#started wondering about this because I found myself questioning how to best refer to Veers and Piett when talking about them

[lieutenantselnia]

Because my new f/os made me wonder about this ...

If you have an f/o who's not usually referred to by their first name, but instead their last name, a nickname, or something like a title or honorific, how to you refer to them? This can apply both to how they are addressed in-universe in their source material and/or how they are commonly referred to in the fandom.

[crumbledcastle28]

Chapter 6: A Jedi

Warnings: traumaaaa, lots of anxiety, like lots of anxiety, the reader really hates herself in this one, minor minor violence, references to violence, mostly just anxiety and hate.

Author’s Note: This is where the series starts to pick up, so I executed it as best as I could! I also went a little off canon with this one, so I hope it makes sense with the story. Thank you for any support!

Your journey to Sorgan was pretty smooth… but Mando was tense.

You tried your best to reassure him multiple times that this was the best choice for the kid and that you could help him with any challenge thrown at him, but he would just respond with a sigh and a solemn nod. So, you decided not to push it.

He had done even riskier missions on his own, so he can handle this one.

Once you arrived, you walked into the common house and met a woman named Cara Dune.

She introduced herself to you and she seemed very friendly, but when Mando mentioned that she was an ex shock trooper for the Republic, that is when you tensed up.

You had done things in your past that you knew would offend her. Not even offend her, but provoke her to strangle you alive. The fact that she was from Alderaan made it obvious enough that the Empire had hurt her deeply.

The only way to protect yourself was to hide who you really were, and your heart sank.

You felt like you had finally broken away from that way of life. The hiding, the anxiety, the fear. You felt like you could be yourself with Mando and the kid and not have to worry about that anymore. But the galaxy was cruel like that.

After the brief introduction, Mando proceeded to outline the plan and everything that the man on the recording (who you later found out to go by the name Greef Karga) had said, and Cara looked far from impressed.

“I don’t know, I’ve been advised to lay low,” she said, “If anyone identifies me, I’ll rot in a cell for the rest of my life.”

That makes two of us, you think.

“I thought you were a veteran,” Mando mumbled.

“I’ve been a lot of things,” Cara replied. “If I so much as book a passage on a ship registered to the New Republic-”

“I have a ship,” Mando replied, “I can bring you there and back with a handsome reward. You can live free of worry.”

“I’m already free of worry,” she said, “and I’m not in the mood to play soldier anymore. Especially fighting a local warlord.”

“He’s not a local warlord,” Mando replied, “He’s Imperial.”

You could see how Cara visibly tensed up at the word “Imperial.” If you weren’t scared of her before, you sure as hell were now.

“I’m in,” she responded, and you smiled at her.

She grinned back to you and asked, “Where do you fit in in this plan?”

You looked at the child in your arms and said, “My job is to keep the child safe. So I will protect him until he is used as the bait, and I will adapt to where he goes from there.”

“She can defend herself plenty,” Mando says, and Cara nods at you.

“I believe you,” she says, and you give her another smile.

I really hope I don’t let her down, you think.

~~*~~

Within the next hour, the four of you had arrived back at the Razor Crest.

Mando started the ship on track to Nevarro while Cara took a look at the weapon arsenal.

You watched as her eyes scanned over the array of options, and you couldn’t help but feel deep sorrow for her.

Her life was torn apart by the Empire, and now she was getting thrown right back into a fight. The fact that she wasn’t even going to join the mission before Mando mentioned that the client was Imperial made you nervous. She was not a woman you wanted to mess with, so you hoped and prayed you would stay on her good side.

The kid had somehow managed to make it to the controls and grab hold of the throttle, which made the ship veer abruptly side to side.

You ran to the child and lifted him away from the throttle while Mando stabilized the ship.

“Are you sure one set of hands is enough to watch that little beast? Worst case scenario, we made need y/n to fight with us. Maybe an extra set of hands could help,” Cara said, trying to catch her breath from running all around the ship.

Mando looked back at you and you nodded.

“She’s right. I can watch the kid as long as you need, but if you guys need me in a fight I can’t keep him with me. He could get hurt.”

Mando nodded and sat back down in the pilot’s chair.

“Looks like we are making a pit stop,” he said.

~~*~~

The Razor Crest landed on the property of a man named Kuiil. Mando said that he had helped him greatly in the past and he trusted him, and if Mando trusted somebody, you did too.

He greeted you with open arms and was incredibly nice. He led the four of you inside his humble home, and you never realized how long it had been since you stayed in an actual home.

Kuiil studied the child in your arms and said, “it hasn’t grown much.”

“What is your name,” he asked you.

“I am y/n. It is nice to meet you Kuiil,” you said and he nodded reverently to you.

“What about this one? Does she have a name,” he said, gesturing to Cara.

“This is Cara. She was a shock trooper,” Mando said.

“You were a dropper,” Kuiil said, and Cara nodded.

“Did you serve,” she asked.

“On the other side, I’m afraid. But I’m proud to say that I paid out my clan’s debt, and now I serve no one but myself,” Kuiil said.

The other side, you think. Kuiil served the Empire? And Mando had worked with him before?

You couldn’t deny the fact that this got your hopes up. Mando… working with the enemy.

If only he knew, you thought.

All of a sudden, the door behind Kuiil opened, and an IG droid stepped inside with a tray in his hands.

Mando immediately sprang to his feet and pointed his blaster at the droid. Cara joined him, and you blocked the pram the child was in with your whole body.

“Would anyone care for some tea,” the droid asked, and your eyebrows knit in confusion.

Weren’t these droids normally hunters?

“Please, lower your blasters. He will not harm you,” Kuiil said, obviously trying to diffuse the situation.

Mando, however, didn’t seem to want to go that route.

He kept his blaster pointed directly at the droid’s head and said, “That thing is programmed to kill the baby.”

You straightened your back at his words, blocking as much of the pram as you could, until Kuiil shook his head and said, “Not anymore.”

He then explained how he found the droid at a battle site and brought it back to his workshop. He decided to repair it, and then spent many days teaching the droid everything from scratch. It developed a personality, Kuiil mentioned, and it’s experiences helped the personality become unique to the droid.

“Is it still a hunter,” Mando asked.

“No, but it will protect,” he said, and Mando finally lowered his blaster.

There was no way Mando was going to let that robot anywhere near the child.

~~*~~

Later that night, you and Cara were sitting in Kuiil’s house while Mando was outside speaking with him, no doubt trying to convince him to protect the child.

“So what’s your story,” Cara asked, taking a sip of tea.

“Oh.. well… Mando picked me up on Tattooine. I worked there as a mechanic for a woman named Peli. It was a good job, but I wanted to get off that planet. I had lived there for a long time, and I wanted to explore the galaxy for once. It sounds cheesy, but I’ve always wanted to do that at some point. Mando agreed to take me with him on his missions in exchange for the child’s safety,” you say, and Cara nods.

“Nice. You made a living for yourself, and were brave enough to walk away when you knew the time was right. Most people never leave their home planet,” she says, and you nod.

“Yeah… I tried my best,” you say, and you try not to let your eyes darken. You didn’t like talking about your past. All it did was stir up old memories that you had worked to push down for years. You hated your past, and you didn’t know how well you could hide it much longer. Especially when you were being questioned by someone like Cara.

“The Empire… hurt me a lot. So, I am excited to hurt it back,” you say, and a big grin shows on Cara’s face.

She takes another sip of her tea, and looks up to find Mando walking through the door.

“Any luck,” she says to him, and he shakes his head no.

“Kuiil said that the droid can protect the child, but I don’t trust it,” he says and Cara chuckles.

“Yeah.. I think we got that,” Cara says and you smile.

Mando goes to sit down next to Cara, so she scoots over a bit to make some room for him.

You heard something hit the floor, and you realize Cara had knocked over your bag on accident. You had brought it into Kuiil’s house because you used it to store snacks for the child.

You stored other things in there too, and under no circumstance was anyone allowed to see them.

That was going pretty well, until Cara knocked the entire thing over.

“Whoops. Sorry,” she says and goes to start putting the items back in.

Your body is frozen in place and you feel like your lungs are being squeezed. Your limbs have turned to putty, and you cannot take your eyes off her hands.

If she sees it, I and dead. I am so dead

“It’s- It’s ok Cara. I’ve got it,” you say and start to stand up.

“No no it’s ok, I can-” she says, before her eyes widen.

She picks up an item and starts raising it to eye level, and you are just about ready to vomit.

Your saber.

You feel like your entire body is crumbling before her and she can’t even tell. Your breathing has become almost erratic and the sweat on your forehead starts to drip down to your eyes.

This whole experience, this whole journey with Mando and the kid could be completely undone right now. Everything you have hidden, everything you’ve buried, and everything you hoped you left behind on sandy Tattooine is staring you right in the face.

And Cara is….smiling?

“No way,” she yells excitedly, before laughing and smiling at you. 

“No wonder you were so secretive about your past! You’re a Jedi,” she says.

You take a glance at Mando, who is staring at the saber, looking confused as ever.

Ok, maybe this is good, you think to yourself, trying to relax.

I can pretend I was a Jedi. Sure. I have basically the same training as them.

But who were you kidding. You knew that wasn’t going to cut it.

“A Jedi?” Mando says, and Cara goes into a whole tangent about how amazing the Jedi were. How they fought the Empire till their dying breaths and defended the galaxy. They had been betrayed by their own clone groups, and most of them died in Order 66.

“But you didn’t!” she said and smiled at you.

You managed a smile back, but you had to have looked like a psycho. You were in so much physical and emotional pain from the amount of anxiety flowing through you. You had felt out of control before, but this was more dangerous than you knew.

You were such an idiot getting your hopes up. Thinking that a Mandalorian actually cared for someone like you. How could you have been so stupid.

“Even the colors of the sabers are legendary,” Cara said. “Aren’t they y/n?”

You nod back, but you know what’s coming.

Your truth was about to shine throughout the entire house, reflecting back at you like some sick joke. And you were screwed. You were so screwed.

“Well, let’s see it then,” Cara said and ignited the saber with both hands wrapped around the handle.

“Wait” you scream, but it was too late.

The tears hit your eyes before she even ignited the weapon.

The deep, burning red saber was ignited, and there was no going back.

It’s burning, fire like glow illuminated Cara’s face, and a sunset like tint was shining on Mando’s armor.

He always looked so beautiful when light would reflect off of him, but not like this.

The red from the saber was vibrant, but you had never seen a glow as red as the anger in Cara’s eyes.

She knew what this color meant, and your identity was revealed in all its glory.

A Sith

Tag list:

@leahkenobi @pinkninja200 @bookloverfilmoholic @farfromjustordinary

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Transgressions || Morgan & Leah

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @phoenixleah & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Leah has secrets to reveal: one for herself, and one for Constance. Morgan finds that sometimes answers aren’t enough.

CONTAINS: Brief references to past abuse.

“I still can’t believe you found something on her,” Morgan said, following Leah inside. “I must have torn up every other repository of books in town. I even had someone dig up legal documents from the town and county’s files. And all I got was a lousy death certificate, which was wonkily dated because when you surrender your body to pay for an infinite curse alone in the woods, no one’s around to clock your real time of death back in eighteen whatever. Nothing that could help satisfy even a knowledge-focused intention or answer literally anything substantive.” Morgan paused, smiling apologetically. Between all the attempted murder, ingredient hunting, and the convenient lack of support from Nell, Morgan felt like she was being cut down to one brittle edge. But Leah was a good friend, and she would give Morgan the missing pieces she needed in Constance’s story. Pieces she needed to make sense of the fuckery that had plagued her existence, and might give her something to twist the knife when she finally had her pinned down in the exorcism. “Thank you. You are the best. I’m sorry I’m kind of...on edge.”

As Leah led Morgan into the library, long after closing hours, her lips were pressed together to suppress a grin.  There was always a sense of pride that came with coming across information that no one else seemed to have access to, and the praise that came with it didn’t hurt, either.  She let out a chuckle at Morgan’s words, turning around to face her.  “This is what friends do”, she said, brushing off Morgan’s thanks.  “It’s so weird, but as soon as you mentioned her name to me, it sounded strangely familiar”, she explained, reaching behind Morgan to lock the entrance to the library behind them.  She had a few dusty tomes piled up on the front desk, pressing her lips together as she watched Morgan take them in.  They certainly weren’t books you’d find in a typical library, so she wondered if she’d take notice.  “A lot going on lately?” she asked at the admission.  

Morgan shrugged. “Okay, maybe not a lot by White Crest standards, but with the latest nonsense and my being stalked and hunted by a hundred year old ghost teenager, I’m feeling a little...end of my rope-y. You would think that the endless physical stamina thing would come in handy here, but while I am an expert at pulling a good old fashioned all-nighter, the whole not-being-able to sleep thing means my brain will, eventually, in its near inability to reach total unconsciousness, turn on itself and make everything happening to me worse.” She cleared her throat, realizing that she was veering dangerously close to dumping everything on Leah at once. “But! This is going to be great! I mean, she wrecks my car, she sends ghost minions after me, she tries to kill me and friends, it’s like, who are you? Why are you like this? Obviously we are way past reasoning and talking things out nicely, but I would feel pretty satisfied knowing how long she’s been this awful.” She hoped, more than anything, to walk away with what she had done to Agnes that finally made her realize how awful the girl was. Had she hurt her? Or someone else Agnes cared for? It made Morgan’s stomach clench to think of this curse being leveled against a teenage girl who’d just been trying to protect her family. The idea made the whole curse more twisted, that they were all punished for nothing from the very beginning. But the more she was forced to contend with Constance, the more it felt ikely. “Can you walk me through what you got? These definitely don’t look like your average tomes. Like, at all.”

As she listened to Morgan explain, Leah tilted her head to the side in curiosity.  “You need to rest”, she agreed with assurance.  “You’re feeling end of your rope-y because you’re probably physically and mentally at the end of your rope.  I think you’re poor brain has been non-stop stressed since everything with Deirdre and her mushrooms.”  She put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder, noting the cool temperature compared to her own.  It was a relief that her friend now knew her secret, there was no longer stress about explaining mundane things away like her warmth.  There were far more important matters to worry about.  And tonight, apparently, another secret to reveal.  “So once we’re through with her, I’m definitely setting up a fae and zombie approved spa night somewhere in that gorgeous house of yours.” A soft smile began to grow the more Morgan ranted about this girl, … this Constance.  “Sometimes spirits that haven’t moved on have a very very specific one track mind… so… if it’s you she’s back for, it’s you she’s going to concentrate on.  We just need to figure out why.”  She bit her lip as she glanced back at the tomes, leading Morgan over to them tentatively.  “So… in order to tell you how I know what I do and make it make sense, I also need to, sort of, tell you something else about myself.  But this secret, Morgan, it’s even more important that it stays between us than my being a phoenix, okay?”  She glanced to the door that was now behind her, the one to the basement of the library that held years and years of private journals with supernatural knowledge.  “Have you ever heard of the Scribes?”

“No such thing as physical exhaustion for a zombie,” Morgan smirked, her mouth curling bitterly. “It never stops. It’s just the brain that gets tired. I’m pretty sure sapient consciousness wasn’t meant to run twenty four-seven, but that’s what spacing out into the abyss is for!” A small laugh bubbled out of her, but there wasn’t much joy floating in it. “It’s really not… I’m just being a baby. I want a break, I want the skinny ghost bitch gone, and I had this delusion that being done with my curse meant being done with all of this… tragic backstory deluxe family pack.” She sniffled and dabbed at the corners of her eyes before her tears could start running over and make a mess of the books and her makeup job. “Anyways, you were doing me a big favor and we were being proactive.” She moved in close to the books, brushing one open with the tip of her finger. The leather bound volume was—handwritten?

It was then that Leah’s question came. Morgan said nothing a moment, looking from the old journal, to Leah, and back again. “...I have, yeah…” she said slowly. “I kind of… there’s this place in the woods? Rio calls it the Scribrary. It’s been helpful to me over the months. Even if I don’t know how to feel about the whole… hands off, true neutral thing. But they’re not around anymore to—” She stopped, eyes going wide as she looked at Leah. “Is this? Are you—?” Her brain was struggling to compute. “Did past life you steal these?” She asked, lowering her voice to an amazed whisper.

“I don’t think working yourself to the point of exhaustion is being a baby, Morgan.  It’s predictable, honestly.”, Leah said, absentmindedly running her hands over the binding of the tomes.  She softened, sympathizing with Morgan.  “You’d think that your death ending your family curse would have been enough tragedy and inconvenience for one person, but, I hope after this, you can be done with all the bullshit. We’re going to get her gone, okay?  Both you and Constance need to rest, in your own way, and I’m one hundred percent sure we’ll find a way to make that happen.”  The scribary, she’d have to get Rio to get her in there sometime.  She had a lot of information, sure, but the tomes there had to have gone back even further than hers did.

Leah watched carefully as Morgan seemed to play her words around in her head, working out exactly what Leah could mean.  She was always worried if it was suspicious- to be so openly knowledgeable about the supernatural world, to be able to offer help or random spurts of information about any number of creatures.  Some people had to suspect, right?  Suspect that, while yes, the scribes were essentially dead, she and her family had somehow fallen through the cracks of the tragedies and misfortunes that befell them.  But then, there was Morgan’s question, and it was abundantly clear that there were no suspicions, at least not on her friend’s part.  It was a relief, honestly, because as one of the most intelligent and well-read people she knew, Morgan seemed like the person who, if anyone, would have suspected.  She couldn’t help but giggle at the question, her eyebrows raising in surprise.  “Steal them?” she asked, covering her mouth. “No...n-no, they’re not stolen.  They’re mine.”  She looked down at the ones in front of her proudly, pressing her lips together.  “Well, ...ours.  My family’s.”  She let out a breath, a sense of pride filling her up as she looked back to Morgan.  “Because we- well… the scribes aren’t all dead like everyone thinks.  The library’s always been a nice cover, honestly.”  She gestured to the door behind her as she spoke.  “The uh, basement is bigger than you’d think.”  She felt nervous again, hoping that this new information, another secret she’d been keeping from Morgan, wouldn’t turn her friend off in anyway. “It’s not something that many people know about me, because protecting this information is integral to protecting White Crest and the integrity of the scribes, but…”, she ran her hands over the dusty tomes in front of them, grinning, “...well, I’m pretty sure I wrote all of these myself.”

Morgan stared, waiting for some other catch to come in. “Yours,” she repeated. “And ours. Not you and me ours, but you and...your family ‘ours.’ Because you’re...for real scribes.” She gaped, trying not to laugh with disbelief. “Holy shit. The scribes are alive, and the scribes are you and---holy shit!” She doubled over, trying to process. Leah didn’t really seem like the bystander syndrome type. She was always ready to learn and share with anyone, a lot like Rio. Did Morgan have the scribes all wrong, or did it take a mini apocalypse for something good to grow? She turned upright, her face still awed. “I have a lot of questions. Like, a lot. But, I think the first one is...do you actually remember any of those...things? I mean, do you know her or is it more like...as if your great great grandma knew her? You...just discovered this, right? I mean--” Morgan reached out for one of the books, her hand frozen over the pages. “You don’t really know her, do you?”

Leah couldn’t help but laugh at Morgan’s reaction, the giggles bubbling up unexpectedly.  She knew most people thought all the scribes were dead, and honestly, most of them were.  Her family was rare in that they were able to keep their archives over all these years, and she attributed it mostly to some of them being phoenixes. She tilted her head once she calmed down, an apologetic look forming on her face.  “So, sadly, I don’t have many memories of writing this, or of what happened when I was writing it.  I mean, as a phoenix I should be able to piece together some things, but for some reason, that’s not so easy for me in this lifetime.” She really needed to explore the theory that something happened to her memories, because the older she got, the more inconvenient not knowing who she was in the past was becoming.  “I think that’s a better way to look at it.  But luckily… Great Great Grandma Lucrecia seemed to be pretty thorough”.  With that, she pulled the first tome off of the top of the pile, opening to a page that she had marked with a tab earlier.  She looked up at Morgan when she found the page, the traces of a grin playing on her lips.  “It seems like your friend Constance was surprisingly powerful”, she said, turning the book so Morgan could get a better look.

Leah’s giggles were reassuring to Morgan. She wasn’t offended by Morgan's confusion and she hadn’t been sitting on some secret past life friendship. “Okay!” She breathed, “No, that’s good. That’s really good.” She sighed again, laughing as she did. “I mean, you have these resources that literally no one else on the planet has, and you weren’t like, hiding things. Which is great because I feel like this whole time I just...cannot get people to understand why I need what I need out of this mess, and knowing that this is just...exactly what it seems like, which is a fucking miracle…” She wiped her eyes, realizing she was crying and wasn’t even sure why. “Anyway, uh, my thanks to Great Great Grandma Lucrecia. If there’s a way to pay respects to phoenix past lives or past incarnations, however that is, I want to know about it. And do that, if that’s okay.”

She gestured to the book, making sure it was really okay to get a look and peered in. It seemed like Constance had made a regular nuisance of herself at the local scribe library, gobbling up as many magic texts as she could. She told Lucrecia that she had mastered whatever else was given, enough so that Lucrecia was skeptical of her claims, but it seemed Constance could summon at least basic potential in multiple fields of magic. And of course, she didn’t care about using it with tact or responsibility, although Lurecia’s words were much kinder, even sympathetic about it. Constance was well-meaning, too eager, too desperate to impress. She was a prodigy, and she was interested in the art of spellcraft, hoping that she could challenge, and even outrun herself. “Wow, goodie for her,” Morgan grumbled bitterly.

She gestured for Leah’s help with turning the page and came across and entry that gave her pause. “Hey, Leah? What does this line mean? She makes it sound like...Constance was being mistreated? She had to call for a healer...again? Do we know if these injuries were actually attributed to home stuff, or could it have been more magic experimentation going wrong, do you think?” Arcane backlash was nothing to sniff at, but it didn’t necessarily go in line with the broken bones and bruises written about in careful, solemn detai. But then again, Morgan had barely tasted what the backlash of a miscast spell could do. Her mother had been so harsh on any of her flaws, she’d never had the chance to fail that spectacularly. “And what’s this about Agnes visiting with her? Are there more entries like this?”

“It’s a very rare person that gets to see these, Morgan,” Leah started.  “I still try my best to keep within scribe traditions, but it’s been more than a few times that I’ve had to break them to help someone in town.  I’m usually able to pull it off secretly, though.  Like you with the zombie stuff.  But I thought...there was no way knowing about your personal family history could have been explained away.”  She gave Morgan a light nod, signaling it was okay for her to continue.  Given Morgan’s history with books, it was clear she could be trusted not to damage anything. She watched Morgan take in the new information with rapt attention, remembering the little details she’d read earlier that week.  

“It seems that they were attributed to home things, but I can’t be sure.  The fact that I mentioned them in the journals makes me think that they’re supernaturally related.  They’d be some sort of spell backlash then, right?”  She cleared her throat, gesturing to the page.  “But then, there were so many other things to do with Constance that I seemed to comment on, as well”.   Leah pressed her lips together, watching Morgan carefully.  There had been more than a few entries that her past life had written that touched on something very specific.  Something she knew that the Leah, or Lucrecia of the time could definitely relate to.  Anges and Constance, Constance and Agnes.  It was clear what she had been hinting at.  Had she related to it, then, because she’d spent so much of her own time hiding a relationship like theirs?  “It seems that I… well I had some suspicions about how much time Constance and Agnes spent together.”  Although her head stayed low, her eyes traveled up to meet Morgan’s, searching them to see if they understood.  Even now, when Constance was a ghost hell bent on ruining Moran’s life, it felt wrong to out her.  

“Some traditions are meant to be broken,” Morgan said with a little smile. “I don’t know your whole scribe-y ethos, obviously, but I would figure that there shouldn’t be anything wrong with using your power or your knowledge to help people who need it. I mean, what’s the point of all that knowledge if you’re just gonna sit on it, right?” She continued to read, having to force herself to slow down and actually take in the old, loopy script and ink smudges. She was so focused on finding something that would say ‘reason for assholery here’ that Leah’s words reached her at a delay. “She worked in the house,” Morgan muttered. “They were close.” Which made the whole thing where Constance ruined her life extra shitty.

Then Morgan found the word. “Romantic.”

“Oh. You mean...Stars, what the hell? Who does something like this to someone they--” Morgan shook her head and kept flipping. “I guess I’m just glad she had her tiny claws in my great-great grandma and not 19th century you. Seems pretty safe to say you dodged a bullet.” Morgan shivered and started flipping ahead to the months before Constance’s death. “See, look, Constance was-- ‘cast aside.’ They fired her, I guess? But it doesn’t say why just that it was ‘unjust’. Thanks for the objectivity, Lucrecia.” Morgan rolled her eyes and skimmed for more clues. “Wait, you weren’t thinking that it was because they--because of Constance and Agnes, right?” She looked back at the book. Worse things happened to girls who kissed each other, even now. She took a slow breath. “I swear to every atom in the universe, if I was cursed and fucking murdered because of a bad breakup and homophobic parents…” Well, Constance didn’t have a head to roll. But Morgan could try and step up her efforts to get everything she needed for the ritual. Get an exorcist on the phone and see if she could speed things up.

Leah smirked at Morgan’s musing, and she nodded in agreement.  “Sometimes they are, with restrictions, of course.”  She watched Morgan as she read through the pages, taking in the information.  It must have been hard for her to be objective, when Constance had caused so much harm to her family already.  But Lead felt genuinely that there was something else she needed to understand before she knew the whole picture.  “Helping people with the information is what it’s for, I think.  And maybe, with the information I found here, we can find a way to help Constance move on peacefully”.

Leah let out a low, slow breath, closing her eyes as Morgan tried to process what she was reading.  She turned the book back toward herself briefly, only so she could find a specific section she’d flagged enthusiastically a few pages beyond where her friend had already been reading.  “It was a bit more than a bad break up, I think”, she said, pointing out the section of writing.  It was the most candid Lucrecia had been about the whole situation, and her past life seemed utterly torn about how to feel.  “They were going to...they had plans”, Leah elaborated, pausing a bit to turn the book back and let Morgan read on her own.  “But, when they were caught, well…”  she licked her lips, sighing sadly.  “Agnes sort of… abandoned her.  Blamed her, and they forced her out.  And Constance was left with… Well, she was left with nothing.  No home, no family, not even a future to build.  She had nothing, Morgan.  After she and Agnes had promised each other everything.  For all the time I- or Lucrecia spent talking about her frivolousness, I practically weep here in sorrow for how she was treated after they were caught.”  Part of her wondered still, if she had related in some way.

Morgan went stiff at Leah’s mention of the word ‘peacefully.’ It was true that she hadn’t brought up the details of the ritual she was gathering materials for. She didn’t have the stamina to be judged by or lose another friend. But she had kind of hoped that with all the anger and the generational angst she’d been put through, Leah wouldn’t assume giving Constance a peace she hadn’t earned as the default option. Morgan tried to think about at what point things had become so dead-set for her, if she could have ever stomached doing anything different without feeling like her body was going to destroy itself with rage.

She couldn’t.

Destroying her would have been the only way to end the curse, and as those fucking mirrors in that fun house had shown her, there had been no chance in hell Constance’s magic was ever going let her free. She’d been fate-screwed from the beginning and this, numb and broken with no rest or relief in sight, not for now, not for a whole fucking eternity, slipping away from everything, struggling to just manage herself into a ghost of normalcy, having to be bound just so she could take a break from controlling herself all the time.

“That’s just based on what past-you heard from Constance. Who, I would like to point out, also goes around calling herself ‘my justice,’ ‘my fate,’ and my doom.’ You know, when she’s not victim-blaming me for her own bullshit.” Morgan skimmed the words. It was horrible, and some part of it was almost certainly true, but she didn’t feel like dropping everything she’d been working for because, oh, poor baby, abandoned by a girl you liked. Like her curse hadn’t done that to Morgan so many times before White Crest. Like that balanced with all the women in her family she had ground up and broken into monsters.

Morgan closed the book abruptly and stepped away from it, not quite looking at Leah. “Thank you for trusting me, Leah.” She muttered, her voice flattening as she choked down her bitterness. “I appreciate what you’re risking by doing this, and your secret is safe with me.”

Leah alternated between holding her mouth shut tightly and worrying her lower lip with her teeth while Morgan spoke, knowing full well that convincing Morgan to take some pity on Constance wouldn’t be an easy task.  It made sense that Morgan felt the way she did- a lifelong curse that stubbornly followed her into her afterlife for something she had no part in was anything but fair.  But it also wasn’t fair what had happened to Constance.  She worried that striking back instead of trying to find a balance would just continue this cycle further.  “Past me seemed rather annoyed by Constance, mostly, or at least turned off by something about her.  Maybe I was pretentious, or maybe she was childish- who knows.  My point is, despite my aversion to her, I still seem to sympathize and write about what happened to her as if she’s the victim here…  It doesn’t negate all the horrible she’s done to your family, obviously, or to you.”  She let her eyes leave the dusty tome to find Morgan’s, searching them to try and find a way to get her point across.  “Betrayal and tragedy can do something to a person’s psyche, and that’s heightened in the afterlife if left unresolved- that’s all I’m saying.  And when all that tragedy is trapped inside someone for years upon years, thinking clearly is not going to be that someone’s forte.  This information is for you- it’s yours… I’ve made copies of things I found significant just in case you want to study more”, as she spoke, she slipped out a rather bulky folder from inside her desk, sliding it over to Morgan.  “It’s yours to do what you want with it, and despite my opinion, I know whatever you choose to do will be best for you.”

“Hey.” Leah reached out, gently grazing Morgan’s arm, as if that would offer some sort of comfort.  She knew it wouldn't, or couldn’t, rather, but it felt like a necessary thing to do before she spoke.  “I’m sorry this is happening.  You don’t deserve it, and I hope with everything that it’s over soon.  You’ll let me know if there’s any other way I can help, right?”

Morgan understood that Leah was just trying to be a good friend: talking as much dirt as she could manage about someone she had never met before who she knew Morgan hated, balancing her automatic sympathy (the same sympathy everyone wanted to give Constance just because she happened to make the decision that bound Morgan’s existence to perpetual suffering at nineteen) with a take she thought Morgan would appreciate more. As if it would make her stance sting a little less if Morgan thought they could bitch and stitch about her after work, as if this was just a case of clashing friend groups. Morgan’s jaw clenched, but she kept her voice low and even and clear as she spoke. “I am intimately aware of how repeated traumas and tragedy can negatively impact someone’s ability to function, much less thrive. I’ve been in and out of therapy for fifteen odd years, processing my steadily growing pile of baggage and the truly awful things that were done to my mother, because of Constance’s curse,  that she then passed onto me in her own special way. It’s been over a hundred years of crushing my family until they turned that damage on themselves and each other. By the time I came along, the world I was allowed to have was so small… And, you know, I take a strong prescription that has to be injected directly into my brainstem along with some spinal fluid now that my circulatory system doesn’t work anymore, on account of Constance murdering me six months ago. So I get it. I do. I know suffering does something to you after a while.” Morgan’s lip trembled and she bit down on it to keep steady. “I don’t think I need your copies, but I’ll take them, just in case. Because I know you want me to.”

She flinched at Leah’s touch. Part of her was desperate to let it happen, to clutch her hand as hard as she dared and tell her everything, tell her to please, please understand what it’s like to find out you never had a chance, to be born as some invisible monster’s damage toy, to build up so much hope and wind up on the floor over and over again, to have your wires so fucking crossed you want to hide or break over anything that feels like calm or normal, because that means it’s all a second away from being smashed. She could never seem to find the words, and could never let herself back into those dark rooms that had been cut into her. Everything that happened to her was so absurd, so improbable, and with every curse year, the ordinary mishaps of existence sent spikes of terror into Morgan for days, for weeks. It was the best mindfuck of all because part of it, the worst of it, was real.

Morgan remained still, unable to press in, unable to shake her off. “It’s my damage, my problem. You’ve already done enough for me, Leah. I do genuinely appreciate that, and everything else. I should probably go now, right?”

“I-I didn’t mean to… I just meant that-”. Morgan’s reaction wasn’t at all unexpected, but it still made a mixture of guilt and sympathy ping in Leah’s gut.  This situation wasn’t as black and white as either of them wanted it to be, and there was no easy solution- no right opinions.  Two wrongs didn’t make a right, but how many wrongs was Morgan supposed to suffer before she was completely broken?  Still, there couldn’t have been a better way of dealing with Constance than benevolence, right?  Show her the thing she’d be constantly denied all those years ago, show her that change was possible, and send her off to rest peacefully.  Whatever afterlife karmic balance existed would deal with her crimes on their own.  “I’m sorry”, she said, finally.  “There’s no possible way for me to understand where you’re coming from, or how much you’ve been through. My intention was to make this easier, not more difficult for you.  I’m sorry if that’s backfired.”  

She blinked, pulling her hand away slowly after a small squeeze when she realized Morgan was going to remain stiff.  “It’s not only your problem. That’s what you have friends for, you know?  Like I said, despite what I think, whatever you choose is what’s best for you, because you’re incredibly intelligent and compassionate, and you know better about this than anyone.”  She looked around the empty library, letting out a slow breath as she gently traced the tome’s binding. You can leave, but if you’re up for it, I’d like to treat you for lunch.  I never repayed you for letting me stay with you and Deirdre and helping discover my sleepwalking.  How about some Al’s so we can forget about this shit? At least for an hour or two.”

Morgan tried her hardest to not cry in front of Leah. Up until this moment she had trusted Leah with just as much as she did the rest of her friends. Not Constance, that had blown up in her face enough times already and she couldn’t being tricked again, but the promise of an answer, something to tie her closer to Agnes, had been too much to say no to. She couldn’t slam the brakes on a trust like that, or tell her body this wasn’t worth it and have it listen. She scrubbed furiously at the corners of her eyes, but at  the word ‘intention,’ she let her arms fall limp and let the tears fall, surrendering to embarrassment of showing just how much she’d been hurt, just how tired and alone she felt for a walking corpse that could shamble on forever.

“You’re a really good friend, Leah,” she sniffled, staring at the cuffs on her jacket. “I know you’re trying and that’s, that counts for…a lot.” It was almost worth everything. More than she could reckon on from others she’d known longer. It gave her hope. Only, in the past few weeks, hope had cut worse than any other wound. Morgan let out a shaky exhale. “Um, I don’t really eat out anymore, and playing pretend sometimes makes me really sad, when I remember how good stuff used to taste, so I’m just gonna--” She gestured to the door, tried to smile like she was totally okay and certainly not on the verge of blubbering. “But maybe we’ll do something else another time.” Morgan didn’t have it in her to give even a half hearted wave. She shoved the photocopies into her bag and left, eyes narrowed only on the road ahead and how many steps she needed to get through the next minute, and the next, and the next.

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Hiding Things to Save Them Chapter 4

Trevor Belmont x reader

Summary: So you can apparently fight, and by the way he’s not the last son of the house of Belmont . . . 

Word Count: 1628

For almost three weeks he’d been in the little village staying with a woman he still wasn’t convinced wasn’t just a dream. With the peaceful atmosphere that surrounded her little house, it was easy for Trevor to start calling it ‘home’. The two of them had become close from their near-constant conversations that neither wanted to dwell on the fact that their time together was quickly coming to an end.

Unfortunately, a forced reminder came by way of about seven men cornering Y/N as she was leaving the market. She’d gone to gather groceries for the next few days while Trevor went to the tavern for a cask of ale for the pair to drink with dinner. As soon as she realized the strange men were following her, Y/N started subtly veering into an alley away from the busy people of the village. Either these men were bandits and she could handle them before they went after anyone else, or they were tailing her because of Trevor. Of course, the men took the opportunity provided by the narrow path to trap her, forcing her to stop.

Cautiously, Y/N set her few bags on the ground off to the side to free up her hands. “Can I help you?” Her hand drifted to the small of her back where a curved dagger rested in its sheath.

“Father Fredrick has been hearing rumors about you housing a drifter of a rather unsavory sort,” the one directly in front of her replied, fingers tightening on his own sword. “Sent us to talk to you about it.”

“I would think the good Father would be proud of my hospitality. That’s what he teaches, isn’t it? We should be accepting to travelers?” she did her best to sound innocent.

“That would be the case,” a man to her left said, “but there are other concerns about your . . . hospitality.”

“Many,” this one was behind her, “are saying that you’ve been having an affair with the man. I’m sure you know that it’s frowned upon to have an unmarried woman with a man staying in her home unsupervised . . . Rumors could be rumors, but you’ll understand if we air on the side of caution.”

“I don’t have to defend my honor to the Church’s thugs. I have done nothing wrong, and the lot of you cannot tell me what I should or shouldn’t do in my own home.” Her blade was now at her side, drawn from its sheath and clenched tightly in her fist.

As if taking that movement as a threat, the first man cracked his neck and raised his blade. “The most concerning matter, however, is the talk that the Father has heard about just who this drifter is. Several say they recognized the crest on his chest when he first arrived.”

“So the man is from a known family. All the more reason to be welcoming,” she shrugged, feigning nonchalance. 

“Then I assume you will be surprised to learn that he has reason to believe this man is a Belmont.”

“I will believe no such thing,” she lied smoothly. “That man introduced himself as a Louis, and I would sooner believe him than the rumors of uneducated housewives looking for the latest gossip.” And with that, she struck.

~

“By the time I found her, she’d downed all but one of those men,” Trevor was saying. “When I struck down the last, she was half crazed from her wounds and fear and didn’t recognize me. She lashed out and caught me off-guard. I was damned lucky I didn’t lose my eye.”

“Hold on, are you saying that she was the one that gave you that scar?” Alucard asked.

Trevor’s hand raised to trace the old wound of its own accord. “Yes. Once she came to her senses, the woman panicked for hours. She literally dragged me back to the local healer. They managed to close it the same day, but you wouldn’t know it based off how much she apologized.”

“Wait, they had a healer that skilled yet left them alone but came after you?”

“It . . . was not a good town. And they weren’t that great of healers, don’t be fooled. It was closed, but in case you haven’t noticed they left a pretty nasty scar behind. It didn’t matter, though; she moved right after. We were more cautious once she got settled a few hours away in a new village.”

“So you kept visiting her?” Sypha spoke up.

“Whenever I can,” he nodded. “Few times a year for as long as I can get away with without people figuring out who I am.”

It was odd, Sypha decided, to hear him talk about this woman in the present tense. Usually, when he referred to his family it was in the distant past, so it seemed strange to know that this woman was still out there.

“About six years ago we got married,” Trevor decided the blunt was to drop that bit of information.

Alucard chuckled. “As Trevor Louis, I presume?”

The hunter groaned. “God no. I fucking hate that name. I love her with all of my heart, but that woman cannot think of names in a hurry.”

“Then how . . .”

“It required a fair bit of travel, but she managed to track down an unbiased priest that was still loyal to my family. As far as their goddamn God is concerned she is a Belmont. As far as anyone else knows, she is a Monbelt.”

Sypha couldn’t stop the hysterical giggle that tore its way out of her throat. “Monbelt?! You give your wife a hard time, and that’s the best you could come up with?!” She dissolved into a fit of laughter that brought a light blush to Trevor’s cheeks.

“Indeed,” Alucard was smirking. “An anagram? I know you are not the brightest, Belmont, but I assumed you could do better than that.”

“Alright, we’re both terrible at making up names,” Trevor muttered, crossing his arms. “Either way, moving on with the story, that priest hid the real paperwork deep in their archives.”

“Now that is uncharacteristically wise,” the dhampir mused. “It prevents the nonsense of accusing her of impropriety, hides her true involvement with the Belmont family, yet if they demanded it they could feasibly find the real documentation . . . Though in the current climate of the church, perhaps it’s a good thing they won’t stumble across that paperwork . . .They seem to be torn between wanting you dead or worshipping you as a second messiah.”

“I do have a question, though,” Sypha started, still smiling residually from her little laughing fit.

“If it’s more about the name thing, I think we’ve talked about that enough.” Though Trevor sounded annoyed, both of his companions could see the amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“No. I was just wondering . . . If your wife is such a fearsome warrior, would she not have been helpful in the fight against Dracula?”

That question had Trevor choking on his own saliva after a surprised sharp inhale. “That’s--I’m--” he couldn’t come up with the words.

“After what he’s said about the woman, I rather doubt our valiant hunter would put the woman he loves in that kind of danger regardless of how . . . as you said, fearsome she might be.” Those golden eyes flitted back up to Trevor. “Although, none of his explains your repeated insistence about your status as the last Belmont.” His head cocked to the side. “You have a child. Don’t you?”

Trevor’s first response was a shaky nod. Admitting his fears was something his father had trained him to avoid at any cost, so he chose to keep his mouth shut. All his aimless drifting kept his family safe. The drinking made people think he was idiotic, incapable of having any sort of relationship let alone something serious. And it had the added benefit of numbing the pain of being away from them. He hated it whenever he went home and saw how much his child had grown during his absence; it just reminded him of what he missed being there for. Needless to say, it was more than a little terrifying that someone else was learning about his little family since it made all that time he’d missed completely worthless.

“And with that, I think we’ve passed Trevor’s threshold for storytime,” Sypha spoke up upon seeing the distraught look on the man’s face.

“Belmont,” Alucard removed his arm from around the magician in order to lean forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I hope you realize that my offer still stands. Very few people are as . . . good as you and Sypha. Times like these, I find myself thinking like the man my father was around my mother; I want to protect the both of you. If this woman has captured your heart, she is clearly of the same caliber as you. It will likely never be safe for the lot of you out in the Wallachia that wants the Belmonts dead. Bring them here. We are atop the library that belongs to them, to your child, and the land that belongs to them. They should be here anyway; the fact that this is the safest place for them is . . .” Alucard smirked as he chose his next words, “a luxury we can most definitely afford.” The little taunt pulled a tiny smirk to Trevor’s lips too.

Sypha absolutely beamed at the offer.

All at once, Trevor’s usually-tense body seemed to sag into the couch in utter relief. “Thank you, Adrian.” The use of his real name surprised the dhampir. “I suppose . . . I should go fetch the missus.” He winced, biting his lip. “Don’t tell her I called her that; she’ll kill me.”

From there, all three fell into laughter.

[anythingstephenking]

Multiverse Overload

It seems unreasonable to think I was finishing up Nightmares & Dreamscapes yesterday morning and a little over 24 hours later I am back, having just finished one of King’s longest novels, Insomnia, in one cycle of sleep. But here I am. Let’s get into it.

I suppose I wasn’t kidding that I was ready for a novel but I didn’t realize how hungry for this story it was. Or maybe call it boredom - 3 day weekends with 95+ degree temperatures don’t lend themselves to my pasty irish ass spending any time anywhere other than the couch.

I knew little of this story headed in. Actually a little embarrassed to say I thought it somehow related to the Christopher Nolan movie of the same name. Once I cracked the spine and read the teaser copy, I knew this was not true. Also, I was worried. Really, really worried. Exhibit A:

Ralph Roberts is seeing some strange happenings in Derry, Maine.

He sees auras around human beings that show him the horror threatening them.

He sees a nice young research chemist like Ed Deepneau turn into a savage wife beater.

He sees Charlie Pickering with blood in his eyes and a gleaming knife in his hand.

And he sees three little bald doctors in the homes of the dying - and he begins to suspect who they really are.

No wonder Ralph stays awake all night. You would too.

INSOMNIA

“JFC, if I’m stepping into another Tommyknockers I’m going to scream” I said to the cat, who was chasing a bug around the hotel room and has no fucking clue what the Tommyknockers are. Little bald men. Aliens for sure, right?

Well I was, thankfully, wrong in my assumptions. Making an ass outta u & me, or however that old saying goes. I’ve complained before about whoever is responsible for writing these teasers, deceiving readers into believing that Gerald’s Game was a spooky bedtime story, Pet Sematary scared King himself, or that Insomnia is about a dude with, well, insomnia.

In reality, this book is as close to a Dark Tower book as it could get without actually being one. I’d rack it against The Talisman in Dark Tower adjacency, and although not as an enthralling tale as The Tailsman, a good chapter in the mythology all the same.

Ralph Roberts, a senior citizen residing in our favorite vacation destination, Derry, Maine, loses his wife to cancer and spills into a depression as one would do when your companion of 45 years is snuffed out of the living. What begins as minor bouts of insomnia quickly evolves into an inability to catch more than 2 hours a night. As someone who has suffered from depression-induced insomnia and sleep paralysis, a terrifying phenomenon I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, I feel for Ralph. Sleep deprivation is no joke, even if you’re awake watching Arrested Development for the 400th time at 3am. Ralph’s understandably exhausted, and assumes his mind is going when he starts seeing brightly colored auras surrounding humans, objects, street lights, you name it.

(Side story: Once I went on a date with a guy who - after I expressed discomfort in discussing the difference between irony and paradox 5 minutes into our first date - told me I had an unclean aura. I told him to go fuck himself (certainly something someone who’s aura is a little dirty would say) and he gathered his coat and left without a word. Anytime someone mentions auras I can’t help think of this guy - do you think he ever found a gal with a nice looking aura and the ability to discern the difference between irony and paradox? We will never know.)

In any case, Ralph does find himself a lady by the name of Lois, who in fact, does have a real pretty aura. And turns out she’s caught the insomnia and can see the auras too, along with other things that most humans can’t process. Turns out insomnia in Derry can flip a switch to entering worlds that aren’t our own.

Without going too far down the rabbit hole that is the plot of this novel (which squarely lies in the top ten of longest King tomes - say that 10x fast), Ralph and Lois team up on a quest against evil, as so many of King’s protagonists do. I was obviously committed to learning how it ended as I stayed up past my bedtime last night and reached for my paperback copy before I had even poured myself a cup of coffee this morning.

The key conflict in Derry of 1994 revolves around a war between pro-lifers and pro-choicers over a feminist speaking in town about women’s rights. Probably the hardest part of this story to swallow - the realization that 25 years later we’re still having the same argument in America with similar violent and tragic results.

This book is not without it’s faults - King called it “stiff & trying too hard” which is pretty accurate. It is way too long. It reads like a first draft that probably needed a stronger editor hand (or two or three) before publication that it just did not get. King’s ability to paint a picture in your mind is, as always, on point; but the writing describing the aural states seem to clog up the storytelling every ten pages or so. The initial painting of these ethereal halos was beautiful; after the 15th or so description they were just in the way. The use of italics for dialogue was distracting; I had to work to keep my eyes from skimming to the dialogue lines and ignoring the rest of the text on the page.

But it also had so many of my favorite things. For one, the connections to other King stories was strong in this one. Like when I am watching Castle Rock, it makes me feel like an insider to notice the little things that connect King’s worlds together. Like a hipster that listens to a band “before they were cool” - don’t you hate those people? Yeah me too. But here we are.

Derry, and all it’s history covered in depth in the pages of IT is rehashed here. We have mentions of the sewers, the Black Spot Fire, the post-Pennywise storm of 1985. The darkness that hangs over this town lingers, even though we were hoping that the Loser’s Club vanquished the darkness in the mid 80s.

Because something else dark is connected to Derry. The Dark Tower lore sits squarely and open here; we see Roland in children’s drawings and travel between worlds like in The Drawing of The Three. We also are introduced to The Crimson King; the guardian of The Dark Tower, Roland’s adversary and ruler of the highest level. He appears here in our world first as Ralph’s dead mother then as a catfish. I mean, IT was a clown living in a macroverse created by a barfing turtle, so I guess that all makes sense. We also learn Ralph and Lois’s quest is to save a young boy named Patrick Danville, who we’re told is very important in the land-o-the-tower. God, I can’t wait to get to the fourth Dark Tower book.

Other than the obvious references to IT and the DT books, we get a quick mention of the untimely death of Gage Creed in Ludlow. There is also a mention of “Aunt Sadie” in Dallas, and my mind wandered to lovely Sadie Dunhill of 11/22/63. I don’t know if King had the foresight (or the initial manuscript) to reference a character that wouldn’t hit the bookstores for another 17 years, but if so, Bravo Mr. King. Bravo.

By far my favorite photo of King that I’ve randomly stumbled upon on the internet.

My remaining questions are really around the nature of Derry - how can Pennywise and The Crimson King exist (in whatever universe) in or around Derry, without bumping into each other? Why so much evil in this one little town? Are they somehow connected? Are they the same person? Like my friend that claimed my aura needed a good washing, we may never know.

7/10

First Line: No one - least of all Dr. Litchfield - came right out and told Ralph Roberts that his wife was going to die, but there came a time when Ralph understood without needing to be told.

Last Line: And she saw, the long white scar on his right forearm was gone.

Adaptations:

None to speak of - another one of King’s works that’s been discussed in depth but never pushed into any kind of actionable development. All the best I think - a movie version could very easily veer into LSD trip territory.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Baby’s First Couple’s Therapy || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Sometimes a wound needs to air out to heal.

CONTAINS: Brief references to parental abuse

Kelly Mackowski, their couples’ therapist, steepled her hands together over her lap as she looked at the pair. “I’ve met with each of you already and I think I’m getting a picture of you as a couple, but I’d like to start today by reviewing why you have chosen to come here.” Morgan, ever the dutiful student, thought she saw Kelly’s eyes settle on her and stiffened on the couch. Was she sitting too close to Deirdre? They were next to each other, and they were holding hands, but they weren’t in any laps or snuggled like they were at home. Was holding hands too clingy? Deirdre didn’t answer at once, though maybe that was because it had only been a few seconds. Morgan glanced sidelong at her and after a silent exchange of, do you want to go first? Do you? She spoke up.

“Well, we’ve had a traumatic couple of months, and in the worst of it, it came to my attention that we had developed an unhealthy dynamic stemming from my accident uh, eight and a half months ago. And we--well, I feel like we have made some good steps toward rectifying the situation and finding a better normal. I have a tiny house in the backyard that I go to for at least a couple of hours each day and one night out of the week, by myself, mostly to engage with my faith, which I’ve recently recommitted to, and work on some hobbies. And I’m back at school, for work, and that’s nice and gets me out of the house. And we’ve been able to talk a little about, you know, how my emotional instability towards the end of November was more of a statement on my own lack of internal support systems than anything else. And we’ve more or less regained our old physical intimacy boundaries. No sex yet, because I really just want to be a little more stabalized since it tends to make me emotional in general, but it’s still---it’s the best place to be, when she holds me.” Morgan paused and realized she was rambling, maybe even veering off track completely. “But there’s still more to unpack, obviously! And it just seemed like a good idea to do that with some uh, professional structure and, um, guidance.” She smiled, and then didn’t, realizing she was looking for approval that they weren’t here to gain.

Kelly nodded, revealing nothing. “Deirdre?” She prompted. “Can you talk about what you want out of this from your side?”

Deirdre had concluded, with great speed and unwavering resolve, that she hated therapy. As it turned out, talking about her feelings with anyone other than Morgan was a nightmare of strange design. And for all her attempts to create chaos and deflect and make Kelly “Macaroni”, or whatever her name was, emote with shock or fear...she remembered that she was here for Morgan, for their relationship. And she wanted it to get better, she wanted them to be better. All attempts deflated and she was left with the truth, which refused to leave her mouth in congruent sentences. Deirdre held Morgan’s hand just a little tighter, her gaze glued somewhere beyond Kelly’s unnervingly rigid stare—did she have to make eye contact all the damn time? The room was silent, save for a ticking clock, if it wasn’t filled with conversation. Deirdre found out the hard way that Kelly didn’t like silence very much, she’d always interject eventually. And as it turned out, Deirdre also hated Kelly.

When the question turned to her, she nearly hissed. She hated questions just as much as she hated Kelly. Or rather, she hated Kelly because the only things that ever left her mouth were questions. “I want us to be better, more secure.” Deirdre shifted. Her answer was far shorter than Morgan’s, and she wondered if she ought to be saying more. But what else was she supposed to say? What else was she supposed to want? Kelly scribbled something down on her notepad. Deirdre came to hate the way she wrote; like a bored cat with a couch, all scratching.

Kelly, ever impassive in a way that might have earned Deirdre’s respect if it was in any other setting, nodded and looked up. Deirdre squirmed. At this point, she would have preferred one of those smiles humans did when they were trying to be polite. “And is there any personal goal you hope to meet from these sessions?”

“Personally,” Deirdre stressed, “I would like us to be better.” Kelly scratched into her notepad again. Deirdre’s grip on Morgan’s hand tightened. She hated it here. And Kelly--question-asking, scratch-scratch-scratch note-taking Kelly, seemed to sense Deirdre’s unease and pivoted to Morgan. Once freed from the spotlight, Deirdre relaxed her grip just enough to stop crushing Morgan’s hand.

“You mentioned that there was more to unpack, Morgan? Is there anything specific that comes to mind?”

Morgan’s eyes went wide at Deirdre’s answer, or rather, lack of one. She wanted to look at her and keep pressing. She wanted to ask what they had gone over in her one-on-one session, if there was something she was hiding and didn’t feel comfortable sharing. But under Kelly’s look, she wondered if that was somehow overbearing. From Deirdre’s tightening grip, she could figure that Deirdre didn’t want her to pull away. A protective affection rushed up her chest and she put her other hand over Deirdre’s, encasing it gently and massaging the tight knuckles. In the brief silence before Kelly shifted attention, Morgan slipped Deirdre a quick look of confusion. What was that? What are you doing?

But then Kelly asked her question and Morgan found herself with too many nerves to juggle. She always did this when she was breaking in a new therapist and it always came to this stress point when she had to surrender her pride or sense of dignity in some way because focusing on trying to get an A+ in togetherness wasn’t very productive in getting to the goal she wanted to accomplish. Sighing, Morgan sagged against the couch and scooted close to Deirdre until they were hip to hip. Yeah, Kelly, this is how I wanna sit. You can give me longform analysis on that on week five when I know you better, she wanted to say. But instead, she thought, and then she tried…

“Personally, for just myself, I want some of that old security back. I want to be someone who doesn’t have to have her partner in the room in order to feel supported. And who doesn’t teeter on a nervous breakdown when I feel like Deirdre isn’t really here. I want to obtain a sense that we’re solid, even if we’re not perfect. Maybe if I could become someone who doesn’t need so much fucking reassurance all the time, that would be good.” She finished with a pained, bitter grin. Deirdre always did, when she was emotionally available, but Morgan felt the ghost of every well meaning, only half-teasing ‘clingy’ and ‘needy’ she’d ever heard. Her need simply was; a fact, just like the state of her body. But just like the level of the seas could change over time, so too could her need, maybe.

Kelly nodded, waiting for her to say more, and it was then that Morgan realized that she hadn’t really answered the question, and didn’t want to. “I just mean...un learning is hard. Talking about where our stuff comes from can feel like it’s impossible sometimes, and some coping mechanisms are hard to adopt and don’t work for everyone. And compromise takes time too. We’re so quick to give each other all or nothing, taking things only halfway might be a little wild too. But I wasn’t, uh, being specific.” There were too many places to start, and Morgan felt like she was doing all the talking for all three of them. She gave Deirdre another look as she gave her hand a careful squeeze. Are you here? Are you going to say something?

“I think those are some good goals to have, Morgan, and some good expectations.” Kelly said. “A relationship is a journey, one that will, inevitably, require changes. But in order for this to work, we all need to be on the same page and actively engaging. Deirdre, I know we’ve had some difficulties connecting, But I’d like to ask you again if you have any goals for yourself, as an individual? Or perhaps what it is you want out of your relationship?”

Deirdre met Morgan’s gaze, softening. Silently, she apologized and with a squeeze, she explained what Morgan already knew: that she didn’t like answering questions about herself. But she was trying. She would try. Yet, before she could confirm that her girlfriend understood their telepathic communications, she was back to answering Kelly and Deirdre begrudgingly looked back at the degrees and certifications framed on the wall. She wanted to say that there was nothing wrong with wanting assurances, or to feel supported and loved and understood--and that she would do all these things, gladly and happily and as many times as Morgan needed. She’d never minded it before, she certainly didn’t mind it now. It wasn’t wrong, it wasn’t bad--not to her--she’d wanted to say, and that she could feel that Morgan was trying to appease Kelly--and she didn’t have to do that. But she said nothing, hearing the echo of Kelly’s scratching in her head as her framed accolades merged into a toothy monster. What did Deirdre know? She wasn’t the one with the degrees and the training.

Kelly spoke to her again, and Deirdre stiffened instantly, reflexively dreading whatever Kelly would want her to answer next. Yes, they had difficulty connecting, because Deirdre didn’t want to connect, unless it was with her fist to Kelly’s unemoting face. She could, in fact, actively engage with a knife into Kelly’s stomach. Was that active enough for her? Her nostrils flared, her free hand curled into a fist. “I just told you my goals, you huma--” Deirdre froze. “Hum--” And faltered. Her anger died quickly. “Homunculus.” She shifted, shot Morgan another look of apology and tried her best to answer the question. “I’m sorry,” she coughed, “it--um--maybe it would be nice to have a hobby? Maybe I shouldn’t just be waiting around for Morgan to come back inside.” This wasn’t something she wanted in actuality, of course. But from what she could gather from the self-help books, this was something she should have. It was also something she had mentioned, in a practiced script, to Kelly in their private session. It was, in fact, the only personal detail she shared. She found one thing she was comfortable admitting and she would wear it out.

But it was Kelly’s second question that caught her unawares. “Excuse me?” Her face pulled together with confusion, then frustration. “I don’t want anything from Morgan. Not like--like a leech. I’m not dating Morgan because I want to take from her. I love her; I’m trying to give.” Deirdre’s leg bounced wildly up and down as unease wrapped around her. The offense she took at the question wasn’t founded, but the idea insulted her nonetheless. Questions of wants and desires often did.

But with the simple experience of one session under her belt, Kelly knew Deirdre’s annoyance well enough to greet it directly. “And is that how you view yourself in this relationship? As a leech?”

Deirdre’s bouncing leg morphed into an earthquake, the beginnings of a sceam burned in the pit of her lungs. Fuck you. Shut up. How dare you? Deirdre seethed, and then she didn’t. Morgan’s presence beside her served a gentle reminder of why she was here, and what she wanted--truly. Her leg ceased, she closed her eyes and breathed (In. Hold. Out), and she answered the question. “Yes.”

Kelly turned to her notepad briefly, scratching away. She looked up, nodded and leaned it; all signs to show an active listener, all things Deirdre did to let people assume she cared. Kelly was trying to encourage her, and she hated it. “Why do you think you feel that way, Deirdre?”

“Because that’s what people who want things are: leeches.” Deirdre was a smug with her answer, as though it was some grand truth. It wasn’t a personal thought! Not some ideology bred from trauma, not at all! Kelly ought to take her diplomas off the wall, she didn’t know anything. And then Deirdre froze. Morgan had just said she wanted reassurances, and Deirdre didn’t think Morgan was selfish, not once, not ever. She turned to her girlfriend, quick to rest a hand on her knee. “Not you. Not--” She turned back to Kelly. “I mean me, just me. It’s--” She swallowed. “It’s something that my family--the cult--” as Morgan and her had agreed on referring to it for Kelly’s sake “--says. And it--it’s true. It makes sense. I can’t, I--” How did she explain the dangers of desire for a banshee to a human? How did she explain that emotion could mean mass destruction? How did she explain her status as a thing? She deflated. “I want to be good to Morgan. I don’t want to hurt her, I don’t want to take from her. I don’t want to be a--” She looked up at Morgan; wet-eyed, ashamed. She dropped her gaze to the grey rug.  

Kelly spoke up, gentle. “Morgan, would you like to tell Deirdre what your thoughts are on this?”

“Yes,” Morgan barely gave Kelly the time to finish. She didn’t have it in her to worry about seeming any particular way. She cupped Deirdre’s face and wiped the corners of her eyes. “Hey…” She said softly. “It’s okay, I’m not mad. But you know what I’m gonna say next, right?” She smiled softly, her face all compassion. “You’re a person, Deirdre Dolan. My favorite person. And maybe this isn’t the best time to work on this particular part of yourself. But you can, and you should, and you do want things. You need to. Everyone does. It doesn’t make you bad or wrong. I mean, you want us, right? And that’s worked out pretty good so far. You should get to have a house, my love. A whole world’s worth of wanting. And it’ll be slow going, especially right now, but when--” She winced, hating the coding of her language, especially when Regan was such a fraught subject. “When these final rites and sacrifices you’re making right now with your cousin are over, I think it’ll go faster. And maybe...I don’t know, maybe Kelly knows, but maybe if you have a little more of a house than you do right now, those sacrifices will be easier to carry, until you can finally put them down.” She gave a firm kiss to her lips, then a tender one to her cheek, and looped her arms around Deirdre as she shifted back and angled herself toward Kelly.

“You do not have to be good,” she murmured. “And you can want. The world won’t fall. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Deirdre breathed, melting against Morgan. Whatever annoyance she felt about being interrogated, and whatever anger she felt towards Kelly, she let it free and held Morgan close. She didn’t care, then, who was in a room with them; who was scratching into their notepad or held esteemed education. There was Morgan, and then there was her, and nothing else mattered. “You’ve said this so many times. I’m sorry.” If reassurances were something Morgan felt poorly for wanting, Deirdre felt just as terrible. They had both endured similar punishment for their desires--evidenced enough by the fact that Deirdre had told Morgan a similar thing when she was cursed. “But that could take months. That could take years. Would you be okay with--I can’t do that to you. I need to--I’m trying now. I’m trying.” She couldn’t put her sacrifices down, that wasn’t her privilege, but she understood what Morgan was saying, and for it, she wept, burying her head into Morgan’s shoulder. “I do want you,” she repeated. “I do want our relationship and our life, and I do want to be--” Better? More whole? More secure? “--I don’t know.”

Defeated, embarrassed, Deirdre didn’t want to move from where she’d wriggled herself in. “I’m sorry, my love. I know you wanted to talk. I know you have things you want to say.” And she knew that these sessions were for the both of them, even if she didn’t understand how. “Maybe a hobby would be nice,” she pulled back and smiled, this time, the idea did sound like something she wanted. Deirdre turned to Kelly. “Can I ask Morgan a question?” And as Kelly nodded, Deirdre opened her mouth. “Do you really not feel supported, loved, when I’m not around? Did you feel that way before your--” Deirdre grimaced; she hated referring to Morgan’s death this way, it was so much more than an accident, it was a murder. “--your accident? Those times when we’d--” She grimaced again, this time out of guilt. “--broken up, were they different than these times now, when I was…” Deirdre trailed off.  

“You don’t have to be sorry. You’re okay. I’ll say it as many times as you need. Sometimes it just takes time. It’s okay…” Morgan held Deirdre tight as she melted against her body, trying to catch all of her at once. She gave more kisses and combed her fingers carefully through Deirdre’s half pinned up hair and whispered her love and acceptance some more. At some point Kelly passed a box of tissues, which rested uncomfortably close on the end table, and Morgan took one so she could wipe her love’s tears herself. “I know you’re trying. And this is already so good. You don’t even have to know what you want right now, okay? You just have to try and find out. That’s all, my love.” She nuzzled her cheek as they adjusted themselves once again, now wrapped up as close as possible while still maintaining some shred of politeness.

At the suggestion that she had something more important to say, Morgan shook her head and gave more tender kisses and touches along Deirdre’s face. Kelly had sprung the good brand, and there were no flakes of paper or irritated splotches on her cheeks. She looked just as wonderful as she ever did. “No, I’d rather hear you talk about what else you might fill your world with…” she beamed as she spoke and let it go. Deirdre wanted to ask her something, and since opening up was so important, who was she to push in the other direction?

And then Deirdre asked. Morgan’s smile faded, now heavy with guilt of her own. “Deirdre, I… I don’t mean all the time. It’s not like I think you’re going to leave me every time you go to the office. I mean, during the uh, herbal scares we had, when your cult slipped you those drugs, I would worry that uh….they would do something, and I wouldn’t be able to stop it because I wasn’t there. Because you were off...doing things.” And the mushroom spores had in fact found Deirdre that way. ”But that’s...that’s not what you’re asking.” She swallowed thickly and gave Deirdre a pained smile that only lasted a moment. Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry.

“In those times when we were seeing each other but not admitting it to ourselves… I did...think it was the end. The actual end. The first two, at least. I actually thought I made you hate me for a while, until that night at Al’s. And I did feel broken inside. I called Remmy and I cried until my whole body hurt, and some days did pass in this fog of depressed not-quite-existence. But I wasn’t on the floor completely? Just, maybe really close to it. But I would tell myself that it didn’t matter, and I wasn’t supposed to have anyone like that anyway, you know, with that weird family legend my mom raised me on. Which just made me feel guilty on top of sad for wanting to reach out to you so bad even though you’d made it clear you didn’t want to talk.” Her voice flattened with disdain; the curse had been only too real, and she had paid for it with her life. But then again, the way Ruth had brought it into her life probably had hit heavier than the thing itself. She didn’t know what a healthy relationship with the curse would have possibly looked like, just that hers hadn’t been it. “I was sad and scared for you because I wanted you to be loved by at least someone, even if it wasn’t me, and I wasn’t sure if you would let that happen. And I told myself you were better off and safer. And I had been on my own on and off for so long. I could do it again. I would be fine. I was fine before, just the way I was, and I’d get over it eventually.” She shrugged, trying to brush those times aside. But her eyes were filmed with tears at the recollection, and she could not hold Deirdre’s gaze for longer than an instant for fear of letting them spill over.

“I figured you out eventually, though, and I didn’t break during those later absences. I knew you felt something for me. Sometimes I wondered, but deep down I knew. Always. And I knew I wanted to be with you, even if it was just half a relationship. You took such good care of me, and it was the best I’d felt in so long, I was almost scared. The pain of not having you just like I wanted was almost a comfort sometimes. With the...family legend, about the curse. It felt like maybe you were kind of protected, or we were. Kind of like a win-win? And we had that no sex boundary, to protect at least myself from making a big mess. And when we were actually together… even on that really bad night when I thought the curse had destroyed the house, I knew you didn’t blame me. I knew you loved me. I was just so sorry because I was scared, and we had all our memories in those rooms the way they’d been before, and I thought things were going to get worse. But you loved me, even if it really had been that uh, superstitious curse come to life. But after--”

After she died, everything was different.

“Everything died with me in that wreck,” she said. “That minute when I flatlined, I mean,” she hastily added. “We already talked it out in the woods, and I understand now, I know how it really was, but I did think...when I woke up alone, I thought it was only a matter of time before it was over, and you were just being kind. There was a lot going on, so that wasn’t the only reason I was on the floor all the time, just one of them. But after that, when I was hanging onto you with everything I had...That first time you left for a night, I thought that was the end too. And it did...hit differently. My worst fear for us has always been that I’ll do something horrible and unforgivable without meaning to and it’ll be that day in the woods all over again. I’ll just be talking or holding you, and I’ll think everything is fine, and then I’ll do something stupid and it won’t be and I won’t see it coming, it’ll just happen, it’ll be over, and there won’t be anything I can do because if I didn’t even know it was wrong before, how well can I guarantee I won’t do it again, and if you’re too hurt to be able to tell me, how am I going to learn and…” Morgan stopped herself, realizing her voice was growing thin and shrill. She wasn’t breathing. Morgan squeezed Deirdre tight and let her tears spill over as she met her eyes desperately.

The pain in her chest was so much bigger than one bad break up in the woods. The root went so much further than Deirdre. When Morgan looked at her reflection in Deirdre’s eyes, she saw herself at twelve and ten and six, the quiet of her family’s apartment suddenly shattered by her mother screaming and swearing, and impassive look turning to rage and exasperation, a gentle hand of instruction turning into a claw on her shirt. No going back, no time to apologize. She should have known better. Been better. She was just such a hard-headed, willfully stupid child. Morgan shivered, unable to bring words to what she was seeing and unable to stop herself until her fear had been spent.  “I felt better after we talked, and you kept me so close all day when you came back, and I felt better by the end of the week, I think. But it did feel like….like that fear. I thought I had ruined everything. But I couldn’t tell myself that I didn’t need you, or I wasn’t allowed this, or that I would be fine, nothing I’d told myself before felt true and I didn’t know what to do. And that’s my fault, it’s mine, it is, but that’s how it felt. And the other nights you did that...I kept myself from destroying our house, but I wondered. I stayed up and I couldn’t focus on anything until you came back because that fear was so strong. And then at the end of this past November... “ Morgan grimaced as she tried to sift through the feelings. She had so many varieties of pain, it was hard to categorize them precisely.

“I didn’t think it was over in November. But I thought maybe it might be. I thought…” She had to close her eyes and will herself back there. She had cut the cord on this time, but the knot, the true source of it, remained buried in her soul. “I know better now, from what you said later. But back then, I couldn’t...It was similar, yes, I thought you had stopped...I thought maybe you...you didn’t want m-me. But I thought I could fix it, too. If I could just...do something right, if I could make you just a little bit happy, a little bit at peace, then maybe you would...you’d just have to. If I could just figure out what I was supposed to do, it would be okay and I’d make--” She stopped and covered her mouth, her face crumpling at the truth that had just risen on her tongue. “I was wrong,” she said, barely audible beneath her fingers. She sniffled and choked, swallowing down sobs. “I was wrong. I thought I was helping. It wasn’t a conscious thought. In my head it was like, I just wanted to make things better for you, I wanted to share your pain and make you feel better and you wouldn’t have to feel so alone, because we’d be together. I’d fix it, I’d fix everything as much as I could. I never consciously set out to...to make you love me again.” She bowed her head, shivering miserably as she just barely held herself together. “It’s just that you were all I had. And if I lost you, there wouldn’t be anything. I was so desperate, I didn’t even let myself really think it. And I...I’m sorry. I’m sorry I tried to do that, and I couldn’t see your hurt, and that I shouldn’t have put that on you, I didn’t see that, I’m sorry. But everything we’re doing now, it’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again. But I am...I am sorry for all of it. And it was my fault, it’s my fault…” Her voice croaked, and Morgan’s grip on her cries fell.

Deirdre’s arms had found their way around Morgan, her body pressed to hers, together just as they’d sit at home. She held her tight, soothing with her touch as Morgan spoke. They’d already talked about the break ups, and Deirdre knew Morgan didn’t blame her—and so she didn’t interrupt with an apology or an explanation. As she listened, she understood Morgan’s pain wasn’t because of her, which should have been a relief but only served to make Deirdre’s chest throb. If it was her fault, then it was something she could control; something she could fix. Likewise, Morgan had thought Deirdre’s pain to be personal, and therefore in her hands. But it wasn’t. Neither of their pain was. But to say what led them here was Morgan’s fault…?

“My love,” Deirdre mumbled, lifting Morgan’s head up to thumb away her tears; as many as there were, even when they kept coming. “My love,” she repeated, “my strong, kind love. It’s not your fault. I don’t think it is, and I wish you didn’t either. The way you were raised...the things your mother did to you, said to you, and your curse...all the things you’ve lost…do you know how strong you are, Morgan? You did so good with what you were dealt, how is that your fault? How could it be your fault?” She released her face, wanting to use her hands to hold her again—tight, firm, steady. “The fact that we’re here, that isn’t your fault. And this isn’t a bad place to be; you said it yourself, we’re going to be okay, and we’ll learn the things we should be doing. And we’ll be better than we were before, and that’s not bad at all. And if it’s not bad then...what exactly is your fault? There’s nothing here to blame yourself for, my love. You wanted to take my pain away—that wasn’t bad either. And you were scared, and none of that is bad. The way you felt, your feelings, they’re not bad, they’re not your fault. I—“ Deirdre cut herself off, hearing Kelly’s scratching. She hated that part of her was worried about what Kelly thought of her attempt to comfort, maybe it was all wrong and there had to be some better way to do it. But despite the feeling, she continued.

“I love you, Morgan. You, and your thoughts and feelings and I love that we’re here—“ Her lips thinned. “Well, maybe not love but I—I think it’ll be good for us. And I’m happy that we’re doing this, and that you’re figuring out your supports, Morgan. I don’t blame you, I’m not mad at you for anything. Maybe, maybe you’ll be able to stop blaming yourself.” She combed her fingers through Morgan’s hair, careful to make sure Kelly couldn’t see how she tugged on it—the human wouldn’t understand what Morgan’s zombie senses needed. “Thank you for always being so honest with me, my love. And what you were saying, about not seeing my hurt I—well, you just wanted to make it better, and I think that’s a noble thing to want. Maybe it was wrong.” Maybe Kelly would say it was. “But I don’t think so; we make mistakes and then we figure it out. And if there was something to forgive you for, you’d already be forgiven. You’ve been so afraid, Morgan, for so long, of so many things. If you’re going to blame yourself, then you have to blame me for being equally as scared. And if you can’t do that then…” She trailed off and smiled, picking tissues out of the box on the table. If Morgan wasn’t going to blame Deirdre, then she shouldn’t be blaming herself—Deirdre didn’t need to say the rest of her thought to let it be clear. She held the tissues out with one hand, using the other to thumb along the bones of her face. “It’s a process,” she said, “well, according to Kelly.” Deirdre smiled up at the therapist, suddenly forgetful of her animosity.

“Are you okay, my love? Do you want to stay like this for a while or…?” Deirdre asked gently, wondering if Kelly would interrupt them now that she’d watched the scene play out. Was there criticism to hand out? Advice? Had they sponged up their time and needed to be ushered out? Deirdre found herself uncaring for the answer, instead she leaned over and pressed her lips to Morgan’s cheek, jaw, temple. She willed love to pass through her body and unto Morgan like a current.

Morgan shut her eyes and huddled into Deirdre, whimpering as she tried to swallow down her sobs. “But I should have been better…” she said feebly. “I’m sorry…” There was nothing else she could think of to say, and so she hid herself deeper into Deirdre’s forgiveness and affection, greedy and aching for it. The parts of her that were lost and trembling didn’t believe she deserved to be comforted, that she should pay, somehow, for the mistakes she had made. But another part, rational and relieved, understood the truth in Deirdre’s words. They really were a pair, holding these double standards for themselves that they would never dream of putting on each other. She laughed, sad and quiet and held Deirdre a little tighter.

“I love you,” she whispered, so soft only her banshee would be able to hear. “I love you always.” She sniffled and lifted her head. “I’m okay,” she said, first to Deirdre, then again to Kelly, clearly and with her best attempt at a smile. She shifted herself to be more visible to their therapist, but made no move to untangle herself from her love.

Kelly beamed at the two of them, her hand deftly concealing the notes in her lap. It was the most feeling she’d expressed to them the whole hour. She remained silent, giving them both time to gather themselves and stay cuddled. “What’s interesting to me, watching you two, is that you seem to possess a certain amount of level-headed wisdom when it comes to each other. And when I say that, I mean you understand that being judgemental isn’t productive toward finding a more positive way of being. You appreciate the importance of a growth mindset, and reflection, but not criticism. But when it comes to yourselves, the temptation to give into fear and take on blame and criticism is much stronger. This may come as a surprise to you, or it may not, but my sense is that the way to enable you to have a stronger footing in your relationship, to be good, or better to each other than you currently are, is to be attentive and forgiving to yourselves. I have some exercises you can practice at home to foster the kind of environment to optimize this kind of work and break down some of these fear responses and thought distortions, but it may be that individual therapy sessions will help you even more, if that is something you are interested in. Does everything I’m saying resonate with you both?”

Morgan nodded from the safety of Deirdre’s chest, where her head still lay. “That makes sense. If you have any suggestions on alone time to couple time ratio, I’d like to hear that too.” She glanced up at Deirdre, hope flickering in her expression. What do you think?

Deirdre smiled, gentle and just for Morgan. “I love you too,” she said; whispered for her love’s ears alone. It’d been a year since they’d met—even if it had felt like so much longer, in all the best ways and only in some terrible ones—and while the woman Morgan knew a year ago had been terrified of having feelings for a human, she’d never shied from affection. She didn’t think to deny Morgan this intimacy. Not when she was afraid, and certainly not under Kelly’s gaze. She held her firm, pressed her lips to the top of her head and shifted just enough to face their therapist. Before the sounds came to her, it was easy to say ‘I love you’ just like this. Where words failed her, touch never did. She wondered if Kelly knew that, if that was somewhere on her notes. It ought to be.

Deirdre nodded, it did occur to her that she was kinder to Morgan than she was to herself. But the reasoning was simple there: she loved Morgan. And self-love—true self-love and not self-importance—was useless to her. Or it had been. “It does, Kelly.” No, individual therapy sounded like the nightmare that it was and she’d only found ease being honest here because of Morgan’s presence, but, their relationship wasn’t the issue. It wasn’t a lack of love, or trust or aversion to affection, it was old wounds, old trauma. Things that needed to be dealt with alone. Things she couldn’t fix for Morgan, and Morgan couldn’t fix for her. Deirdre understood this now, in silent revelation. “Hmm, but I like when we spend time together,” she pouted briefly at Morgan, before she couldn’t help but smile. She didn’t think they spent too much time together, they did live in the same house, after all. Or, they did. Now Morgan lived in the backyard, partly. Which was depressing for a number of reasons, but mostly because Deirdre didn’t think they crowded each other much to begin with. What was so wrong about working separately at opposite ends of the couch? Or when she’d poke her head in after Morgan had spent hours grading papers to ask if she wanted some eyeballs or boiling tea. She struggled to find a single issue with their nights cuddled together, watching movies.

But Morgan wanted space, and independence, and Deirdre understood that better than she was disappointed about being apart. “That would be nice too; interests besides each other. Maybe a way to figure that out. I know we have separate jobs and friends, and maybe that’s a start, but…” Deirdre sighed. She didn’t know how to explain that her interests were exclusively death, math and Morgan. “We do live together, and so time spent with each other is inevitable, but maybe we don’t need to be actively engaging with each other if that’s not—I mean...I just enjoy being in the same room as Morgan, or knowing that I can be, even if we’re not…” Deirdre shook her head and cut herself off. This wasn’t the point, and she was starting to ramble. “Sorry, yeah. What were those exercises you had? And, um, suggestions on the time ratio.”

“I think for the time being, whatever system the two of you have devised for creating time to be yourselves on your own, is fine. Continue to check in with each other and negotiate or maintain that as best as the two of you can until our next meeting.” Kelly’s smile flickered and widened for just a moment, which Morgan seized on as approval and clung to. She whispered another private I love you into the crook of Deirdre’s neck and straightened enough to take out her phone.

“I just want to take notes, to make sure I get everything down,” she explained.

“Deirdre, while Morgan is having her designated private time, I’d like you to challenge yourself to find activities that stimulate your interest. Look into those hobbies, or take some quiet time to see what comes up for you in the stillness. I would also like to suggest a journal practice, one where you focus your attention on yourself and the world around you, and not just your care for Morgan.” She turned her attention to Morgan, brow quirked when she noticed that the woman was writing for the both of them, it seemed. “Morgan, I would like you to take some time asking yourself why it is you feel compelled to take on so much responsibility in this relationship. Your partner has proven herself capable and willing to learn. Even if things should be, let’s say, a little less smooth than normal by allowing Deirdre to rise to the occasion and take some initiative more often, you’re also creating some powerful opportunities for you to learn together as a couple. But first, I think knowing yourself and the source of your anxiety will help you develop effective ways of combating your negative thoughts when they come up. And when we meet next, I’d like to hear the insights you’ve uncovered. My initial homework for both of you is this: try to get more comfortable receiving each other’s love and affection as you are giving it. Ask or state what you want from each other, be it a hug or a kiss or another hour cuddled by the TV or something spicier, as my niece says, and allow yourself to enjoy and receive the attention your partner is giving you for a little longer before you immediately turn to giving something back. Bask a little, appreciate that you are adored and deserving of this.”

After that, Kelly dismissed them and Morgan gave her thanks and left with Deirdre, still huddled into her side. She only parted when they made it to the car and for logistical reasons alone, they had to untangle and walk to their separate doors. Morgan brought the Subaru to quiet, rumbling life and buckled up and pulled out of the parking lot and its pseudo zen landscaping. By the time they were on the freeway, her hand was on Deirdre’s again. “So,” she prompted gently, glancing sidelong with great tenderness. “How are you feeling after all that? What do you feel like doing when we get home?”

Deirdre perked up, smiling and ready to interject. She did have a journal and—oh. Not about Morgan? She deflated. But what else would she write about if not the curve of her love’s bones? The corpse-blue tint of her eyes? The flowers of discolouration that bloomed across her skin when she was due to eat soon? How much she loved her, in what ways, with what words—these were things she needed to commit into existence. This was what her journal was. But she sighed, and remembered to keep her nightly entry Morgan-free. And though she was sure there wouldn’t be a hobby out there more interesting than holding her love, she made note of that too. She turned to Morgan and smiled fondly at the literal notes she was taking, though she couldn’t read them—and didn’t want to pry anyway—from her angle. It was when Kelly mentioned Morgan’s shouldering of responsibility that Deirdre turned to look at Kelly, momentarily confused. Relationships were equal; ‘we help each other’. Deirdre shifted, mulling it over. She never would have called it ‘taking responsibility’ but that was exactly the words for it. She reached over and pressed her palm into Morgan’s knee, a kind of reassurance and apology. Maybe if she’d gotten those diplomas, she’d have known what words to use. She’d have the language. Maybe they wouldn’t have been here. But most certainly, if that was the case, she wouldn’t have felt any guilt about not being a certified therapist like Kelly in the first place.

But ‘basking’, now that was an idea she could get behind. “Tired,” Deirdre laughed, eager to discover how to appropriately ‘bask’. To her mind now, it sounded like cuddling in bed. “So tired. Is it supposed to feel like that?” She turned to look at Morgan, squeezing her hand with a smile. She’d reclined her seat to a point where she might as well have been laying down. Unfortunately, Kelly’s practice wasn’t a far enough drive for her to nap. “What do I feel like doing?” She turned her head to look at the rushing sights. Sleep, her mind responded with enthusiasm. She yawned; her body’s way of agreeing. And then she was silent. And silent again for another minute, and another, and then three. She couldn’t say it. Kelly told her to try, and she couldn’t do it.

Sleep was not a ridiculous thing to ask for, but what if Morgan wanted something else? What if the question had been rhetorical? What if she’d taken too long to reply now and Morgan didn’t care for the answer anymore? Deirdre swallowed. “What do you want?”

Morgan laughed softly and reached over to touch her love. Her hand landed somewhere on her stomach, where her shirt rode up just a little from reclining. She played with the hem as she brushed Deirdre’s side. “I’ve definitely never hurdled headfirst into epiphanies on what is technically a second session, but you and I do spend a lot of time processing together anyways, and we don’t usually do things halfway, so maybe it’s not all that surprising. But the tired...it’s definitely not uncommon. When I first started going after my college mental breakdown, I would end up taking a nap as soon as I got home after.”

She let the silence take them until they hit a red light. Deirdre was supposed to voice her wants, and even though everything in her body made it clear to Morgan, she didn’t want to step on her opportunity to speak for herself. When she finally did, Morgan’s heart sank. “Babe--” she urged gently. “It’s okay. I can pretty much tell already, and the answer is yes, but you should say.” Her fingers spidered over to find Deirdre’s hand and cradled them together. “It’s okay.”

Slowly, Deirdre reached up and pinched Morgan’s hand--when she was alive, this unspoken question was a gentle brush instead--asking to hold it. There were many things she wanted, but only so many she could ask for. Whenever she did, the question was soft, silent. She looked at her love, illuminated by the world and the red-glow of the stop light. When their hands fit together finally, she found strength to speak, “then...can I take you to bed? Can I hold you?” Her voice was gentle against her quivering lips, parted in trepidation. Morgan had said the answer was yes, but she’d believe it once she heard it. And until then, she watched with nervous yearning. “Can I sleep, just for an hour, with you in my arms? And when I wake..can we--can we--” The light turned green. Deirdre swallowed. “Can we spend the day together? For just a while longer?”  

Morgan gave Deirdre her hand with ease, going so far as to pull her love’s over the console and up to her lips so there could be no mistaking her enthusiasm. She held Deirdre’s gaze as she searched for the words, so quiet and timid they were almost swallowed up by the low humming of the car. She only turned her eyes away when the light turned and she had to switch lanes to make their turn in the bright glare of the afternoon. She squeezed Deirdre’s hand again, beaming as the trees cleared and the roads grew more familiar. “I would love nothing more than going to bed with you, my love, in every sense of the phrase,” she said. This was breaking a rule, or talking about breaking one, which felt a little less reckless. But Morgan had said that their rules should be up to revision anyway, hadn’t she?

Morgan loosened her grip so she could put both hands on the wheel. She didn’t need to fall into steamy bliss with her love tonight, and certainly not as soon as they got home. But with her greater understanding of herself came a desire to shake off the last of her intimacy trepidations. If her fear had so little to do with Deirdre, then what was the point? Shouldn't they get to enjoy themselves as much as possible in their time together? “That aside, I think laying down in our bed wrapped in each other’s arms for an hour or two sounds like a perfect idea. And then after you wake, we can do absolutely anything you want until--” Morgan stopped herself from giving the precise time. Deirdre hated exacting times for their comings and goings. It was the three minute game all over again, and Morgan didn’t want to add to her trepidation by dangling a fated hour over her. “Until I decide to take a couple of hours for myself in the evening. But after that, I’ll come back to you for the night. I’m also pretty heart-tired, and I don’t think I want anything more than being close to you right now.”

Every sense of the— Deirdre chased the echo away. Morgan didn’t mean it like that, and even if she did, she was just being carried by the energy of their first session. It didn’t mean anything, and certainly not what she wanted it to mean. Don’t be hopeful, don’t be. But Deirdre closed her eyes, and despite her cautioning, she could feel hope swell as Morgan continued. And then relief washed across her and she relaxed into her seat. It was okay. It was going to be okay. She could have this, she could have Morgan. She opened her eyes and stared at the streets she knew. The drive back wasn’t long, and she was happier to be up and into their house as soon as they could be than to pretend like cars were ever comfortable or interesting to sit in. At some point, though she didn’t realize it, the scenery turned dark. “I always want to be close to you,” she confessed quietly. “I want you to take me to the place where everything is easy again. I want to sleep, and I want to wake up feeling okay. And I want you to be there. I want you with me. I want to know what I have to do to get better. I want that to be done already. I want our future, our life. I want to be happy. I want you to be happy. I want a house in the forest with land to farm and more cats, all rescued. I want to teach kids math and about bones. I want to make death easy and okay. I want my family’s farm, freed from its legacy. I want animals that die natural and content. I want a banshee that’s happy, I want a family of banshees that are. I want to take you to Ireland and show you the horses. I want to watch all those old movies you like. I want to talk to you forever. I want to spend all my life with you. I want a dog. I want us to travel the world and see everything our mothers would never let us see. I want you. I want us. I want to go home and sleep.” Of course, she said none of that. She’d fallen asleep on the very seat she thought she’d never.

What she had said was far more simple, and yet, more than any of her imagined words could have been: “I love you, Morgan.”