day twelve: spell [practical magic au, nancy wheeler as sally owens, robin buckley as state investigator gary hallett]

“Did you or your sister kill Jason Carver?” The state investigator asks Nancy, both hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket.

It’s stupid, but Nancy can’t help her instinctual deadpan reply. “Oh, yeah,” she says, leaning back against her kitchen counter. Distantly, she can hear Max and Mike taunting each other, the jingle of her aunt’s wind chimes as the pair race in and out of the porch door. “A couple of times.”

The investigator— Robin, she’d said her name was, insistent when Nancy defaulted to Detective Buckley instead— smirks. Nancy traces the line of her lips with her eyes.

“Nancy,” she begins, the word as hard-fought from the respectful detective as Robin’s own name had been from Nancy, “please. Tell me what you saw.”

“Jason Carver was a no-good shithead of a man, a bully and a bastard, and the worst kind of man, which is to say, one who put his hands on my sister. To be honest, Detective,” Nancy replies, pressing in on the word as she says it, watching Robin roll her eyes with barely constrained pleasure, “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass where he is now.”

It’s true, is the thing. When Nancy had first hit him— and she had been the first, the crunch of her car against his bones somehow a relief even as her mind had started racing through the implications of killing a man— a not exactly small part of her had thought about just leaving him where he was. A hit-and-run, maybe chalked up to his mob connections or violent behavior, letting Jason Carver rot in the woods. Better than he deserved, anyway. But Chrissy had insisted, fearful, that they needed to at least move the body, and once the two of them had hustled him in the car, it had seemed a little stupid to just… what? Bury the body in Joyce’s backyard? Hope no one dug the gardenias up too deeply next year? So they’d done something probably far stupider, if she was honest, and paged carefully through books Nancy had sworn off years ago to find a spell neither of them should’ve even considered casting.

And the second time, to be fair, he’d been a breath away from killing Chrissy. So Nancy had done it, in the end, had killed the man twice, the second time by shattering a pot over his head, and if she was honest, she’d kind of enjoyed it. Nancy didn’t intend to become a murderer, but she did revel some in getting to hand-deliver the comeuppance Carver had deserved, after what he’d put her sister through.

And then, yes, sure, they’d buried him in the garden. Fuck off, okay? Where else were they supposed to do it? Maybe one of their cousins had something resembling a better hiding spot for bodies by their mother’s house, but Nancy wasn’t about to start making calls to ask.

Robin mulls over Nancy’s words for a moment, and Nancy takes the time to observe the woman in front of her. Robin was tall but thin, most of her frame hidden away behind the bulk of her thick jacket and flannel, but where the sleeves were rolled up, Nancy caught a peek of muscled forearms. The detective was no desk jockey, certainly. She’d passed on the coffee Nancy had offered her on coming in, citing that it made her inexplicably sleepy, and had smiled fondly at Max and Mike when they’d scampered by, quietly letting on that they reminded her a bit of herself and her older brother. Nancy isn’t really sure why she’s so determined to hold onto every piece of information about Robin, but the woman is just so intriguing to her. There’s something about her presence at Nancy’s kitchen table, steady even as she thrums with energy, that Nancy can’t stop staring at.

It’s the moment when Robin opens her mouth, actually, that it clicks into place for Nancy. She’s saying something about how she’s certainly not about to deny Nancy’s assessment of the situation, not after chasing Carver across the country following a string of murders, but Nancy is only half-listening. Instead, she’s focused in what might be a semi-intimidating way for Robin on the blue of the woman’s eyes, how they flit between shades as the light changes.

—“And they’re going to have… bright blue eyes! Not like me, but like… like the ocean on a summer day.” Nancy remembers saying, Chrissy listening attentively at her side. “And one of those faces like an old Hollywood movie star, and an older brother who was born into parents who adopted them.”

“Is all of this important?” Chrissy had asked, and Nancy had shrewdly raised an eyebrow, breaking her concentration for only a second.

“Chris, it’s about making somebody impossible. I want to make sure I never fall in love,” Nancy had said, resolute and avoiding the sad curve of Chrissy’s lips in response. “Now shut up! I have to finish. And she’s going to hate coffee because it makes her sleepy instead of waking her up, which makes no sense to her or anyone else—“

“She?” Chrissy had piped in again, and Nancy had felt herself blush to the roots of her hair.

“Maybe,” she’d said, defensive and immediate, and her sister had just laughed and wrapped her in a hug, reminding her that they’d always have each other’s backs, no matter what. It was a promise they’d made with blood before Chrissy had run off, but it had been deep in both girls’ souls since long before that.

Nancy comes back to the moment with Robin with a certainty that grips her all the way to her soul. It’s her, she thinks, eyes locked on the cabinet beside her to avoid staring a hole into Robin’s head. Nancy’s magic impossible woman. And she’s doomed her to die.

#yes Mike is her kid and Chrissy is her sister because this isn’t canon I do what I want!#this is my stupid self indulgent au and I bend the characters to fit the narrative!#I really was excited about this one I hope you like it!#robin buckley #nancy wheeler #ronance #stranger things #mine #ronancetober #practical magic #fic tag

61 notes · View notes

sixty-silver-wishes · 8 months ago

Text

sometimes I think about the house my grandma raised my mother and uncle in, that my grandfather lived in before he died, that my sister and my parents and I would all come over to for holidays. when my sister and I were little, we loved watching Disney and Nickelodeon on my grandma’s TV because all we could get at home was PBS for the longest time. she had an old antique piano that was out of tune, and when I started learning to play the piano in middle school, I would go plink out “Legend of Zelda” songs on it and think about how I was playing songs much, much younger than that 100-year-old piano. and we tried to plant a garden in her backyard, but it got overgrown with weeds. and one day we found tadpoles in the birdbath, and she let us take some home so we could watch them grow into frogs. my grandfather had an old green easy chair he was always sitting in, and two toes that crossed over each other and wouldn’t sit normally. I liked to watch nature documentaries with him. right before he died, we would talk about world history because he was very interested in it, and I was just beginning to be. there was a painting of my mother when she was a child on the wall of one of the bedrooms, and I would always stare at it because it looked exactly like my older sister. my grandmother had an outdoor swimming pool where we would sit by as we watched my uncle launch Fourth of July fireworks, but when I got older and wasn’t interested in fireworks anymore, or the United States had made me too disillusioned with the Fourth of July for me to watch fireworks, I sat inside with my aunt and the dogs to keep them company. there was a big tree in the yard I loved to climb, and when I was in middle or high school, I would take my instruments up there to play them while sitting in a tree, just because playing instruments in a tree sounded like a magical thing to do. my grandmother had a pantry full of snacks just for my sister and I- Scooby Doo fruit snacks with the light blue one still in there and Saltine crackers, and a fridge full of sodas and sparkling water in the garage. she had a sewing room where she would teach us to make blankets and pillowcases with the fabric we picked out, and when my sister got older, she taught her to make vintage style dresses. she had a bedroom full of antiques belonging to our great-grandmother whom I had never met, and it somehow felt like the most familiar and most distant place in the world to me.

but then her dog died, and her old cockatiel died too, and one of our cats died. and over time we buried all the animals under one of the trees in her backyard- one I used to climb, but not as much as the other tree because it was so skinny. when my grandfather died when I was in high school, he was buried in a military cemetery where all you can leave are cut flowers and US flags, and my grandma got a certificate from the government after he died with Donald Trump’s signature printed on it because he was president then, and she always says it’s the ugliest signature she’s ever seen. his funeral was the very first time I saw a coffin. the old piano was beyond repair, so they took out all the musical bits and turned it into a desk that sits in our living room. the white paint covering the wood, its musical guts removed, the silence of the out-of-tune ancient keys that are no longer there makes it sound more like taxidermy than a piano. it plays john cage’s 4’33 in fortissimo whenever I pass it.

when my grandmother went to live in an assisted living community, she sold the house. she’s doing well now. she likes the place she lives in, she invites us over for holidays, she keeps active. but the house was completely remodeled and painted over. she said the tree I loved to climb in, the one my uncle climbed in when he was a kid, was chopped down. she says the house doesn’t look like it used to anymore. it’s unrecognizable. I could drive past it and never know. I probably have.

I wonder if the people who live there now know that in the big backyard that generations of people loved, no matter how much they’ve altered the house, there are the bones of two dogs and a cat and a cockatiel deep under the ground.

I wonder if they haunt it.

#rambles #this got long #death cw

21 notes · View notes

randomshyperson · 2 years ago

Text

Yellow Curtains - Chapter Seven - Wanda Maximoff Series

Summary: Wanda Maximoff's senior year at Novi Grad School is duly planned for her. She has good friends, good grades, and a good system to hide who she really is. Or, the one based on Evak from the Norway Skam series, where Wanda is queer and tries to survive the last year without anyone knowing about it.

Warnings: (+18), general warnings about language and violence, legal drug use, mentions of underage drinking, high school, internalized homophobia and discovery of sexuality, explicit mentions of mental disorders (bipolarity and depression), dysfunctional family, making out, and eventual smut.

Skamverse | Series | General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

--//--

Chapter Seven - The Truth

Četrtek 14:11 (Thursday 2:11 pm)

A beautiful landscape extended in front of Wanda. She adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and blew the tea inside the cup she held, staring at the view while she could hear the sounds of her family playing in the house behind her.

She had been miserable for days after the fight, and Natalya had come up with the suggestion that they all go south of Novi Grad, to the part of the country where Django and Marya, Wanda's aunt and uncle, lived. They had two children, Ana and Mateo, who were very naughty children and whom Wanda liked very much.

It was already the last day of Hanukkah, and since the Maximoffs were not Jewish, Wanda left the table and went to a high spot on the hill in the backyard, and took advantage of the privacy to pray in silence.

She was admiring the landscape now; it would be a lie to say she wasn't thinking of you. She has, without exception, been remembering you every day. But Carol's call the day after yours, made her stop phoning.

"She's not feeling very well right now, Wanda. We're still in the hospital. With the holidays, her psychiatrist is on vacation. And she can't use a cell phone here so don't expect her to call. Just, hold tight okay? Know that she is safe. And surrounded by people who love her. She'll talk to you when she can."

Carol didn't answer any of her questions, and in a way, only made new ones come up. But Wanda was trying not to despair over the whole thing, and being around her family again made her breathe easy.

Pietro was still acting strange, but to her surprise, he was the one who took the first act toward reconciliation.

"I wouldn't want to start the year at war with you." He said - The peace offering being fruit he picked from the Maximoff garden in a decorated pot that Mateo probably helped him build. Wanda offered him a small smile, leaving the tea on a makeshift log as a table, and accepted the fruits. Pietro understood that he could approach. "Did I interrupt your prayer?"

"No, I was done." She murmurs, tasting one of the strawberries. "Did you complete yours?"

He nods, looking at the landscape before turning his gaze back to her. "How are you?"

Wanda chuckles weakly, placing the pot of strawberries next to the tea to hug her own body under the blanket.

"I keep wondering if I'm the problem." She confesses sincerely, and he stares at her the same minute, frowning. Wanda swallows dryly. "Maybe Y/N is right, and I am just too much."

"Wanda, you're not too much." He assures. "I'm sure she'll explain this story straight out, you can't jump to conclusions."

Her eyes filled with tears. "But it's like you said isn't it Pietro? What if I'm just playing the innocent, and not seeing what I'm doing? I called her a lot and lied and hurt her and now she hates me-"

"Hey, forget I said that I didn't mean it." He interrupts guiltily, pulling her by the shoulders. "You're amazing. You're my favorite person in the whole world. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, okay?"

She sniffles slightly, running a hand over her face to wipe her tears. "You're nothing like Dad, either. I shouldn't-"

He denies it with his head. "Yes, I am." He interrupts with a sad smile, "And it's okay. I'm more like him, and you're more like Mom. It's just the way things are. The difference is that he hurts us on purpose, and I never intended to do that to you." Pietro says. "Can you forgive me, Wanda?"

She nods, hugging him. Her twin responds at the same time, caressing her back over the blanket.

Pietro sighs a moment later. "I don't know what will happen between you and Y/N, but know that you won't be dealing with this alone. I'm here for whatever you need, sestra."

Wanda sniffles against his chest.

The family on Wanda's mother's side had Romani origins and were at their most devoted to the pagan faith. When Natalya married a Jewish man, it was a shock to both sides. The marriage also ended in scandal - Erik turned up with a mistress and a daughter. The divorce was peaceful after all, but it was safe to say that nobody liked Erik very much at that lunch table.

When Django asked if the twins would like to join them in traditional Wiccan celebrations, Pietro immediately refused. He had always been more connected to his father's Jewish faith than Wanda ever had been, and the girl, although she said she didn't know the customs very well, was more curious and open than her twin.

Yulefest had already started, but it went on until the first day of the new year. There was a big celebration in the nearby village, and Wanda had a good enough time to keep her thoughts away from you for the next few days.

Pietro did not participate in the celebrations but was respectful about everything. When they finally left the house of the days in January, he even surprised Wanda with some items he had asked his aunt and uncle to take home as a present to Wanda - She kept them near her bed.

–//–

Sobota 08:50 (Saturday 08:50 am)

Wanda was checking the New Year's Instagram stories of all her friends when you texted her for the first time in weeks.

"Can we meet? I want to explain everything."

Her heart leaped, and it didn't stop beating hurriedly for many minutes. Her immediate reaction was to type yes, but she hit the brakes before hitting enter.

How dare you disappear and then demand a conversation? She can't remember the last time she slept properly, not since that conversation.

She threw the cell phone on the bed, leaving you with no answer, and went into her brother's room.

Pietro was playing video games in the bedroom, and Wanda had to nudge him to get him to take off his headphones.

"I've already had coffee-"

"Not that." She interrupts gesturing briefly. "Y/N texted me."

He pauses the game on the spot, looking at her in anticipation. "So?"

Wanda crosses her arms. "She wants to meet me."

"Oh, do you need a ride or something?"

"No, I don't know if I want to go."

Pietro makes a confused face. "What, but you've only been talking about her all holiday..."

She grunts impatiently. "Yeah, that's the point!" She retorts. "She's been driving me crazy. And now she can't just text me and expect me to come crawling back. It hardly fair."

Pietro sighs. "I think you're overthinking it." He retorts, turning his attention back to the TV. "You'll keep suffering if you stay here, and you'll never find out what really happened if you don't go to her. Besides this, it's a chance to be honest, no? You can tell her you don't want the relationship to be like this or whatever."

Wanda sighs in defeat, knowing that Pietro is right.

"I'll take the car." She declares, receiving an indignant exclamation in protest.

"No, it was my Christmas present, not yours!" He yelled in protest, but Wanda had already grabbed the keys to the refurbished car gifted by Uncle Django from the door and fled from the twin through the house.

–//–

Sobota 9:15 (Saturday 9:15 am)

She was surprised that you got there first, and thought that maybe you were waiting for her and working up the courage to send her a message.

The place where you asked to meet her was the municipal park, less than a hundred meters from the Novi Grad Cathedral, where all the commotion started. It didn't make Wanda feel easy.

She parked the car and approached unhurriedly, watching from a distance your restless posture as you checked your cell phone for new messages and looked around for her.

When she was close enough, you spotted her. Your face immediately lit up, and Wanda decided to ignore the way her stomach jumped.

"Hi, Wands."

She kept her hands in her pockets. "Hi? Is that all you have to say to me?"

You grimace softly. "Well, that's how you start a conversation."

Wanda tilts her head to the side, a dry laugh escaping her lips. "Do you really want to make jokes now? After the way you treated me?"

You swallow dryly, denying with your head and taking a step forward. "No, I want to apologize."

"Yeah, can you clarify for what? For the way, you spoke to me, or for not returning my calls? Or maybe for sending your sister to be your errand girl or instead of having the balls yourself!" Wanda accused angrily, but you only looked guilty yourself.

"Yeah, all of it." You retorted with a sigh. "I wanted to explain everything, but I just didn't have my cell phone and-"

"What the fuck are you talking about? You called me to say you wanted to take some time away from me! I almost died of worry over the damn church video, and instead of telling me what happened, you told me to mind my own business!" She feels like she is on the verge of tears, but you take another step forward.

"Wanda, I'm sorry!" You suddenly firmly. "I wanted to call you again, and take it all back the moment I turned off my cell phone, but the nurse came into my room and took it away and I there's nothing I could do about it."

Wanda shakes her head in confusion, pushing the emotion away. "What happened to you? Why are you in the hospital?"

You look away from hers, swallowing dryly. "It was a misunderstanding. They thought I was going to jump off the church."

Wanda frowned. "Weren't you?"

You laughed dryly. "I may do some acting but if I was going to kill myself it wouldn't be so dramatic."

Wanda stares at you. "Don't joke about those things." She tells you seriously, and you swallow dryly.

"Sorry."

"What were you doing on top of the church anyway?" She questions, and you sigh in return before pulling your cell phone out of your pocket.

"I wanted to take a picture." You say typing on the device. "I was thinking about our conversation, about faith and all that. I found out that the Cathedral in Novi Grad was built exactly in the center of the city so that everyone would be the same distance from God. And I wanted to take a picture for you from the top. I just thought, even when we are apart, or if we have disagreements, I would always be close to your God, and in this way, to you."

The photo was beautiful, she could see all the architecture of the Cathedral, but Wanda looked at you with concern. "That's almost a hundred meters off the ground. You could have fallen."

You put your cell phone away, shrugging. "I've practice Parkour since I was a kid, it was no big deal."

"No, Y/N, that was very dangerous." Wanda insisted. "It was insanity to take that risk for a photo."

You cleared your throat, taking a step back. "Okay, I understand it wasn't safe, okay, I've already heard that from the police, and the doctors, I don't need to hear it from you." You retort uneasily. "I didn't come here to talk about the church, I need to tell you something."

Wanda sighs faintly, watching you intently. You are acting so strange, and she can't define it.

"What is it?"

You take a deep breath, and then let out a nervous laugh. "Damn, I... I had this whole speech prepared, but this is so hard." You mutter, more to yourself than to her. You clear your throat and take heart. "Well, all this time I've been trying to find the right way to tell you, but I didn't know how, and I never seemed to find the right moment. You know when... I get intense, too impatient, or impulsive?"

Wanda frowns slightly. "Like the church? Or now?"

You chuckle weakly, nodding. "Yeah. Or how suddenly I get kind of gloomy... sad?" You ask, and she confirms with her head. You swallow dryly. "Well, it took a while to get the official diagnosis in my teens, but this doctor in California came to a final opinion. I have an illness. Mental one. It's called BD, which stands for Bipolar Disorder. " You count staring at your feet. "And I don't know, I didn't want to tell you because when I'm feeling good, I believe that there is nothing wrong with my brain. I talk, laugh, and really enjoy the people around me and I can forget that it's temporary while it's happening." You continue with a sad laugh, "I do everything as I should. Exercise, and socialize, and I don't drink or smoke, and I take my meds, but... well, it will never go away. There is no cure, and it's genetic, so I'll have to deal with it for life. Which doesn't mean that people have to, so I didn't want to tell you. I kept imagining your reaction, the face you would make which is very similar to the one you are doing now..."

Wanda looks away, completely in shock. You sigh and wait. She swallows dryly. "I-I don't... I don't know what to say..."

You force a small smile, shaking your head. "You don't have to say anything." You assure her sadly. "I just wanted you to know that it wasn't about you, that you never did anything wrong. I have to go back. I ran away from the hospital to talk to you. See you at school, Wands."

She was too overwhelmed with the revelations to ask you to stay.

–//–

Sobota 15:07 (Saturday 3:07 pm)

Natasha was not surprised, because Carol told her about you as soon as she returned from vacation. Apparently, the Maximoffs were the last to know.

Wanda would have been angry, but she was busy researching what bipolar disorder was with her best friend.

A dozen or so sites opened with descriptions, explanatory videos, and infographics on the computer Natasha held in her hands, and Wanda was upside down, lying on the bed next to her friend.

“Some people with bipolar disorder will have episodes of mania or hypomania many times throughout their life; others may experience them only rarely. Signs and symptoms of a manic episode include excessive happiness, hopefulness, and excitement. Sudden and severe changes in mood, such as going from being joyful to being angry and hostile. Restlessness. Rapid speech and racing thoughts. Increased energy and less need for sleep. Increased impulsivity and poor judgment, such as suddenly quitting your job, ending a relationship…”

“Turn it off.” Wanda asks and Nat pauses the video immediately, watching her friend adjust herself on the bed correctly to bury her face in the pillows.

"Hey, don't be like that. It may look bad now but maybe you just need to look at it another way..."

Wanda chuckles humorlessly, pulling the pillow off her head to look at Nat. "How else would you have done it, Nat? Haven't you heard anything? Impulsiveness, poorly thought out decisions. Like leaving her boyfriend."

"Wanda..."

The brunette sits up. "No, I'm serious!" She insists on the verge of tears. "What if... what if she doesn't even like me? If it all just happened because of one manic episode? I'll end up alone, that's what will happen."

Nat shakes her head. "Wanda, what are you talking about? How would that determine her feelings?"

Wanda sniffles softly. "I don't know, Nat. But just think about it. You've seen the videos. What if she only believes she likes me, but I'm just a fantasy? She may have grown bored of Peter and put it into her head that she could have fun with a girl now. And then she'll get tired of me just like she did of him. And who knows how many people have gone through that."

Nat sighs. "But that's falling in love, isn't it?" She reasons. "You fall in love, and you don't know how long it will last. With or without bipolarity. The insecurity you have now is the same insecurity I have about Carol. We're together today, but I don't know what will happen when we go to college for example." Natasha says, and Wanda falls silent. Her friend smiles, leaving her notebook on the bed. "Think about this, sweetheart. I'll get us something to eat."

–//–

Ponedeljek, 10:20 (Monday, 10:20 am)

"Have you talked to her yet?"

Wanda looked away from the group of people surrounding you, probably peppering you with questions about the church video, to Clint, standing beside her with a soda she asked him to pick up on his way to the cafeteria. The boy had a snack in hand, which Wanda refused a piece.

"What would I say?" She retorts half upset, making room for Clint to sit next to her on the bench in the courtyard. Pietro was a bit back in the surroundings, playing soccer with other classmates, and Natasha was with Carol making out in some bathroom.

"You can start with hello." Clint jokes, but Wanda only returns him a small smile, playing with her straw. She's not very hungry all morning. He clears his throat lightly. "Hey, what's the matter? Is this about her condition?"

Wanda sighs, shrugging. "I've been researching about it, and I think I get more scared every second." She comments sincerely. "Maybe I'm not the best person to deal with it. I don't know if I could."

It's Clint's turn to sigh. "Hey, but it's always like that when you google something, isn't it? Put in a headache and it'll make it sound like you're with terminal cancer."

Wanda gives a weak laugh, muttering a low 'I guess'. She steals glances at you from across the yard again, laughing at something they say to you. You look fine. Normal and healthy.

"I think you could manage, Wanda." Clint says. "In the end, it's just about liking someone, and you wouldn't have any fears if Y/N said they had diabetes or something."

Wanda twitches her nose. "That's hardly the same thing-"

"Isn't it?" Clint interrupts with an arched eyebrow. "If she had a cardiac problem, you'd have to be careful about physical stimulation next to her. No effort. You could say goodbye to outdoor walks with everyone. Any blood disease, and she wouldn't be able to go to some restaurants you like. She is bipolar, which means that sometimes she will be more intense, and sometimes she will need to be alone, or you to keep her company more than you usually do. It is no big deal. Sick people just want to be well, and there are medicines for that. Carol said she's been on treatment since she was fourteen, so I imagine she can help you deal with that too."

Wanda absorbs her friend's words for a long moment, and Clint offers her a small smile before returning to eating. A moment later, Wanda moves closer to rest her head on his shoulder, and hug him from the side, she keeps her gaze on you from across the room.

"When did you get so wise, Barton?" she jokes, making you laugh.

"I'm a smart boy." He retorts, and a moment later, lets out a soft exclamation, causing Wanda to turn away to look at him curiously. The boy pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. "I almost forgot I found something for you. My stepfather needs an office apprentice at the construction company. It's boring but money is money. Would you be interested?"

Wanda's eyes widen. "What, of course, Clint! Thank you!" She hugs him tightly, both of them laughing. He mutters that she would still have to do the interview and that it was nothing guaranteed, but Wanda is too happy to call.

Ponedeljek, 11:00 (Monday, 11:00 am)

"Let's sit in the back." Natasha whispered to her as soon as they entered the history class, and Wanda laughed because she knew her friend was only asking to keep texting with her girlfriend.

Nat took the window seat, and Wanda was taking off her coat to sit beside her when you entered the room. Your gazes met from the doorway, but before she could smile at you, someone was whistling loudly and attracting your attention.

"Romeo's back from the dead everyone." Mocked Ikaris, one of your colleagues. A good portion of the room laughed, and you lowered your face, holding your backpack tighter.

But the boy's teasing didn't go unpunished - The guidance counselor Mrs. Harkness was standing behind you at the door, precisely escorting you into the room, and the boy turned pale when she pointed her finger at him.

"Come into my office, now." She ordered, and he came out clutching his backpack, bumping his shoulders into yours. The room filled with burbling, but Agatha called for silence. "We do not tolerate bullying or harassment of any kind at this institute, am I clear? Any mention of incent before Christmas will be punishable. Good day."

But Agatha's request may have made things worse, because those who were not aware of the video, spent the class searching for the matter and sharing it with their classmates. Wanda noticed how you seemed to cringe with each nasty whisper that circulated.

As soon as the bell rang, you practically jumped out of your seat and some people chuckled from the escape.

"You should talk to her." Natasha told Wanda, but it wasn't even necessary, because the girl was already grabbing the materials and going after you.

As the period ended, the halls filled up quickly, and Wanda had a little trouble getting through the crowd of students and catching up with you in the outer courtyard.

"Y/N, wait." She urged and had to tap your wrist to get you to stop.

You turned to her in irritation. "What do you want?"

Wanda was taken aback by the aggressiveness, but she couldn't blame you. Not after the taunts. "Hey, don't listen to those assholes, okay? They don't know shit."

You laugh dryly, looking away. "Right, because it wasn't the least bit freaky what I did. You said it yourself, it was dangerous and stupid."

Wanda frowns. "Yeah, but I didn't know..."

"That I was crazy? Well, you know now. And it clearly bothers you, because you've been ignoring me all morning!"

"N-no, I just-"

"Look, Wanda, I don't need your coup de grace." You interrupt her. "If you don't want anything to do with me, just say so, stop being a fucking pussy."

Wanda opens her mouth in shock, and you roll your eyes. She grimaces. This attitude makes her blood boil. "Be reasonable, you told me something meaningful, but I still don't know how to give you an answer. I'm still trying to understand what it all means."

You snort angrily. "I told you the truth because I'm in love with you, that's what it means!" You suddenly confess, and Wanda feels her heart stop. "And you're clearly just a fucking coward who can't handle it and doesn't feel the same way. Stop wasting my time."

"I-I didn't... I never said-."

"That's pretty simple, though, Wanda." You cut her off again, adjusting the backpack on your shoulder. "If you felt the same way, my bipolarity wouldn't matter. But you don't. Fuck this, I don't need you. Or anyone."

"Y/N..."

But you practically ran out, and Wanda had no way to call you back.

Ponedeljek, 14:05 (Monday, 02:05 pm)

With no sign that you were back at school, Wanda was leaving the courtyard alone.

Pietro was going to Clint's house to play video games, and although Nat and Carol had invited her to their apartment, Wanda hardly wanted to see her friends making out.

She was finishing putting away her belongings in the locker when Steve Rogers approached her.

"Wanda, glad I caught up with you." He said half uneasily, looking around. "Has your brother gone home already?"

"Yeah, he and Clint went to Barton's together." She replied. Steve sighed.

"Well, I guess by now you must have heard about but Tony managed to get the recording of the market."

Wanda frowned immediately. "What are you talking about?"

Steve makes a confused expression. "The fight, at Nat's birthday?"

Wanda's eyes widen in amazement. "Wait, is it serious? I thought the recording was just a rumor! How did Tony get it, and more importantly, who hit my brother?"

Steve hesitates. "Look, if Pietro didn't tell you, maybe I shouldn't..."

"Spit it out, Rogers." She demands seriously, and Steve swallows dryly before pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He searches for a moment for the video in the chat room with Tony Stark and then holds out the device for Wanda to see.

It's a security video from a market parking lot. Wanda recognizes Pietro laughing and talking with Barry Allen outside, imagining that Clint and Bucky were inside buying the beers.

And then Barry is grabbing Pietro by the collar of his shirt and kisses him on the mouth. Pietro is clearly surprised but corresponds before pushing him away with a giggle. It all lasts less than five seconds. There is a car stopped a few feet away from them, and from it, three identical boys that Wanda recognizes from the Synagogue get off.

"Hey, fags!" The audio is precarious but still audible, and it is the tallest boy who steps forward. Wanda thinks his name is Jake, but she's not sure. Of the triplets, Wanda only liked the shy Steven. Jake laughs when the two boys turn around. "Oh my god, is that you Maximoff? Does your daddy know what you're up to?"

Pietro freezes, completely terrified. Jake advances against him, so Barry pushes him away. And at that, the fight escalates.

It's left to Steven to pull the brothers away when Bucky and Clint leave the market and interfere in the fight, the market owner armed with a bat. The action doesn't even last 3 minutes, but Pietro is the one who ends up the most injured.

Steve puts his cell phone away. "Pietro didn't want to press charges, he didn't even want to tell us who the boys were."

"It's because of our father." Wanda explains, pressing her hands to her face for a moment. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Hey, Tony said he's not going to do anything he doesn't want to." Steve says placing a hand on her shoulder. "But these things shouldn't go unpunished. We have the video, but the complaint has to come from the victim."

"I'll talk to him." Wanda assures. "Thanks, Steve."

"Anytime."

Ponedeljek, 20:31 (Monday, 08:31 pm)

"You took your time."

"Jesus, Wanda!" Pietro gasped in fright, having opened the bedroom door to his sister waiting for him inside.

Wanda rolled her eyes, and got up from the bed, dropping her cell phone and crossing her arms.

"Close the door."

He raised an eyebrow. "What's that, are you going to kill me or something?"

She rolls her eyes, and uncrosses her arms, moving him out of the way to close the door herself. Pietro looks at her with confusion.

"You're going to press charges against Jake Lockley."

Pietro turns pale before his face flushes with irritation. "How did you... No, you know what, it doesn't matter. You're a damn meddler, aren't you?"

"Pietro-"

"I'm serious! I told you to forget that story, why do you care anyway?" He retorted angrily, stepping aside to take off his sweater and shoes. Wanda crossed her arms.

"You are my brother! I care about you, and whether you are safe outside our house!"

He rolled his eyes stubbornly, but Wanda stepped forward. "I'm serious. This isn't right, Pietro. He can't get away with it!"

"Daddy would kill me!" Pietro squirms with tears in his eyes. Wanda's eyes widen. "You don't... It's different for you, okay? He may say those horrible things, but you're still his little girl. He wouldn't hurt you. But me-"

"Except it's not like that." Wanda insists seriously. "That's the fear talking. Daddy has already hurt me, you know that. And he would have hit me again in that restaurant if you hadn't said anything." She recalls, and the boy looks away. Wanda sighs, moving closer. "Pietro, is that why you told him I liked girls? To find out how he would react when you told him about yourself?"

He nodded sheepishly. "I like girls too, Wanda. I just...I thought I could pretend I didn't care about boys because I'm into Crystal. But that's not how it works. No matter what I do, this part just won't go away."

"Oh, Pietro, there's nothing wrong with liking both. Come here." She sits down next to him, hugging him. He sniffles, seeming to finally relax after many days. "We'll deal with this together, okay, and with Mom, too."

Pietro sobs softly, but nods in acceptance. Wanda holds him until he stops crying.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #alt er love series #skamverse collection #yellow curtains

175 notes · View notes