#the prodigal son is not back to drawing. i just forgot i had these | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oscar-lettjohanssonloveme · 4 years ago

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Mr. Sandman (Ms Venable x reader)

i guess its kinda bad and i actually wanted to delete it, but here we are haha...

this fanfic is inspired by “Mr Sandman” (syml)..

google translate mwuah

summary: i dont want to spoil.. uhm.. Y/N thinks, her life with Mina is perfect and then a letter changes everything? something like that–

pt. 2: https://littlejeaniehugsbumblebees.tumblr.com/post/643509412185751552/mr-sandman-pt-2-miss-venable-x-reader

Whoohoo

"I never felt love .." Ms. Mead said.

"Neither have I ..", Ms. Venable answered.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

Make her the cutest that I've ever seen

Give her two lips like roses and clover

And tell her that her lonely nights are over

Mina loved you more than anything else in this world. You were her good girl, her princess and you would do anything to make her happy. You looked after the house, you cleaned, you went to the supermarket. You would always ask how she is doing and put her needs above your own.

And at night you lay close to her, your head rested on her chest and she whisperes sweet things in your ear, every evening until you would fall asleep.

And you were so in love with your Ms. Venable. She was so damn smart and proud and her scoliosis had never been a problem for you. You helped her where you could and you loved to see her happy. You were a very emotional person, but Mina was always there to hold you tight.

And while you were taking care of the house, she was the one managing your finances. You found the strict, powerful Ms. Venable, who she was at work, incredibly attractive, but the Mina, who she was at home, was your heaven on earth.

Even though it was almost 4 years ago, you still remembered like it was yesterday when she came into the bookstore, you worked at, to ask for a book. She looked so beautiful when she leaned against the cashier's counter to discuss about Stephen Hawking with you. Many people would describe her as cold-blooded, but you loved her rational way of dealing with things.

Your life seemed perfect and then a little letter should change everything.

----

"I forgot to tell you, that you got a letter .." you said and leaned in the doorway to watch your girlfriend,who was at her desk working on a document.

"Give it to me .." she muttered absently, still staring at the paper. She held out her hand in your direction and you jumped into the room to put the letter in her hand.

"I've already opened it .." you said nervously.

She raised her eyes in your direction and raised an eyebrow.

"Since when are you reading my letters, Y / N?"

"I'm sorry..I thought it looked kind of important..you know, he's from your college .."

Her gaze froze at your words and you became even more nervous.

"The graduates from your year will meet next saturday and you have also been invited .." you continued slowly.

"I was wondering if we might- .."

"No." she said firmly, still staring at you.

"But Mina .." you moaned.

"I know you hate people, but I think you'd have fun .. something like that is cool .."

"I said no, Y / N ..." she repeated, with a hint of anger in her voice, before taking the letter and tearing it up.

"You are stupid ..".

You stomped out of her study angrily.

---------------------

"You know, my college days weren't that great either .." you said, poking around at your food.

"But I would still go to this meeting .."

Mina sighed.

"You have no idea .. my college days were like hell to me ..".

Her mind wandered back in time to the lost girl she was in college. Everything was actually perfect, Mina was smart and loved to challenge her professors. But then she fell in love with the Meangirl and everything was upside down. She had never been in love and this girl was just as gay as her homophobic mother. And she was the darling of all professors and students. Mina had never even been in her field of vision, no matter how loud she shouted. And, of course, the Meangirl was dating Jonathan Cray, the blond handsome guy everyone adored. But as beautiful as he was, Mina had always seen how he had broken her heart. And every time she had wanted to kill him. She would have looked after her so well, not treated her the way he did.

"You don't have to tell me about it, if you don't want to .." you said when you realized how thoughtful she was and put a hand on hers.

"Thank you, princess .." she said softly and smiled sadly at you.

When you lay in bed in the evening, your head was on her chest, as always, while you read from the book what you just had in common. One of your favorite habits in your relationship.

Unfortunately, Mina couldn't concentrate on that.

The floral scent of your hair made her think of her again.

You smelled like her.

Absent-mindedly, she ran her hand over your bare back.

Your skin was as soft as hers.

"Mina?" You asked, lifting your eyes to look at her when you noticed that she wasn't focused.

Your eyes had the same shine as hers, Mina realized as she stared into your eyes.

"I love you so much, princess .." she muttered, pressing her lips against yours.

And you tasted like her too, at least as Mina had imagined.

You were perfect

Sandman, I'm so alone

Don't have nobody to call my own

Please turn on your magic beam

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

-------------------------

Mina herself had made sure that you didn't have to work next Saturday, she didn't want you to leave the house that day.

You'd been confused, but her explanation was too sweet and you took the day off.

"You know, I have the feeling we haven't had much time for each other in the last few weeks and I would love to spend Saturday with you, princess ..", she said and you were happy.

Now she was only working for a few hours this morning and then you'd have her back.

You got up from the bed and opened the door to Mina's closet, which was separate from yours.

A few years ago Mina had already given you a hoodie of her own and as cute as it was, you unfortunately had to discover that time had borrowed it quite a bit and the purple was almost washed out. You reached out your hand to her turtleneck and pulled it over your head. Minas lavender perfume got into your nose and gave you a feeling of security

Just as you were about to close the closet, you noticed a box, that was on the floor of the closet, labeled with your name. You knew you shouldn't be getting hold of her things, but your name was on it, so it was your business somewhere.

You bent down to pick up the box, a shoebox. Before you opened it, you sat down on the bed edge. You carefully removed the lid and stared into the box, confused.

There were drawings in it.

Very direct drawings,..drawings of you.

You took the leaves, which had become wavy over time, and looked at them. Mina had drawn that, you were sure of that. Nobody would pay more attention to the details than Mina. These drawings were good, you couldn't imagine why Mina should hide them in her closet. Which is why you decided to hang them up. You jumped happily into her workspace and your good mood fell when you looked at Mina's desk. She had forgotten her bag. She never actually forgot anything. Confused, you grabbed the bag, determined to bring it to your girlfriend.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

Make her the cutest that I've ever seen

Give her the word that I'm not a rover

And tell her that her lonely nights are over

-----------------

As you walked through the large building of kineros robotics, you couldn't help but wonder again about this strange work.

You walked past Jeff and Mutt's office and watched in disgust as the two of them were taking drugs as usual.

"Look! The prodigal son has found home .." Mutt exclaimed when he saw you and grinned.

The prodigal son?

Slowly you stepped into these idiots' office.

"Did Venny send you to update your system?" Laughed Jeff.

Just as you were about to open your mouth to answer, someone interrupted you.

"What are you doing here Y / N ?!", Minas voice barked behind you and made you flinch.

You turned around and stared into her wrinkled face.

"You forgot your bag .." you said quietly and held up her bag.

She inhaled sharply.

"Give it to me and go home, you shouldn't be here ..".

Without a word, you handed her the bag before you ran past her outside.

That was embarrassing and you couldn't explain why Mina was so angry. You just wanted to help her.

Annoyed, you got into your car and were about to start when something caught your eye. A young couple crossing the parking lot. He was holding a child, but your attention was on her.

Maybe you got crazy, but this woman looked like you.

Or did you look like that woman?

You could only stare and watch the couple go into the building. When the two of them disappeared behind the door, you blinked in confusion. That couldn't be possible.

Probably she just looked like you and besides, she was about 30 meters away from you.

You shook your head at yourself before you started the car to drive home.

-------------

Mina sat in her office and thought hard, should she be alarmed about what Jeff and Mutt had said to you?

A knock on her door made her jump and she let out a little scream as she saw who it was.

There she was, the love of her life, her hand still tied to Jonathan Crays. She balanced a toddler on her arm.

"Y / N ..", Mina uttered surprised when Y / N and Jonathan entered the room.

"Didn't you expect us?", asked Y / N and grinned.

God that smile.

"Not really .." Mina muttered as she turned red.

"We saw that you didn't register for tonight and now we've come to pick you up.."

Mina stared at couple. Jonathan looked totally bored and didn't look at all like he was enjoying being here.

"Come on .." Y / N pleaded.

"This is going to be fun ... do it for me .."

Do it for me.

These words ached in Mina's heart. She would have done so much for Y / N.

"I can't .." she began.

"I promised my girlfriend to spend the night with her .."

"Your girlfriend?" Y / N repeated with big eyes.

"Of course she can come along if she wants .."

"I really can't Y / N .."

Mina averted her gaze from the woman in front of her, who was now staring at her in disappointment

"We should go now ..", Jonathan suddenly muttered to Y / N.

"It was nice to see you, Mina .." she said quietly.

Mina

Only Y / N was allowed to call her that.

Mina smiled in pain.

"Have fun tonight .."

Jonathan nodded briefly and pulled Y / N out of the room.

---------------

Mina couldn't stop tears from running down her face as she drove home. This meeting today had shown her, what reality actually looked like.

She hated Jonathan so much, when he put his arm around Y / N when they left the building, it hurt so much to see and now she needed you. You were like her drug, she was addicted to the feeling of holding you in her arms.

"Y / N ??" she called for you when she got home.

"I'm in the living room ..", came your voice and Mina was glad that you no longer sounded angry. She took off her jacket and came walking into the living room, always leaning on her cane, of course.

She smiled gently at you when she saw you, but her smile fell as soon as she saw what you were doing.

"Where did you get this from?" She asked sharply, staring at the drawings.

"They were in your closet and I thought they were beautiful, so I thought I would hang them .." you replied, still seeming to be convinced that it was a good idea.

"I think they look so ... aggressive."

"Aggressive ..", Mina repeated slowly, still staring at you angrily.

She remembered the night she had made these sketches. Aggressive was a good word to describe how she felt back then. She had sat at the desk in the candlelight at night. She couldn't take it any longer. Y / N in Jonathan's arms..

With gritted teeth she had scratched the paper with a pencil. Tears dripped from her eyes onto the drawing in front of her, making the pencil blur. No matter how much it would cost, she was determined to take these sketches to her office the next morning to hand over to these two idiots Jeff & Mutt. You should be perfect.

Oh, Sandman, I'm so alone

Don't have nobody to call my own

So please turn on your magic beam

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

"Hang it up .." Mina hissed at you.

"But Mina-".

"You gotta fucking hang it up .."

You rolled your eyes

"Hang it up yourself if it bothers you .. I try to do everything right the whole day and you're just mad at me .." you said and ran out of the room.

She looked after you and then began to unhook the drawings and toss them into the burning fireplace at the end. She hadn't imagined Saturday like that.

She ran through your house looking for you and finally found you lying on the bed in the bedroom.

"Princess?" She whispered softly as she entered the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Your back was turned to her

and you didn't move an inch

"Please talk to me .." she continued and reached out her hand to run through your hair.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" You let out.

"You've been totally weird since this letter arrived here ..."

You frowned at her.

Mina swallowed.

"I'm really sorry that I was so unfair .. I've only think back to my college days so often over the past few days .."

She looked at you sadly.

"Then talk to me .." you answered and sat up.

"I don't want to talk about it .." she said, grabbing your hands.

"The only thing that matters, is that you know I love you .."

You nodded slowly and were about to say something when she grabbed your face and angrily pressed her lips against yours.

"Mina what-"

"You are mine .." she growled against your mouth and pulled you into her lap.

"Do you understand me? You belong to me .."

--------------------------

The rest of the weekend was perfect, you gave her everything she needed. Mina had always been a bit possessive and you liked that, but the last two days had been different, she was scared. While she held you in her arms, all she could see was Jonathan putting his arm around Y / N, he didn't deserve her.

Monday morning everything seemed to be back to normal, you went to work just like her and in the evening she drove home and was looking forward to finally seeing you.

But as soon as she unlocked the door, she noticed that something was wrong. Normally you would greet her with a beam of joy, but you didn't.

When she called your name several times and you didn't answer, she panicked to search your house. Finally she heard sobs coming from the bathroom. She ran there immediately, if her stick allowed it.

"What's going on, princess?" She asked worried when she saw you standing by the sink.

"Something is wrong with me .." you whimpered and turned to her.

"What are you talking about?", She frowned and got scared when she saw that your right hand was wrapped in a bandage.

"Please don't be angry .." you began, trembling.

"I wanted to cook and cut myself .."

Mina's eyes widened.

Damn.

She grabbed your hand and unwrapped the bandage.

"I don't know what that is .." you said and more tears ran down your face as Mina looked at the cut on your palm. Instead of blood, cables came out of the interface.

She wrapped the bandage around your hand again.

"Jeff and Mutt will be able to fix this .." she muttered.

"To fix ??" you stared at her in fear.

"We have to go to the hospital, there are fucking cables in my hand .. I need help .."

"You are perfect ..", she growled and pulled you into your living room by your healthy hand.

"What the hell is going on here Mina ??" you asked and yanked yourself out of her grasp.

She slipped past you and sat on the armchair by the window.

"Have you never wondered why you are always healthy? Or why you have no friends or we never visit your family?" She asked challengingly.

You paused.

"What are you talking about? I hate my parents, they kicked me out when I came out to them, but you know that .. And don't say I have no friends .. I don't want friends, that's it. The only person I need is you .. "

She let out an amused snort and rubbed her temples.

"Because I programmed you that way .." she said finally.

"Programmed .." you repeated and you felt sick as you slowly realized what she was getting at.

"Y / N you are my creation .. look at yourself, you are flawless .. I have invested so much time in making yourself as perfect as you are now .."

You stared at her. Is that supposed to be a joke?

"I'm one of your robots?" You asked quietly and stumbled backwards.

That's what Mutt meant by "the prodigal son". But that made no sense, your memories, your family ... They all seemed so real ?!

You let yourself fall into the chair behind you.

"You are not just any robot .. you are my robot .." Mina said and came over to you to kneel in front of you.

Those were the strangest words she'd ever said to you.

You felt like you were about to throw up.

"You're perfect, you look like her ...", Mina said and reached out her hand to smooth your cheek with her thumb.

"Like her?" You gasp. Tears welled up in your eyes. Immediately you thought back to yesterday's woman ... So you weren't unique. A cheap copy from a stranger.

"Look at me and tell me that you are not happy with me ..", Mina looked at you sadly.

All you could do was stare at her. You had been together for 4 years and she had lied all the time. Who knows, maybe it wasn't even 4 years and just a few months.

"I didn't tell you, because I love you.", Mina said, as if she could read your mind.

"Because you love me? I thought honesty was the most important thing in a relationship .." you took her hand from your cheek and stood up.b

"Y / N, I created you .. Without me you wouldn't even exist ..", Mina said and leaned on her stick to get up as well.

"You're crazy .." you muttered and ran into the hallway. Mina hobbled after you.

"What is that supposed to be, Y / N?" She asked when she saw you put your jacket on.

"I'm leaving .. you scare me ..".

You grabbed your car key before heading to the door. Your hand wrapped around the cold doorknob, but something prevented you from opening.

You just couldn't. She had given you everything you ever wanted and even though you just found out that most of it was a lie, you just couldn't leave. Where should you go?Your whole life revolved around this woman and you loved it, she made you feel special.

Tears dripped quitetly on your hand, which was still tightly gripping the iron doorknob.

"You can't .." you heard Mina say softly behind you.

"You can't leave me because I programmed you that way .."

Programmed ..

You let out a sob at her words.

You slowly turned to her, she was standing a meter away from you and smiled sadly at you.

"Come here, princess .." she said and opened her arms.

You didn't hesitate for a moment and jumped into her arms to hold on to her while you cried.

"Shh everything will be fine .." she whispered in your ear.

"You are mine and that's the only thing that matters .."

Oh, Sandman bring us a dream

Make her the cutest that I've ever seen

Give her two lips like roses and clover

And tell her that her lonely nights are over

Oh, Sandman, I'm so alone

Don't have nobody to call my own

So please turn on your magic beam

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

#wilhemina venable x reader #wilhemina venable #sarah paulson x reader #american horror story #mr sandman

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onecanonlife · 3 years ago

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careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,975

Chapter Warnings: swearing, mentioned death, mild sui.cidal ideation

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur has several conversations of emotional import, and then comes face to face with his son.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Sixteen: head down

“Are you sure you’re good?” Tommy asks him.

Around them, the lava of the nether pops and crackles, the heat sticking to him like resin. Techno and Phil walk ahead of them, swords out in readiness for the odd ghast or hoglin, and Ranboo trails along behind them like a lost duckling. He could walk with them, he knows, probably should, but weariness clings to his bones today, and he doesn’t feel much up to the conversations he knows Phil might try to start. So he’s been walking a few paces to the rear, hands shoved in his pockets, but now here is Tommy, dropping back to keep pace with him.

“I’ve said it already, haven’t I?” he asks, and just an ounce of irritation leaks into his tone. “I’m fine, Tommy, I promise. And I’ve already had an earful from Phil this morning, so I don’t need you to repeat it.”

He anticipated it, of course. After his worry subsided, Phil was not particularly happy to learn that he provoked a dangerous god on purpose. He doesn’t blame him for that, but being chided like a child rankled. Still rankles.

(he doesn’t blame him, though, truly, because it is easy for some part of him at least to look at it through Phil’s eyes, and it must have terrified him, finding him slumped against the portal like that, eyes hazy and words slurring, some sliver of the infinite still hanging about him like a shroud)

“I’m not Phil,” Tommy says, seeming offended by the very prospect. “I’m not—you just scared me, Wil. And you’re still acting all out of it.” His eyes drift upward, landing around the vicinity of his forehead, and Wilbur knows he’s staring at his hair again. It makes him want to pull his beanie forward to hide it, but that would draw a different kind of attention, a different kind of concern.

(he looked in the mirror this morning. almost a third of his hair, it seems, has been bleached white, in streaks that stand out starkly against the brown. he wouldn’t mind it so much if people would stop looking at it, would stop looking at him like he’s some sort of zoo animal)

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I had kind of an eventful night last night,” he says. “I’m just tired, is all.”

Tommy’s face darkens, and he glances away. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he mutters.

“Do what?”

“That,” Tommy says, gesturing. “It’s—it’s deflection, is what it is. Puffy told me so. It’s called an avoidance tactic.” He sounds out the syllables one by one, obviously repeating something he heard. “I thought you said you weren’t going to hide shit anymore. You said.”

“I—” He breaks off, sighing. “I know. Tommy, I’m sorry. I just feel like focusing on the current problem is what we need to be doing right now. And then later we deal with all of my shit. Can’t do that if we’ve all been sacrificed to an egg cult. But I really am just tired, Tommy. Nothing more than that.”

“I feel like last time we tried to focus on the current problem and ignore all of yours, it didn’t go so well,” Tommy says, and there’s no real heat to his words, but Wilbur stops in his tracks. He’s not sure why it hits him so hard, in this moment of all moments, but it does. Perhaps his ability to emotionally distance was damaged last night, somewhere between having a god in his head and staring into the void once again. He feels raw, in a way. An exposed wire.

“Oh,” he says.

(dark walls dark walls and dark paths and no railings and he didn’t place the buttons but he may as well have for all that they were projections of him)

Tommy takes several more steps before realizing that he’s not beside him anymore, and he stops, too, turning. “Oh,” he echoes, eyes widening. “Wait, no, that wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to—shit, Wilbur, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to just bring it up like that.”

“You shouldn’t be apologizing,” he manages. “You have every right to bring it up. You’re the one who got hurt.”

(you hurt him even though you didn’t mean to, lashed out because some part of you was crying out for help and this was the only way you knew how to ask for it, so convinced were you that you deserved nothing, nothing at all, deserved to be consigned to the dark, and you didn’t mean to but you hurt him all the same)

“Nothing can hurt me,” Tommy says, probably an automatic response, but Wilbur shoots him a look, and he trails off. This doesn’t seem like the time or place to be having a conversation like this, not with the snap-pop of lava beneath and all around them and the wail of mobs in the distance, but if they’re going to have it, then let them have it. “Alright, yeah. I guess.” His eyes skitter off him for a moment, drifting to one of the closer lava pools, and then back again. “But you were hurt too, Wil.”

“That’s not an excuse,” he says.

“No, but it’s—it’s a reason, y’know? It’s an explanation. And it’s not—it’s not an excuse, I’m not trying to say it’s an excuse, but it’s still important. And I—I’ve forgiven you, really, for all of it. So this isn’t—I just don’t want things to end the same. And I’m a, a little bit freaked out lately, Wilbur, if you couldn’t tell, because this all just seems like history repeating itself. We were supposed to be done with shit like this, and then you came back and I thought to myself, here it is, here’s our second chance. But now we’re fighting Dream again, and the whole server might be taken over by now, and it’s us against the bastards in charge but that didn’t end well last time, Wilbur!”

“It’ll be different,” he offers, and his voice falls flat.

“You can’t know that,” Tommy says. “There’s no way for you to—Prime, Wilbur, I just wanted everything to stay the same.” He buries his face in his hands. “You, me, and Tubbo. Back the way we used to be. None of this shit. But Dream’s out again and Phil and Techno are here, and you know, I never wanted to see them again. Did you know that? I wanted them to stay just, just so fucking far away. But then Techno did that, in the Egg room, and Phil’s wings are all fucked, and—and I didn’t want to think they cared, Wil, I didn’t, but now they do, and it’s all messy and complicated, and I hate it, I hate it so much, and I don’t understand why I can’t ever have anything good—”

It’s nice to hear that Tommy is, perhaps, inching toward forgiving Phil and Techno. Wilbur would rather like to have a family at the end of this, even if they can never be what they once were. But the rest of that speech is what takes up his attention, and he strides forward, reaching out and gripping Tommy’s elbows.

“Hey,” he says, insistently, “no, no, that’s all wrong. You get to have good things. You haven’t had nearly as many good things as you deserve, and that’s at least partially my fault, but once this is all over, you’re going to have so many good things, you won’t know what to do with them all. But you deserve good things and you can have them, I swear, because you’re so good, Tommy, do you hear me? You’re so good. And I will make fucking sure that you get those good things if it’s the last thing I do.”

Tommy lowers his hands. His face is not tear-stained, as Wilbur half-expected, but his eyes have grown irritated, and they glimmer in the red-orange light.

“But you’re one of the good things,” he chokes out, “and you don’t even fucking want to be here. You want to leave again.”

His heart twists in on itself.

“Oh,” he says, much weaker, this time. “Tommy, I—”

What can he say to that? He’s promised himself not to lie anymore. Not to him. But he can’t give him any comfort, not regarding this, because while he feels steadier than he did at the start, more resigned to this new life he’s been

(pulled into by a god at the request of the universe)

granted, more determined to stay if only for Tommy’s sake, but that’s the thing. It is for Tommy’s sake. For the sake of all the other people who somehow seem to want him around. It is not for his own.

(he forgot how to live for his own sake a long, long time ago, and though he can at least recognize as much now, recognition does not lead him to a solution, a solution he’s not even sure he wants)

“I’m sorry,” he finishes, because it’s all he has to give, inadequate though it is, and he takes Tommy’s hands. “I’m not leaving. Not on purpose. I swear that to you. I’m not leaving.”

“You—what are you doing?” Tommy asks, and he blinks. Tommy blinks back, his face scrunching up, and he lifts their joined hands. Both of them are now stained with blue. Which—what?

Oh. Did he—he did, didn’t he? Opened up his inventory, pulled out the blue dye from days ago? Pressed it into Tommy’s hands on instinct, some drive insisting that it would help, that it would be better than nothing at all, that even if it was nothing but dye it would at least show that he cared, that he was trying?

He must have. He did. He remembers doing it now. He didn’t even think about it, moved on some natural impulse.

“I don’t know,” he says.

(calm yourself, have some blue)

“This is Ghostbur’s thing,” Tommy says.

“I’m not Ghostbur.”

(for his heart beats in his chest beats out alive alive alive in a way that Ghostbur’s never could, though his blood stained his sweater, and yet he has Ghostbur’s memories and if he is not Ghostbur, shares nothing with the shade, then what was the ghost, in the end, and where did he come from, if he was not)

“But Ghostbur was part of you, wasn’t he?” Tommy says, and he sounds just a bit calmer, now, so maybe the blue has helped. Even though it’s just dye. “Even if he wasn’t you you. So he’s still part of you, isn’t he?”

“I—” His heart is thundering. He doesn’t know why. “I haven’t been thinking about it. Not like that.”

(he has to keep Ghostbur separate from him has to consider him separate because the ghost was not him the ghost in all his smiles and useless platitudes and all-encompassing desire to help was not him his endless love was not him because the ghost was useless to the last but he was good and kind and he has never believed that he is any of those things so the ghost must be separate must have come from him but been separate been something else in the end and there must be nothing but faded memories to connect them)

(but you know better than that, deep down, know better than to truly believe that your kindness exists as a different entity from the rest of you because you are capable of so much if you only allow yourself if you are only given the space to grow and to be if someone stops you from taking the world on your shoulders and the ghost was the you that broke was a you that rejected the responsibility was a you that crumbled and he was what remained but he was you he was you he was you but less and you are him but more)

(and perhaps one day you will learn to accept yourself better)

“Maybe you should,” Tommy says, and glances away. “Ghostbur tried. And he was my brother too. You’re my brother. No matter what, that hasn’t changed. Even if you’re a prick.”

Tears spring to his eyes, surprising him, and he blinks them back.

“Right,” he says. “Right, I—yeah. Okay. But Tommy, Tommy, listen to me, alright? I swear to you” —He squeezes Tommy’s hands, and watches as the blue dye runs between them. Their fingers will be stained for hours, and he finds that he doesn’t mind at all— “I will do everything in my power to make sure that good things come again. You say it’s all messy and complicated, and that’s true. I know that’s true. But we’re going to have time to figure it all out. We’re going to have time. And I’m including myself in that. I know I’m not—I’m not always the most trustworthy, I know that. But I promise, I mean this. Staying is—it’s worth it if it’s for you, alright?”

Something passes across Tommy’s face, too quick and too complicated to read. But he presses on, bringing Tommy’s hands up to his chest and keeping them there.

“We are not powerless,” he states. “History doesn’t make us, we make history. And if history is repeating itself, we don’t let it. We won’t let it. You deserve good things, Tommyinnit, and you’re going to get them.”

“If you say so, Wil,” Tommy says, and he still seems a bit discomfited, but also a bit steadier, now. A bit more secure.

“I do say so,” he says. “I’ll say it again if you need me to.”

“Please don’t,” Tommy says. “You’ve—see, look at what you’ve done, now my hands are all blue and sticky. You’ve given me sticky fingers, Wil.”

Tommy has chosen to end the moment, it seems. He’s not sure whether they’ve managed to say what needed to be said or not.

“Don’t say that to me,” he says. He squeezes Tommy’s hands one last time, and then lets go. “That makes me sound terrible.”

“Well, maybe you are,” Tommy shoots back, with a smirk that takes away any potential sting. “Live with it, bastard.” A pause, and then: “Did those arseholes even bother to wait for us? Dickheads, the lot of them. C’mon, they’ll start bitching about it if we fall too far behind.”

And then, Tommy grabs his hand himself, of his own volition, and starts to pull Wilbur along the path, cobblestone and meandering and precarious, and Wilbur’s chest feels hot, full of pressure. But it’s not quite a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all, in fact.

(he was always so cold in that ravine, no matter how he gathered his coat around him, shoved his hands in his pockets, and he watched everyone else and felt colder still, froze in the face of their flickering warmth with each other, and he turned away because he knew the warmth was not for him, that soon there would be no warmth at all)

(and the fire gave him heat but no warmth, his desired ending but no absolution)

(something you will keep to yourself: you were warm at the end, as your blood stained your father’s hands, as your vision dimmed and he held you close, so very warm at last, but it would hurt him to know that to hear from your mouth the relief you felt so you must not must not say)

The others have indeed had the decency to wait for them not too far ahead, and he nods in response to Phil’s raised eyebrow. Everything’s fine, he means to say, and Phil nods back and says nothing else about it, which he appreciates, for Tommy’s sake just as much as his. The portal isn’t far from there, and it’s not long before he’s stepping into the purple glow, closing his eyes at the dizzying upheaval of his surroundings.

The rain hits his face immediately. Thunder rolls, and wind buffets his jacket. It is a welcome change from the stifling heat of the nether, but he has to squint against the downpour, everyone else’s figures suddenly becoming shadowy, indistinct. The sky itself is dark and angry, black clouds churning, and it’s almost as if it were still night rather than early morning.

He takes another step out of the portal and almost trips. Looking down, he can’t stop his sudden inhalation. The color is dull, washed out in the lack of sunlight,

(though his mind is eager to fill in the gaps eager to show him)

but he doesn’t need the color to recognize the vine by his foot, nor any of the vines that crawl across the stone.

“Oh, fuck,” Phil says.

“We’ve been gone for a day,” Tommy says, disbelieving. “It wasn’t like this yesterday, was it?”

He cannot believe that leaving was a mistake, not with what it led to, even if the original plan was foolhardy. He does not regret the opportunity to petition a god, to make himself heard, even if it results in nothing in the end. But staring out over the landscape, the Prime Path ahead of them is choked with the things, and though the community house is little more than a vague structure in the rainy haze, it almost appears as if it’s grown hair, or tentacles, or something of that kind, so covered over with the foliage as it is.

“They’re all okay, right?” Ranboo says, his voice nearly a whisper. “They all have to be okay.”

Eret’s castle is visible from here, but just barely. He can’t tell if the vines have taken it over as well, but there’s only one way to find out.

“I think we craft some boats, cross the lake rather than going by the Prime Path,” he says. “Unless you’d like to chop your way through, but—” He glances at the ground. The vines are motionless, but he doesn’t trust that not to change.

“I have to say,” Techno says, “bein’ strangled by Egg tentacles? Not my idea of a good time.” There’s nothing on his face except his typical disgruntlement, or at least, nothing that Wilbur can see. The wind whips his hair in and out of his face, the long pink strands obscuring his expression. But there is an edge to his voice, barely discernible. It wouldn’t be, to anyone who didn’t know him well. “If boats’ll let us avoid the things, my vote’s for boats.”

Ranboo snorts, and then wilts when eyes turn to him. “It rhymed,” he offers weakly, and Tommy groans.

“Can we give Ranboo to the Egg?” he asks, and Wilbur

(doesn’t like that, not at all, even though he knows that Tommy is joking, though he knows that Tommy does not hear the Egg for some unknown, blessed reason and he’s not looking that gift horse in the mouth, but that means that Tommy doesn’t really get that it’s not a thing to make jokes about, giving someone to the Egg, to the creep and crawl of something alien and void scraping out your mind and making it something that is you but not, you but slightly tilted, diagonal, something that fits the Egg’s wants more than your own even if you don’t realize it, and he doesn’t have the energy to berate him for the quip but he really wishes he wouldn’t suggest it, even in jest, even though he knows that Tommy copes through jokes and they’re all just struggling to make it through this, really)

shakes his head. Phil’s moved closer to the stairs, so he goes to join him, picking his way through the vines as best he can, and in his peripheral vision, he sees Techno and Ranboo follow.

“Someone’s had the same idea,” Phil says, inclining his head to the nearest bit of shoreline. There is a figure clearly visible there, though they are too distant and hidden by the gloom to make out features. They’re pulling a boat ashore, and then they turn in their direction and raise a hand, making a come-hither gesture.

Lightning flashes, and thunder follows shortly thereafter. The brief instant of light is enough to illuminate Eret’s features, the curl of his hair and his ever present crown.

“Are they on our side?” Techno asks, and—did anyone remember to fill Techno in? He certainly didn’t, and he doesn’t particularly want to right now. Even just watching the monarch puts a sour taste in his mouth.

(and some of the vitriol he directs at himself, because he is cognizant of his own hypocrisy)

“Presumably,” he mutters, but Tommy’s already making his way down, waving his hands around and shouting like a bloody moron, because of course he is, because of course Tommy’s not concerned with who might hear him.

(and that, at least, has not changed, and it is a good thing that Tommy still has it in him to challenge the world, to make his presence known, because that is part of what makes Tommy himself and he does not deserve to lose that, even when it is unwise, even when it can make everything else so much more difficult)

Which is not great, because not seeing anyone else around doesn’t mean that no one is there, so the only choice from there is to go after him and make sure he doesn’t get ambushed.

“I’m glad to see you all in one piece,” Eret says, as soon as they all come within hearing range. “You as well, Technoblade.”

Techno doesn’t dignify that with a response, but Eret continues, apparently unbothered.

“We saw the activity from the portal,” he says. “I thought I’d come to escort you all. You might have noticed, but the Prime Path is not currently particularly traversable.” He smiles wryly. “You’ll be please to know that the castle grounds, however, are currently free of unwanted flora, and aside from spreading these eyesores all over the place, the Egg and its cohorts have been quiet. If we’re quick about it, I don’t see us having much issue, and to that end” —He flicks his fingers, and two more spruce boats land in the water, summoned from his inventory— “I brought these. If you’d like, we can be on our way. Might be a bit bumpy because of the storm, but it’s perfectly passable.”

“Oh, we would like,” Tommy says, clambering in without hesitation. “We would like very much. C’mon, Ranboob, in.” He tugs on Ranboo’s hand, and Ranboo all but topples into the boat beside him. Phil and Techno claim the next one, and he—

He’s going to have to ride with Eret. Brilliant.

He sighs, stepping in and settling on one of the two seats. Eret barely casts him a glance before he gets to rowing, and then they’re off, gliding across choppy water. Wilbur stares into it, watches the ripples of the raindrops as they impact the surface, studies the patterns they make rather than looking at Eret himself. But even the noise of the wind and the thunder overhead cannot disguise the note of anticipation in the atmosphere.

“I really am glad you’re back, Wilbur,” Eret says. His voice is low, carries just enough to reach him, but the noise of the rain will prevent it from drifting to the other boats. “I’d been hoping for a chance to speak to you again for—quite some time now, actually.”

He shifts, and idly wonders how many conversations like this he’s going to have to have today. He’s already worn out from speaking to Tommy in the way that he did, though at least with Eret, he doesn’t feel the need to guard his tone nearly as much.

“You were involved in trying to resurrect me a while ago,” he says. Neutral, probing. “I remember that much.”

“You—so you do have Ghostbur’s memories,” Eret says.

“Some,” he replies. “Most, I’d say. What he bothered to remember, at least. He was never very good at figuring out people’s motivations, though. Very trusting, he was. Naive. Was it guilt that drove you to help? I can’t picture what you think you would have gotten out of it otherwise.”

It’s difficult to see Eret’s expression; the weather and his glasses unite to mask the minutiae of his face.

“I suppose it was, in the end,” he says, soft and slow. “I carry a lot of regrets with me. I’m sure that’s something you know a lot about. Regrets.” He stiffens, but Eret shakes his head. “I don’t mean that as an attack. Just a statement. I doubt you could find anyone on this server who hasn’t done something they wish they could take back. But for me, betraying L’Manberg, betraying you—that’s my regret. I’ve been aimless since then.” Lightning flashes again; he’s smiling, but Wilbur knows a joyless smile when he sees one. “A throne with no power, a crown that means nothing—none of that was worth betraying my friends. I know that now. So I’ve sought redemption, tried to make amends, and I’ve tried to change. I would like to think that I have. But the one person I needed to make it up to the most wasn’t here anymore. So I suppose you could say that it was guilt, that it was selfish of me. But I wanted to be able to atone to you. That’s all there was to it, really.”

He digests that for a moment. He isn’t sure how to feel about it.

(because on one hand his heart sings traitor, sings you killed us all killed me killed my brothers killed my son, but can he say that the betrayal was worse than his? can he deny Eret his redemption when he is struggling for atonement himself, forgiveness that he is certain he does not and never will deserve?)

(he’s thought through all of this before, gone round in circles again and again, and it might be time to make a decision)

“And what would you do if I didn’t accept your atonement?” he asks. He dips a hand in the water. When he lifts it out again, it is still stained blue.

“I would keep on,” Eret answers. “I think that’s all I could do. If you never forgive me, that’s more than understandable on your end. I hardly have the right to force the issue. But I’m completely sincere when I tell you that I want to be better. I’m trying to be better. And I don’t really know whether I’ve done a good job of that lately or not. I’ve been rather absent, truth be told. But I don’t plan on stopping my efforts.”

He frowns.

“That’s fair,” he says, “though I feel like you should know that I’m hardly the type of man who can go around giving other people absolution.”

“It’s not really absolution that I’m looking for,” Eret says. “More of a chance to try again.”

He has no answer to that. And no time to give one even if he had it, because the boat runs aground, the castle looming over them all, and true to Eret’s word, the walls themselves show no signs of encroachment, though the land surrounding it almost looks like a great red rug for all that the grass itself is barely visible.

“Tubbo managed to ward the castle,” Eret says, addressing all of them. “I’m still not entirely sure how. This isn’t a kind of magic that’s familiar to me. But whatever he did, it worked, and then when Fundy got here he backed him up. He did a really good job, actually.”

“Of course he did,” Tommy says. “He’s Tubbo.”

But Wilbur’s stuck on the other thing. Said so offhandedly.

The thought has crossed his mind, of course, that he has not yet seen his son. Has not yet so much as spoken to him. But it is one thing to know it in the abstract and quite another to be confronted with it suddenly. Fundy is in the castle, is mere feet away, and he is exhausted and entirely unprepared for this.

(and what a selfish thought that is, that he is unprepared to meet with his own child, unprepared to do the bare minimum, to tell him of his return, to apologize for hanging him out to dry, how selfish it is that his child has fallen so low on his list of priorities, how selfish, how selfish, and he does not know whether he has the strength to admit it out loud)

(he is certain that he owes Fundy an apology, just as he owes so many people apologies, and yet he remembers his son burning down the flag, burning down all he held dear, carrying out Schlatt’s every order to its full extent in a way that even Tubbo did not, and Fundy claimed that he was a spy all along, that he never truly turned against him, but by that time the damage had already been done and how was he supposed to believe when he already felt so alone, already felt like the world had turned against him and his legacy was ruined so all there was left to do was send it and himself to hell)

“Can we go in?” he asks. “We’re soaked. Unless there’s a point to hanging around here. And also—have you not set anyone to stand watch?”

There’s no one visible on the walls above them, and gates only do so much to keep out an invading force.

“The enchantments keep them out,” Eret answers, and places a hand against the gates. The wood shimmers slightly, the effect just barely perceptible, and looks almost as if the gate itself is rippling, distorted, like viewing it through a fun house mirror. “Or rather, as near as we can tell, the enchantments prevent the Egg from gaining a foothold in here. Which means if it wants to continue to communicate with its people, its people have to stay out.” With that, he pushes the gates, and they swing open with a horrendous creak.

“That would hardly stop Dream,” he remarks, and Eret inclines his head, conceding the point.

“True,” he says, “but to be fair, I’m not sure that gates would do much good to that end, either, whether we’re watching them or not. Better to be as well rested as we possibly can be.”

He remembers Dream’s appearance last night, his appearance and swift disappearance, and says nothing. Eret is right, of course; the highest walls and toughest gates and sharpest watchers all mean nothing in the face of someone who can go anywhere he pleases with a thought.

“You hear that, Wil?” Phil says, just a little too loudly. “Rest. Rest is important.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” he mutters, and at the same time, Ranboo starts asking about whether these enchantments can be applied to people as well, and he lends half an ear to that conversation, because that would be very useful. Eret tells him that Tubbo’s been experimenting, but even getting the wards up around the castle was a trial, so he’s not sure when they’ll be able to do much else, or whether any other breakthroughs will be in time to be useful, even with Fundy now helping, and—

There it is again.

(he should have done this sooner, should have done this before hesitance turned to outright avoidance, and for all Phil’s faults as a parent at least he has reason for what he’s done, reason and a willingness to face them now, and that is something that he evidently lacks, and his heart is caged by his own cowardice, and he doesn’t know what to expect from this and he hates not knowing what to expect, how to plan for it)

(there is no plan in the world that will help him right now)

Eret leads them into the castle, and it is warm and well lit, but it does nothing to assuage the chill settling in his bones.

“Most everyone’s down the hall there,” Eret says, pointing, “and I think I’ve got towels somewhere if you want to dry off—”

“Forget about towels,” Tommy interrupts, “where’s Tubbo?”

“He’s set himself up on the second floor,” Eret says. “If you want, I can—”

Predictably, Tommy’s already off, his feet slapping against the floor with wet squelches.

“I think the rest of us will take you up on the towels,” Phil says. “Particularly Ranboo, you still good there?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Ranboo says. “Um, my armor protects me pretty well, so I’m good. But um, yeah, towels might still be a good idea.”

“Great. If you’ll follow me, then—”

He can put this off no longer. He grabs Eret’s arm, cutting him off.

“Is Fundy with Tubbo?” he asks.

For a moment, Eret is silent. He doesn’t particularly like the expression he’s making, somewhere between realization and pity. He does not need pity, doesn’t know what to do with it, and he especially doesn’t want it from Eret, of all people. Everyone else is silent, still, and he can feel their gazes on him like spotlights.

“Last I knew, yes,” Eret says.

“Does he know?”

He wonders if he should elaborate, but Eret doesn’t seem to need him to.

“He does. It, ah, wasn’t exactly broken to him in the softest way. Nobody was actually aware that the news needed to be broken at all, so I believe Puffy brought it up somewhere along the way here. I’m—not sure of the details.”

He doesn’t know whether that means Eret actually doesn’t know the details,

(doesn’t know how his son reacted to the return of his father, whether there was any happiness at all or just shock, perhaps betrayal, perhaps anger, perhaps perhaps perhaps he could have avoided this if he’d taken a little more responsibility from the start but now here he is and here they are)

or whether he’s sparing him them. He doesn’t know which he would prefer. If it matters.

“Alright,” he says, even if it’s the furthest thing from it. “I’ll be up there, then. Don’t wait for me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he’s turning on his heel and following after Tommy, even though it would have been wiser to ask for the specific room. He’s not feeling very wise at the moment. If he ever was wise. He doesn’t think he can say that he’s ever had a claim to wisdom. He thought that he was wise when he was running his own country, and look where that got him. Him, and everyone else.

He climbs up the stairs. Keeps his back straight. His head held high.

(it is habit to draw on the general’s role for strength since that was when he was strongest but is that not what caused so many of the problems in the first place? the general leads, wins, considers people in terms of numbers rather than names, and personal relationships fall to the wayside)

It’s the same room that he found Tommy and Tubbo talking in yesterday. The same room where he lingered outside the door rather than moving on, absorbing words that were not meant for his ears, old hurts that have their roots in him and his actions, that he is not sure he will ever be able to heal, to make up for. For a moment, he allows himself to do the same thing, stands just outside and listens to their voices. They’re easier to hear; the door hangs open rather than closed, likely from Tommy’s entry. Their voices overlap, Tommy talking over Tubbo and then vice versa as they both try to explain what’s happened in their day of separation, and Fundy—

Fundy is there, too, chiming in every now and again. He sounds—Wilbur isn’t sure how he sounds. Pleased to be talking to the other two, perhaps. Beyond that, he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

(it’s a question you must ask yourself, whether you know your son at all, because you remember all too clearly cradling him in your arms and holding him close and vowing to protect him to see him safe no matter the cost but he grew older as children do and the cost was too steep too steep to pay for you looked at him and saw a child still for though he grew up too quickly he did grow up and your heart was too weak to accept it so is there any wonder that he came to resent you came to chafe under the watch of a man who could not see him for who he was and who he tried so hard to be)

(is there any wonder that he would go to such lengths to escape your shadow)

He steps forward. That’s all it takes, to be standing in the doorway. And there he stays, arrested by the sight in front of him.

The room is intended to be a guest bedroom, clearly. There is a large, plush bed, several items of furniture: a dresser, a nightstand, a desk and several chairs, bookshelves along one wall. But the desk goes unused; books and papers are scattered across the floor, apparently without order or reason to the arrangement. Tommy has situated himself on the bed, still dripping with rainwater, bouncing up and down and wildly gesticulating as he talks—he’s saying something about the god, now, and how it’s such a shame that he didn’t get to talk to it, because he would’ve gotten them to help in no time at all—and Tubbo is talking at the same time, whenever he can get words in, shoving old papers in Tommy’s face and explaining what they mean, as if Tommy will understand any of it. Fundy brought these materials with him, evidently, brought all the dreamon-hunting things that remained in his possession according to the rapid-fire words out of Tubbo’s mouth, and Fundy is there. He’s there. Sitting on the floor, three books open in front of him, watching Tommy and Tubbo with rapt attention, jumping in whenever Tubbo needs help explaining something, and asking Tommy questions in the same breath.

He stands there. Watching. They all seem so comfortable with each other. It feels wrong to disturb that.

But—

“—and his hair’s gone all weird now,” Tommy is saying, and he winces. “I’ll bet he’s not telling us everything that happened. Hair doesn’t just do that. It looks so fucking weird, but not like, bad weird, you know? I guess that’s what you get for shouting at god, am I right, fellas? Though if I were to shout at god, god simply would not be able to do anything to me, as I am too cool and powerful.”

“That—why does that sound like something he would do? Yelling at a god. Of course he did, that—” Fundy mutters, and Wilbur has no hope of interpreting his tone. “But he’s, like—he’s okay? And he’s here?”

“Yeah, he’s—” And Tommy happens to glance at the door. They lock eyes. “Um. Here. Hi, Wilbur.”

Tubbo turns to look. Fundy does as well, raising his head sharply and visibly flinching in the same motion, and Wilbur thinks that his heart flinches, too. If hearts can flinch. They can certainly stutter. Perhaps that’s close enough.

“Hello,” he says. Inadequate. Completely inadequate.

“Oh, you’re right,” Tubbo says after a second. “It does kind of look weird, but not bad weird. Just sort of interesting. Neat. Hi, Wilbur, did you have a good time yelling at god?”

Tubbo has a unique kind of frankness. It’s refreshing, and he appreciates the effort to alleviate the tension. If that’s even what he’s doing.

“I don’t know if good is the word I’d use,” he says. “It happened. It was a thing. Have you had a good time doing magic? If that’s the term?”

As he speaks, Fundy rises to his feet. Slow, cautious.

“Yeah, that’s the word,” Tubbo says. “It’s been going really well, actually. I wasn’t sure if I’d remember how to do any of this stuff, but Fundy brought all of the books with him when Puffy brought him over, so that’s been really helpful. There’s still nothing in here about killing the thing, but we’ve kept looking. There’s probably plenty of other useful stuff. Actually, that reminds me.” He turns back to Tommy. “I wanted to show you how we protected the whole castle. You probably saw some of the enchantments on your way in, but it’s really cool, come on.” He tugs on Tommy’s hand, and Tommy allows himself to be led, and before Wilbur can react, they’re brushing past him on their way out of the room. “See you in a bit, Wilbur!”

He glances after them, and then back into the room. The room where Fundy now stands, alone.

Tubbo definitely knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Hi, Fundy,” he says.

“Hey, Wil,” Fundy answers.

He looks older than Wilbur remembers, even through Ghostbur’s relatively new perception. But then, Ghostbur would not have noticed the new lines carved into his face, the bags beneath his eyes, his fidgeting, closed-off demeanor. He’s shifted into a more human form for the moment, though fox ears stick out from underneath his hat; that, at least, has not changed. He is capable of appearing fully human, but he scarcely ever does. Wilbur always thought that it was a way of staying connected to a mother that he barely got to know.

But perhaps that’s not it at all. Perhaps he shouldn’t presume anything.

“So,” Fundy says, after a long stretch of silence. “You’re, um. You’re back.”

“I’m back,” he agrees.

(the awkwardness is like a rock settled in his throat and it shouldn’t be this way shouldn’t be this way at all but they’re in too deep and it’s all gone too far and some of the last words he spoke to his son were to disown him and he still doesn’t know whether he truly meant it or not in that moment but that hardly matters when the words were said regardless of the intent)

“Right,” Fundy says. “Right. And you’ve been back for a while. Tubbo said it’d been a couple of weeks.”

Is that right? He thinks back, calculating, and decides it must be.

“I suppose it has been,” he says, and that is his cue to follow up with an apology, but the words get caught in a vice, squeezed and choked to nothingness, and silence falls between them again. Fundy shifts his weight back and forth between his feet, his eyes darting to and fro, never landing on his face for very long.

“Okay,” he says at length. “I guess—I don’t really know what else I expected.”

It’s bitter and sarcastic and resigned all at once. He winces.

“Fundy—”

“I mean, I guess I knew,” Fundy continues. “I knew that I wouldn’t—that you wouldn’t come for me if you ever came back. So it’s—I mean, it’s fine, Wil. I don’t even need you, anyway. I’ve been doing really well on my own. So it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not—”

“But it is, though, isn’t it? You could’ve—you could’ve come and found me, right? I wasn’t that far.” His voice has lowered in volume, as if he’s talking to himself more than he is to him. “I wasn’t that far, so you could’ve—but you didn’t, and that’s kind of par the course, isn’t it? For you to come back to—back to life, and not even send me a message. But I guess nobody else did, either. It’s fine.”

The vice releases, torn apart by his mounting desperation.

(too little, too late)

“I’m sorry, Fundy,” he says. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Okay then, why didn’t you?” Fundy replies, and his tone rises in pitch again, becoming high, almost frantic.

There are so many ways he could reply. He could say that it slipped his mind. That would be damaging, hurtful, would ruin any hope of fixing their relationship, but it would be at least partially the truth; he thought about it, but infrequently, and he always dismissed it as a task to be tackled later. He could say that he wanted to take it slow. That would be slightly more of a lie, though not a complete falsehood; interacting with the other people of the server, especially in the first few days, has come far less easily to him than it once did. It probably says something that he includes his own son in that assessment.

He could say that he’s a coward. That, perhaps, would be the most truthful of all.

(for in many things you are not the coward that you think you are but in this in this it is true is apt because you know you hurt him sorely did the one thing that a parent should never do to a child caused him so much pain and you knew it and you know it and you could not face him could not bring yourself to own up to it and that is cowardice to not face this fault of yours as you have faced the others that is cowardice and cowardice can be overcome and it is not the end is not a death blow but call it what it is for it is cowardice and if you are to make up for it you must face the flaw in yourself without the gilded lies)

“I wanted you to come back,” Fundy says, and he realizes he’s taken far too long to respond, and Fundy’s expression has fallen. “I wanted you back so damn badly, even if I was never really sure why. I guess maybe I hoped that if you came back you’d start to care about me again.”

“I do care about you,” he manages, his voice a weak, pathetic thing. “I do care, Fundy.”

(and he wants to say my little champion my little champion if you believe nothing else then believe this believe that I love you and I always have even in the midst of all my darkness even as I fell I could not despise you no matter what I said I have loved you always even though I failed you I love you please do not doubt)

(he doesn’t say it)

“I want to believe you,” Fundy says. “But see, the thing is, if I do, it’ll turn out that you’re lying to me. Either that, or you’ll change. You—that’s what you do. And I need you—I need you to make up your mind, whether you care about me or not, because I can’t keep doing this. And I’m so—I’m pissed, Wilbur, really, I am. You blew up my home.”

There is no excuse that will provide an escape from this.

“I did.”

(an ending a denouement a grand finale and it was your symphony forever unfinished but you forgot that others made up the orchestra and you forget it still though you are reminded sometimes in the shadows in Tommy’s eyes and the chips in Tubbo’s horns and now in the tremor in your son’s voice as he tells you what you took from him what you stole when you made an ending of it all and it was yours but it was not yours alone)

Fundy jerks back, as if he hadn’t expected him to say it so starkly.

“Just like that, huh?” he says.

“I—”

“You know what?” Fundy says, overriding him. “I don’t really want to hear it right now. I’m so done with this. I’ll see you later. I guess.”

He steps forward, and

(an image: Fundy tottering toward him on chubby, unsteady legs, toddler’s face in a wide open, gap-toothed smile, Fundy running toward him to show him his new redstone invention, child’s face beaming in pride, Fundy sprinting toward him and trailing a flag behind him, grinning and victorious, and they have done it, they have done it, the nation is theirs and all will be well, and his son will be safe, and he wraps Fundy up in his arms and hugs him, holds him safe and close, his child, his beloved child)

he is frozen as Fundy steps past him and out of the doors. And he is frozen as he listens to his footsteps retreat, at a walking pace at first and then quicker and quicker as they fade, as Fundy runs from him. He stares into an empty room, and he is

(cold)

frozen.

“So, I’m guessing that didn’t go so well.”

It’s what he needs. An out, a way to cover over the churning mess of emotions in his chest, a road past all of that and right into exasperation, irritation.

“Shut the fuck up, Schlatt,” he says, pulling together all the shreds of composure that remain to him. “Where have you been?”

“Around,” Schlatt says, and drifts into view. He has the ability to go straight through him, but Wilbur notes that he doesn’t, that he dodges around him in the space left open in the doorway to come in front of him, surveying the papers in the room apathetically. “I keep going to do stuff and forgetting that I fucking can’t. Came here after whatever the fuck that was last night. You wanna give me an explanation there? I’m not pining away so much that I’m hallucinating your face, gorgeous as it is.” He pauses. “Your hair looks fucking stupid, by the way. It’s also wet, in case you didn’t know that.”

He feels some of the tension drain from him. This, at least, is familiar ground. Barbed words and sarcastic compliments, their old song and dance. He can exist in this space for a few minutes. Wrestle his emotions back under control.

“Thanks,” he says dryly. “If you really want to know, I spoke to a god and got shown some of the secrets of the universe, so that’s probably what that was.”

Schlatt pauses. “Is that all,” he says, in a half-laughing, half-incredulous tone that indicates he has no idea what to do with that.

He tilts his head, and wonders what else he should tell him. Because he saw him, there, of that he is sure, saw him while he was caught between the starlight and the void, as the god wound him back up and returned him to his body. He saw Schlatt, and more than that, he saw

(or felt, perhaps, because he was without eyes, and felt is not the right word either but it is closer, closer)

the connection between them, binding them together like a cat’s cradle, the threads of their existence tangled up in each other, and he is certain, now, of why Schlatt is here as well, why Schlatt is here but not solid. Because the god reached and the god grabbed and the god pulled, and the god pulled more than they meant to but less than they ought to have done, and this is the result: one man resurrected and the second tugged along, unintentionally and thus set adrift, tied to the first but with no form of his own.

Schlatt is mixed up in this through no fault of his own,

(for once)

when Wilbur knows that he, like him, would rather have remained in the void. So he sighs, and reaches along the tether, reaches along the rope that connects them soul to soul, and it is easy to find now, easy to touch upon with intention now that he knows what it is, why it is there.

(now that the universe hums in the back of his mind, now that he can hear the stars’ song, just barely beyond his conscious perception)

Schlatt lets out a surprised grunt as his feet hit the floor, and he staggers, almost losing his balance. Right away, Wilbur can feel the drain on his own energy, his lifeforce, perhaps, and now he knows the reason for that, too—Schlatt has none of his own, so to be made present and real, he must share his, must send it down the line, and a few days ago, he would have struggled to figure out how to do that. But now, it feels like the simplest thing in the world. For a time, at least.

“I’m willing to chat about it for a bit,” he says, and Schlatt stares at him, flexing his fingers.

“Holy shit,” he says. “So can you just—do this now?”

He bares his teeth. Schlatt will take it for a challenge.

“Let me tell you about it,” he says, and Schlatt arches a brow. But he stays, standing amongst the papers and the mess.

This is something familiar. This is a half hour of conversation that is charged in an entirely different way. This is someone with whom he shares a bitter past, and likely a bitter future, but he doesn’t have to watch himself, doesn’t have to wonder what wounds he’s caused him, doesn’t have to confront anything within himself.

He’s self-aware enough to realize that he’s running away, a bit, with this. Seeking a distraction. Trying to banish the look on Fundy’s face from his mind. But the others will survive without him for a few more minutes, and even besides, Schlatt offers him something that he wants, that he needs. Schlatt will listen to him, and he will judge him, but he will not pity him.

So Wilbur tells Schlatt about meeting a god.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #eret #fundy #tubbo #jschlatt #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #sorry for the two-week wait here's 9k works of dialogue *jazz hands*

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athingthatwantsvirginia · 5 years ago

Text

Everything Joan Didion Promised

PART TWENTY-TWO OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: a lil angsty, plentiful pop culture references, mentions of divorce/family issues

Word Count: 5.1K

Summary: When Jess returns to Stars Hollow to retrieve his car, Ella tries to keep him from getting hypothermia. Later, they cross paths at the annual firelight festival.

Refilling the shakers, Ella nodded at Sheriff Cooper as he waltzed into the diner. The local law enforcement came in at all hours of the day for coffee and free donuts, though it wasn’t like they had boatloads to do in a town as sleepy as Stars Hollow. She didn’t bother to eavesdrop on the conversation until she was behind the counter again, putting the salt and pepper back where it belonged. Coop was sliding a slip of paper across to Luke, who stood by the register. Glancing over, she recognized the handwriting immediately. After all, it was all over her books.

“Is that Jess’s registration?” she asked, leaning in near Luke.

Luke sighed, casting a wary glance in her direction. “Yes.”

“They found his car? Jeez, it took them long enough,” she said off-handedly, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Hey! It only took us a day, young lady,” Coop chimed in, face sullen below the bill of his leather hat. “Not too hard with a hunk of junk like that.”

Brows furrowed, Ella turned back to Luke and tilted her head at him in askance.

Groaning and rolling his eyes, Luke looked over at her again. “It was in my dad’s old garage. I went to check on it this morning and the lock was busted off.”

“You stole his car?” Ella crossed her arms over her chest, taking a step back and straightening up. When Luke didn’t respond, Ella scoffed and shook her head to herself.

“Look, Ella, if he didn’t have a car, maybe he wouldn’t keep going to Walmart,” Luke explained, his voice a grumble under his breath.

“Hm,” Ella hummed, nodding doubtfully.

He was about to continue when strong yellow lights began flashing through the window to the right. A sheriff’s car preceded a tow truck with Jess’s rusty Ambassador hooked onto the back. Coop said the car had broken down on the Expressway a couple hours earlier, and Jess had immediately been picked up. Luke instructed Ella to hold down the fort while he went out to deal with the situation, the precession parking right out in front of the diner.

And as she began closing up, cashing out the final customers and wiping down the counters, she couldn’t keep her distracted gaze off of the scene through the window. She couldn’t hear what Jess and Luke were shouting at each other, but she could gather it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. A knot of nerves sat in her stomach, watching from the corner of her eye. Luke eventually stomped back into the diner, and Ella saw Jess collapse into the back seat of his rust bucket across the street. She tried to ask Luke what had happened, but he shut her down instantly. The rest of the shift was spent in tense, anxious silence.

. . .

A bright half moon shone in the late February sky as Ella left the dark diner and locked up. She could see her breath in whitish clouds as she stalled in her path at the bottom of the concrete steps. Flexing her hands in the pockets of her peacoat, she bit the inside of her cheek and furrowed her brows. Either she could leave Jess where he was, curled up in the backseat of his death trap on wheels, and turn down the street to the little blue house, or go up and to him and face the music. Turning on the heel of her boot, she almost ignored him. Almost. Though she spoke to him every now and again over the phone, seeing him in person was a whole different matter. Just the sight of him made her heart twist in her chest. But then a huge gust of wind came, blowing her hair back and making frosty roses form on her freckled cheeks. Emitting an audible growl in the empty street, she shook her head to herself and marched to the car which held so many memories.

She knocked twice, hard, on the back window with frozen knuckles.

Jess’s figure shifted only slightly in the seat. “Go away,” he groaned.

Ella rolled her eyes. “It’s me, jackass!”

Huffing out a frustrated breath, Jess finally sat up and cranked down his window. “What?”

“I almost forgot how much more charming you are in-person,” she quipped.

“G’night,” Jess shot back ruefully, making to roll his window back up.

Ella put her hand on the glass to stop him, sighing out another cloud of condensation. “Look, Luke is back with Nicole again-”

Jess scoffed.

“Yeah, I don’t know, either,” she muttered. “But he’s spending the night at their place in Litchfield, so I doubt you’ll be able to get up to the apartment without breaking in, and that’ll likely cause more problems than it solves-”

“Like I need Luke’s help,” he interjected petulantly.

“Just let me finish,” she snapped. “It’s gonna drop to like eight degrees out here, and neither of us wants you getting hypothermia, so just come stay with me for the night.”

Brows furrowing, Jess couldn’t hide the utter surprise which appeared on his face. The ice between them was slowly melting, sure, but he never figured she would be forgiving enough to offer something like that. “Very funny, Stevens. I’m tired, alright?”

“Jesus, Jess, I’m not joking!”

“What about your dad?” Jess asked, his voice flat, though his eyes were calculating.

She only shrugged. “Well, from what I remember, you have a talent for sneaking around my house. Your skills might be a little rusty, but I’m not gonna sweat it.”

Slowly, very slowly, Jess nodded and got out of the backseat, sheepish. His joints cracked as he straightened up again, stiff from two hours lying motionless in the cold. Appraising him, Ella couldn’t help but grimace. He had dark circles under his eyes, skin paler than usual. And the black beanie he wore certainly didn’t suit him.

“The prodigal son, indeed,” she said, eyebrows raised.

His mouth was set in a thin line, unamused. “Are we going, or not?”

. . .

Humming. Jess had almost forgotten about the humming. Most of the time, Ella didn’t even realize she was doing it. At the diner, over homework. Anytime she wasn’t acutely focused on something, her mind wandered back to whatever music was striking her fancy at the moment. Standing awkwardly, with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, Jess had yet to even unzip the leather jacket he was wearing or shed any layers. He’d never felt so uncomfortable in her room before, not even the first time he’d come, before they were dating, when he’d discovered how good she was at cards. He watched her rifling through the drawers of her old dresser, humming some Elliot Smith song he couldn’t quite place the title of.

She turned back to him with clothes in her hands, tossing them onto the mattress by which Jess stood before she started making for the door. “You get to wear the famous KISS t-shirt tonight, my friend.”

“C’mon, Elle-” he began, his voice a sigh.

“You should be honored, Jess. Besides, it’s the biggest t-shirt I have. And those sweatpants were Noah’s. Should fit you. I’m gonna go brush my teeth and change and stuff. Make yourself at home,” she said casually, as though there weren’t so many unspoken words hanging in the air between them.

He shook his head, looking down at his beat-up shoes. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Believe me, I’ll sleep better knowing you’re not freezing to death in your back seat,” she replied.

Turning and shutting the door softly behind her, Ella left before Jess could say anything else. Looking around, things were much the same, save for the walls. He remembered painting the white color on them, right before everything had gone to hell. He remembered waking up in the room so many times, rushing out before Luke would notice he was gone, planting a final kiss on her sleepy face before he went. He’d always woken up before her. Nervous that she may come back before he was finished, Jess stripped off his dirty clothes as quickly as he could, leaving them in a small pile near the window through which he had just climbed. He pulled on the sweatpants and hesitated a moment before tugging the shirt over his head. He’d seen her wearing it in the early light of the morning, or late at night when they sat up together, him reading and her drawing.

The corkboard over her desk was covered in new sketches, and he saw some in charcoal. He turned away, eyes meeting the purple mural behind the mattress. The sight of it made him smile. She was even more talented than when he had left, if it was possible. A soft creak sounded in the room, and he turned expecting to find Ella. Instead, a large, black cat with one eye missing and a curmudgeonly expression on its face came in, hopping up onto the bare surface of the desk and curling up into a ball. Quirking a brow, Jess stared at the cat, who Ella had told him was named Fleetwood. Shocking.

Ella snorted a laugh when she came back in, now dressed in a flannel shirt and some leggings, makeup washed off and hair loose down her back. “Hm. You’ve finally met the ghost which haunts the Stevens house. He got pissed because I opened the dryer.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, he’s great.”

“Sounds like it.”

Blowing out a long breath, she switched off her overhead light and approached the bed. The clock read almost midnight, and her eyes were achy with fatigue. Collapsing onto the mattress and burrowing under her blankets, she went to turn out the bedside lamp but hesitated when she saw Jess still standing rigidly at the end of the bed, debating whether to sleep on her old carpet.

“Jess, you can lay down if you want. Not like we haven’t slept in the same bed before,” she said, voice calm though her heart was beating against her ribs. “I mean, if you wanna sleep in the same bed...Woah, that was presumptuous of me. I’m sorry, I-”

Jess cut her off with a chuckle. “It’s fine, Stevens. I just...wanted to make sure.”

Nodding, she shut the lamp off and felt the mattress dip next to her as Jess got under the covers and laid on his side, facing the wall. She didn’t know how long they spent, backs to each other, in stale silence. It was strange, how similar it felt to so many other nights together. But so utterly different, too. His hair was longer, with less gel than ever. She wondered how else California had changed him, in ways she couldn’t see. Taking in a long breath, Ella squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before turning over to face his back and hoping she didn’t regret speaking.

“Jess?”

“Yeah?”

“How’d you know about your car? I mean...I didn’t even know about that. And Luke rants to me pretty much every day.”

There was another long silence before Jess heaved a huge sigh. Ella could see the outline of his shoulders move beneath the white fabric of the worn shirt in the dim light. As he flipped over on his side, they looked each other in the eyes for the first time in what felt like years.

“My mom told me about it.”

“Your mom?” Ella’s brow crinkled.

Jess breathed another sigh. “Yeah, I’ve been keepin’ in touch with her since I got back to New York. She came to see Luke at the diner this morning. Weren’t you there?”

“I don’t live there. I was in class.”

He scoffed. “Geek.”

“Whatever, jackass. You and your back pocket books,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So...you and your mom are…?”

“Well, we’re not gonna be doing any mother-son talent shows together any time soon, but at least she told me where my property was.”

Nodding, she hummed quietly in acknowledgement. “I really didn’t know he had the car, Jess. I would’ve said something.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

Then, after a moment: “I don’t know. She and I...at least I don’t have to live with her and her endless string of suitors. She’s got a new one, y’know.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah, I don’t even remember what his name is. She might’ve told me, but, at this point, it’s a waste of time thinking they’ll stick around longer than a week,” Jess said. He chewed on his bottom lip.

“What about your dad?” she asked quietly, noticing how his gaze darted away from hers at the question. There was still some distance between them, but she could almost feel his breath on her face.

Jess took a moment before answering. “Well, he’s still out there in California and I’m here. That’s that.”

“Okay,” she said shortly, nodding again in understanding. Her eyes searched his face for anything more, but his expression was unreadable. “Did you like it out there, at least? Was it everything Joan Didion promised?”

He shifted slightly, hand going under the pillow on which his head rested, getting more comfortable. A hint of a smirk touched his lips. “Sort of. But, I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’d hate it there,” he told her, a smug expression growing.

She chuckled breathily. “Why?”

“It’s hot as hell, first off. There’s sand everywhere. And I know how you feel about oceans,” he said, shooting a pointed glance her way. “And it’s just full of these hippies, babbling about astrology and fate and all that bullshit. I don’t think you’d be able to stomach it for a day.”

“Oh, and you were able to weather it so much better?” she teased.

He shrugged. “Well, I worked at the bookstore on the boardwalk for a few months. Only a few crazies to deal with every shift.”

“Hm. I could see it. You sulking behind the counter, reading, while some flower child begs you for some help.”

“Hey, I did a great job,” he argued.

“Yeah, using those famous Jess Mariano customer service skills,” she said doubtfully, then stifled a yawn against the back of her hand.

“Tired?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Not really,” she lied. “I just had an eight o’clock this morning. Should be against the law.”

“Ah, yes. The joys of higher education,” Jess said with a quiet laugh, watching as she struggled to keep her eyes open.

She snickered, her speech growing more raspy with fatigue by the word. “It’s okay. Kind of interesting. Pretty boring here without Rory, though.”

“She’s at Yale, right?”

Ella nodded. “Living her dreams. Winning everyone over with those baby blues...Sorry. I sound fucking pathetic.��

Biting down on his lip again, Jess looked at her for a long moment. He didn’t realize how much he had missed her until he got a glimpse of her. He got her voice every once in a while, but not her face. Not her mind.

A blush spread over her cheeks at his gaze, and she suddenly regretted her words. She wanted to roll her eyes at herself. It was so childish to be jealous of Rory, but sometimes she couldn’t help it. And when Jess was around, she always found herself forgetting to keep it all locked up, letting things slip out. It certainly didn’t help that she was totally exhausted.

“Eleanor,” Jess said earnestly. “You’re not pathetic, alright? You’re a badass artist. Lily Briscoe. And, for the record, you’ve got Bette Davis eyes.”

“Bette Davis’s eyes were blue, Jess,” she said doubtfully.

“I don’t mean the color. Just the look,” he said, shrugging at her correction.

Ella snorted a suspicious laugh. “How the hell do you know that song anyway?”

“Not important. And you’re not gonna distract me. Don’t doubt yourself, Stevens,” Jess said, and for a minute Ella found herself enclosed in a memory. In a New York port authority, preparing to board a bus, Jess with a new drawing of the Hudson in his pocket. “Own your narrative.”

She swallowed down the pleasant swell of her heart. “Well, if I’m owning mine, you’ve gotta own yours. Have you started that book yet, Kerouac?”

He gave a thin, mocking smile. “The travelling kinda got in the way.”

“Well, I’m sure it gave you lots of material,” she murmured, eyes finally fluttering shut.

It only took a few minutes for her breathing to even out, slow and steady. Jess turned over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, the water spot Ella always said was shaped like a Zeppelin. Raking a hand through his hair anxiously, he shut his eyes and tried to fall asleep. But the lavender smell was too familiar, almost too comforting, as was the woman next to him.

. . .

Standing by the register, Ella tried to bite back a smirk as Luke argued with his sister. Liz was rounding up ingredients from down in the diner to bring upstairs. Her new boyfriend, TJ, he was called, was up in the apartment attempting some sort of lunch. Ella would have called the cops on him trying to get up in the apartment had Liz not been there to identify him. She had heard stories about Liz over the years, from both Luke and Jess. And though she had gleaned enough information to assume the woman was bizarre, she hadn’t expected the new age, peace-loving, crystal earring-making vibe she had. Especially considering some of the things Ella knew she had done to Jess, not the least of which was shipping him off because her boyfriend got into a fist fight with him. And TJ? Ella could only imagine the angry shade of red Luke’s face would turn when TJ asked him to guess what his initials stood for.

Checking her watch, she sighed softly when she saw it was only two in the afternoon. There was a lull after the lunch rush, and she’d cleaned up as well as she could for the time being. So, she would be left stagnant behind the counter while Stars Hollow lives rushed around her. And, though Caesar was in the back, he rarely came out to speak with her. He was busy with prep, and the new headphones he’d just gotten, to listen to his music on full volume during slow times.

A scowling Luke turned back to Ella as Liz marched up the stairs, arms full of food, and broke her out of her pitiful reverie. Her eyes widened slightly at his furious look.

“You let him up there?” Luke demanded.

“She’s your sister! What was I supposed to do? Get Coop out here to arrest her fiancé?” she asked, gesturing with her hands in exasperation.

“I don’t know! Just...you could’ve waited until I got back!”

Ella shook her head. “How was I supposed to know when you’d be back? You didn’t say anything! Y’know, if you’d just get a cell phone for these kinds of things like I’ve been telling you-”

“You don’t have a cellphone!”

“I don’t own a diner.”

Luke put his hand up and let out a weary sigh. “Enough. Fine. Just...is there any chance you could stage a horrible accident in the next two minutes? We’d have to take a long drive to the hospital.”

“I don’t think that would solve the core problem, boss,” she said.

Nodding, Luke went to ascend the stairs to a certain doom. “You’re right, kid. You’re right,” he admitted gruffly. “You okay down here for a while? Sure you don’t need any help?”

She smirked. “Think I can manage for the time being.”

He shot her a final glance, narrowing his eyes. “This would all be so much easier if you were a bad employee.”

“Can’t always get what you want,” she quipped, then turned as a customer approached. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t take the earrings she tried to bribe me with.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better in the slightest.”

Scoffing, she shook her head again as Luke disappeared behind the curtain. A smile formed on her face as she rang up the tourist family, and she even shot them a wave as they made their way out the door. Her breath caught in her throat, however, when she saw Jess’s head nearing the diner entrance through the front window. Immediately, she clutched at her necklace and bit the inside of her cheek. She’d awoken in the morning to find Jess gone, borrowed clothes folded and left on her desk. She’d taken pity on him. Swept up in the moment, in seeing him again, in seeing him shivering in the backseat of his car. But his side of the bed empty, without a word, brought a bad taste to her mouth. It was becoming familiar. She didn’t want it to become familiar. She didn’t want to admit how much his leaving had affected her, and maybe she didn’t truly feel it until she saw his face again. For just a moment, it felt easy and right. Like it had. Like home. But the morning was cruel and brought reality. She’d seen him pushing his car through town in the direction of Gypsy’s while she was on her way to work. His car would be fixed and he would be gone again. And she would be left behind.

Hoping to look busy, she took her notepad out of her apron, doodling mindlessly. The bell over the door jingled, and her heart sped up. Chewing on the eraser of her pencil, she made a pointed effort not to notice him right away.

Jess came up in front of her and tapped slightly on the counter. “Hey, Stevens.”

“Hi,” she replied, eyebrows raised. “You get your car to Gypsy’s? I saw the little parade this morning.”

Jess nodded and sighed softly. “Yeah. Not gonna be fixed until tonight.”

“Tragic,” she quipped flatly. “Are you gonna to go to the firelight festival to pass time, Mr. Model Citizen?”

“Is that what’s going on out there?” he asked with a frown, groaning dramatically.

“Same time every year, Mariano.”

“Just another Hallmark holiday,” he said.

Ella turned away, masking the twist of memory in her heart, to make a fresh pot of coffee. “Do you need something?”

Clearing his throat, Jess looked away from her and over to the checkered curtain. “Is Luke upstairs? I left a notebook I need up there.”

“A notebook?” she asked quizzically.

Jess ran a hand over his mouth. “Just got some things in it that I need.”

“Specific.”

“Aren’t I?”

She scoffed, then faced him again. “Well, Luke’s up there. Along with your mom and Prince Charming.”

“Fuck. You met him?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And?” he asked expectantly.

She snorted a laugh. “I really think you have to see it to believe it.”

Blowing out a long, tired breath, Jess walked towards the stairs. He stopped short when he made it to the curtain, tilting his head back to her with a questioning look. Messy hair, hands on her hips, pencil behind her ear. A vision from his past, making his stomach fill with butterflies every time he saw her. But her hazel gaze didn’t quite meet his own, off somewhere he couldn’t reach. Biting down on his lip hard, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Are you okay, Eleanor?”

Nodding, she attempted a weak smile his way. “Always, Jess. Are you okay?”

“Yeah...yeah. I’m okay. Thank you...for last night.”

“You’re welcome.”

And then she heard his footfalls trudging up the creaky wooden stairs. Fiddling with her necklace, she swallowed down her thoughts and plastered on another grin as Lane bounced in, announcing she’d found the perfect house to rent with her band.

. . .

Other than old books and lavender, bonfire was one of Ella’s favorite smells. She had her ratty black peacoat draped around her small frame. Rory and Lane had convinced her to go to the festival, both of them with the night free. And she figured maybe some time away from her bedroom and the diner would clear her mind. Spaces which were so crowded with her memories. She would just have to wait until Jess was gone, and she would be connected with him only through the phone line again. She wouldn’t have to feel the way her heartbeat picked up every time she got near him, touched him. And the worst part was, the feeling wasn’t bad. She remembered it. She missed it. How relaxed he made her feel.

But, as soon as she’d spotted her father and Fiona walking hand-in-hand through the square, she’d retreated to the bench near the bookstore to draw. Rory and Lane tried to get her to join them for candied apples and popcorn, but she wasn’t hungry. And, besides, there were plans to meet up at the Gilmore house later for some movies anyway. She just needed a moment of quiet, to herself. Without being pulled in so many directions. Though her hands were shaking from the cold, she managed a sketch of Jess’s car, two ghosts in the front seat, all tires flat.

She saw his jacket before she saw his face, spotting the familiar black leather out of the corner of her eye as he sat down next to her. Neither of them said a word for a moment, the continuous buzz of town activity and the crackling of the bonfire filling their ears.

“I like it,” Jess said, looking over her shoulder at the drawing.

Ella blew a breath out her nose and stopped shading. Leaning back against the bench, she shot him a momentary glance before shifting her eyes out to town square. “You always say that.”

“And it’s always true.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she scoffed, shaking her head a little.

“I’m serious. Who wouldn’t love a drawing of their car which could inspire nightmares?” he asked, a smirk on his face.

Pursing her lips, Ella tore the page out of her sketchbook. She signed and dated it in the bottom corner and handed it over to him. “It’ll bring you more joy than it brings me, then.”

Taking the drawing, his teasing expression faded as he noticed the wistful quality to her eyes. The one he had seen earlier. “Thanks,” he muttered quietly.

“Though you weren’t coming to this?” she said, gesturing to the roaring fire in the middle of town.

“Me neither. Gypsy said she still needs about a half hour.” He glanced down at his watch for what felt like the millionth time in a day, then shoved his hands in his pockets.

“So, you’re actually gonna say goodbye this time?” she asked, finally looking over at him with earnest, eyebrows raised.

His gaze dropped to his shoes and he struggled for a moment to find words. But her eyes, looking at him in the light of the fire. They made him feel ways he couldn’t even articulate. “Look, Elle, I’m sorry. Luke freaked out on me when I told him about graduation-”

“Oh, yeah, and speaking of Luke,” she interrupted. “Did you get into a fight with him or something earlier? You stormed out and then he left like twenty minutes later. He was totally wasted. We had to close early for the festival and he still wasn’t back.”

Jess ran a hand over his mouth. “He was trying to make me say something to Liz about TJ. Get her to come to her senses. I tried to tell him it was useless, but he just wouldn’t hear me.”

She hummed in acknowledgement. “And you met TJ?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You think he’ll turn out like the others?” she asked, but there was less fire in her tone. There were so many words on the tip of her tongue, but she was tired. And her heart dropped into her stomach when she even thought of saying them.

Jess chuckled bitterly. “I know he will. He’ll take all her money, or drink all her booze, or...worse. And then it’ll be mine and Luke’s job to fix it. But, hey, where would we be without family?”

Ella smirked humorlessly at the thick sarcasm which laced his tone. “Yeah. Where?” Then, after a moment: “I think my dad and Fiona are gonna get a divorce.”

“Really?” he asked, but didn’t look surprised.

Though it wasn’t as if she felt shocked, either. “The whole new baby thing isn’t working out. I don’t know. I don’t think my dad cares either way, but that only makes her more angry. They scream and throw things at each other. The way he and my mom used to fight. And then Fiona apologizes and she tries to make him happy again. But it never makes any difference. He hasn’t been happy in years. Maybe never. But it’s not her fault. And I feel bad for her. But, right now, it just is.”

Jess nodded, listening. He noticed how she ran the key across the chain of her necklace, and a pang of nostalgia hit him.

“At least Adam likes high school. He’s already making waves in the science club, from what he tells me. Figures. And at least he gets along with my dad and Fiona way better than I ever have,” she said, shrugging her shoulders dismissively.

“At least,” Jess murmured sadly.

Ella managed a thin smile. “Makes sense. He doesn’t look exactly like her.”

Before Jess knew what he was doing, he took her free hand from where it clutched the metal of the bench and gave it a squeeze. For a moment, her cold hand was rigid and unmoving in his grasp. But, clearing her throat and looking down in surprise between them, she finally reciprocated. Gave his hand a squeeze back. Then, she flashed him another tiny smile, and disentangled her fingers. The moment had gone, and Ella hoped the chilly air would be able to cool the flush which rose on her cheeks at his touch. An awkward tension passed between the two of them, both at a loss for words. The town troubadour, strumming his old guitar near the entrance to the high school, suddenly caught Jess’s searching eye.

“This whole thing is meaningless and expensive,” he began, looking out over the many blue concession tents and the people with solo cups full of Founder’s Day punch, which tasted as close to gasoline as punch could. “But the music’s not completely terrible.”

Scoffing, Ella shook her head. “Too happy.”

A fond smile crossed over Jess’s face, the most genuine one she’d seen from him in quite a while. “Anyone ever tell you how unpredictable you are?”

“Shut up,” she replied, cracking a smile of her own.

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