#were cheering one another on in our creative endeavors and real life ones | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aion-rsa · 4 years ago

Text

The Best Thanksgiving TV Episodes

https://ift.tt/2IIxzXR

Halloween and Christmas are objectively the two best American holidays. One allows for us all to indulge in our gothic, spooky side, while the other comes along with family and cheer (forced or otherwise). There’s another holiday between them, however, that is at constant risk of being overlooked.

Thanksgiving doesn’t have candy like Halloween or presents like Christmas. What it does have, thankfully, is television. Just like its Halloween counterpart, Thanksgiving comes along in the fall at an important time in the TV schedule. Traditionally, the last week of November is when many network TV shows are looking for a quick boost of creative and commercial energy to get through the Christmas break. And what better way than to do so than with a Thanksgiving episode, where all characters are basically culturally required to get together?

Though Halloween and Christmas specials often get the most attention, there are many fascinating Thanksgiving-themed episodes of popular TV shows. Here are just some of our favorites.

Bob’s Burgers

Season 3 Episode 5 – “An Indecent Thanksgiving Proposal”

Fox’s beloved animated series has staked its claim to Thanksgiving as its holiday of choice, which makes sense given that the Belcher clan takes their food quite seriously. Of the many Bob’s Burgers Thanksgiving specials, season 3’s “An Indecent Thanksgiving Proposal” is likely the best.

This episode finds Bob reluctantly agreeing to “rent out” his family to landlord Calvin Fischoeder (voiced by Kevin Kline) to pose as his family for Thanksgiving dinner while Bob poses as the family chef. While this is a strong enough set up to begin with, the episode excels at escalation and goes to some wild places – even indulging one of the series’ favorite recurring gags of Bob losing his mind and befriending an inanimate object. Of course the inanimate object this time around is none other than a Thanksgiving turkey.

Brooklyn Nine-Nine

Season 5 Episode 7 – “Two Turkeys”

“Two Turkeys” is a prime example of what makes Thanksgiving such a creatively rich holiday for sitcoms and other serialized TV endeavors to exploit. Brooklyn Nine-Nine had already long established that both Jake (Andy Samberg) and Amy’s (Melissa Fumero) respective parents were crazy. All that was left to do was to get them in the same room together.

Brooklyn Nine-Nine’s Funniest Guest Cast Characters

By Juliette Harrisson

Brooklyn Nine-Nine: Dean Winters is a True TV Vulture

By Nick Harley

That’s just what “Two Turkeys” does. The whole family, including Jake’s dad Roger (Bradley Whitford), Amy’s dad Victor (Jimmy Smits), and Amy’s mom Camila (Bertila Dama), decides to have Thanksgiving at Jake’s mom Karen’s (Katey Sagal) house. Quickly, dueling Thanksgiving turkeys are set up, competitive juices start flowing, and a thumb or two is lost. “Two Turkeys” is Brooklyn Nine-Nine’s best Thanksgiving episode but “Mr. Santiago” in which Boyle intends to behead a live turkey certainly gives it a run for its money.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Season 4 Episode 8 – “Pangs”

Most TV Thanksgiving specials ignore the complicated origins of the holiday…and perhaps wisely so. For a long time, most sitcoms and network dramas lacked a real capacity to carefully discuss Thanksgiving myth-making while also addressing Native American genocide.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer, however, had no such misgivings and dives right in. “Pangs” is technically the beginning of a Buffy/Angel two-hour Thanksgiving event. It’s got all the usual Thanksgiving episode trappings: food, friends, and family. It also has an army of Chumash Indian Warriors coming back from the grave to punish Sunnydale for its colonial sins.

Chuck

Season 4 Episode 10 – “Chuck Versus the Leftovers”

This is cheating a bit as “Chuck Versus the Leftovers” technically takes place on the day after Thanksgiving. But Black Friday shopping and turkey leftovers are certainly a part of the Thanksgiving experience.

This episode finds Chuck’s mom Mary (Linda Hamilton) and international arms dealer Alexei Volkoff (Timothy Dalton) coming over to Chuck’s place for a day-after-Thanksgiving leftover feast. Meanwhile Chuck’s friends at Buy More have to contend with the Black Friday shopping crowd. This is the definitive Chuck Thanksgiving episode as it highlights what the show does well. It balances the high-octane drama of Chuck’s spy life with his supposedly tranquil home life. Getting to enjoy Linda Hamilton and Timothy Dalton going head to head is just icing on the Jell-O salad.

The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air

Season 1 Episode 12 – “Talking Turkey”

The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air features a few Thanksgiving episodes over its six season run but its first attempt remains the best. Will’s mom Viola makes one of her rare series appearances here when she joins the Banks’ household for Thanksgiving.

After the parents see how the kids mistreat everyone’s beloved butler Geoffrey, the gang is forced to cook a Thanksgiving meal on their own. Predictably it doesn’t go well. This is a big episode for all involved but for Viola and Aunt Viv in particular. It’s fascinating to watch through a modern lens, given original Aunt Viv actress Janet Hubert’s steadfast lack of involvement in all future Fresh Prince reboots and reunions.

Friday Night Lights

Season 4 Episode 13 – “Thanksgiving”

So many of the best moments in Friday Night Lights happen at the Taylor family dinner table. How then could the show pass up an opportunity for a good-old fashioned Thanksgiving episode?

“Thanksgiving” is an excellent episode that also serves as its respective season’s finale. This hour concludes Coach Taylor’s first year with the East Dillon Lions in truly satisfying fashion. Before that there’s still plenty of time for a heart-to-heart with QB Vince Howard and Buddy Garrity’s attempts at frying a turkey.

Friends

Season 5 Episode 8 – “The One With All the Thanksgivings”

Perhaps no series on television took the responsibility of Thanksgiving episodes more seriously than Friends. Friends has so many Thanksgiving-themed episodes that the entire list could essentially be made up of them. And that makes sense given the show’s premise of friends as a found family in the big city.

For the purposes of this list, however, let’s go with the aptly-named “The One With All the Thanksgivings.” In this fifth season episode, Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, Monica, Joey, and Chandler flashback to all of the Thanksgivings they’ve shared together. Consider this a Canterbury Tales of Thanksgiving … that just happens to feature Monica with a turkey on her head.

Gilmore Girls

Season 3 Episode 9 – “A Deep Fried Korean Thanksgiving”

Stars Hollow, Connecticut on Gilmore Girls just looks like a town itching for a good fall holiday. The New England hamlet is the kind of place that absolutely lights up with some fallen leaves and the warm aroma of turkey in the oven. Thankfully, the show agreed and rolled out a Thanksgiving-centric episode in its third season.

“A Deep Fried Korean Thanksgiving” adopts the tried and true “accepted too many dates to the ball” trope as Lorelai and Rory are pulled among four competing Thanksgiving dinners: Lorelai’s parents, Sookie, Luke, and Lane. It’s a jam-packed (and tofurkey-packed) episode that still somehow finds the time to introduce the beloved Cat Kirk.

How I Met Your Mother

Season 3 Episode 9 – “Slapsgiving”

In many ways, How I Met Your Mother was the natural sitcom successor to Friends. Like its NBC forefather CBS’s comedy followed a group of friends living their best lives in New York City. Another area in which HIMYM picks up the Friends ball and runs with it is with its appropriately respectful treatment of Thanksgiving.

How I Met Your Mother loves itself a good Thanksgiving episode. None of them, however, are better than the season 3 installment “Slapsgiving.” This episode finds the gang gathering at Marshall and Lily’s house for their first Thanksgiving as a married couple. Meanwhile, Barney is living in mortal fear of the third slap Marshall owes him due to losing a “slap bet.” That countdown to The Slap imbues an already excellent episode with a real fun sense of urgency.

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Season 9 Episode 10 – “The Gang Squashes Their Beefs”

Dennis, Dee, Charlie, Mac, and Frank have made a lot of enemies during It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’s very long, very creatively lucrative run. That’s why for the show’s ninth season finale, the gang decided to gather several of the folks they wronged together and get to squashing some beefs. And what better way to do so than with a nice Thanksgiving dinner?

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia Season 15 Confirmed

By Alec Bojalad

45 Best Episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

By Daniella Bondar and 3 others

This installment is a one big setup to a dinner table with the gang’s rogue’s gallery at the end and it is all well worth the wait. Some dry turkey and even dryer conservation is nowhere near enough to make nice with the McPoyles, Hwang, Cricket, Gail the Snail, or Bill Ponderosa, but bless the gang for trying anyway.

Mad Men

Season 1 Episode 13 – “The Wheel”

Not many Thanksgiving episodes can lay claim to being their respective series best hours, but then again AMC’s all-time classic Mad Men isn’t just any other series. Season 1 finale “The Wheel” is certainly among the best Mad Men installments ever and it just so happens to take place during the week of Thanksgiving 1960.

The Thanksgiving timeframe serves as an elegiac backdrop and Mad Men viewers are forced to confront what kind of man Don Draper really is. Don delivers the pitch of his lifetime to Kodak executives as he urges them to imagine their latest photo wheel creation not as a sleek, dispassionate time machine, but a carousel that can bring families back home to all the most important times of their lives. Then when Don returns home for Thanksgiving, he discovers what he probably already knew – those times are gone and no carousel can bring them back.

Master of None

Season 2 Episode 8 – “Thanksgiving”

OK, we know we just said that not many Thanksgiving episodes can lay claim to being their respective series’ best but here is another contender. “Thanksgiving” is the eighth episode of Master of None’s second (and thus far, final) season and it’s a perfect example of everything the show does well.

This episode takes a break from Dev’s (Aziz Ansari) storyline in the present to delve into the past of his friend Denise (Lena Waithe). Over several Thanksgiving meals throughout the years, Denise comes to realize her attraction to women, processes it, and does her best to communicate her identity to her mom (Angela Bassett). It’s a touching saga made possible by the Thanksgiving season. It also serves as many viewers’ introduction to the storytelling dynamo that is Lena Waithe.

The O.C.

Season 1 Episode 11 – “The Homecoming”

Mid-2000s teen drama The O.C. always paid proper respect to holidays. Who could forget the Cohen family’s dutiful observation of “Chrismukkah?” But the series’ first Thanksgiving installment in season 1 might just be its best holiday offering ever.

“The Homecoming” is a wonderful example of everything that The O.C. does well. The plot splits itself in two with Ryan (Ben McKenzie) and Marissa (Mischa Barton) heading back to Ryan’s hometown of Chino to meet Ryan’s brother in prison. That sets up a ludicrous crime arc that would make even the Riggins brothers of Friday Night Lights jealous. Meanwhile, back at the Cohen household, Seth’s (Adam Brody) inelegant juggling of the two women in his life comes to a chaotic head.

Orange is the New Black

Season 1 Episode 9 – “Fucksgiving”

Orange is the New Black’s Thanksgiving episode debuted all the way back in 2013, when Netflix was just proving itself to be a spot for original content. So imagine viewers’ surprise that in the streaming world, you can include the F-word in episode titles.

As is the case in every OITNB episode, a lot happens in this hour-long installment. But with Thanksgiving as the backdrop, there’s a real festive air to the proceedings. Perhaps it helps that Taystee (Danielle Brooks) is set to be released and returned to the real world or that Pennsatucky (Taryn Manning) is praying for the rightful end of said real world. In any case, “Fucksgiving” passionate conclusion makes a convincing case that Thanksgiving is among the sexiest of holidays.

Riverdale

Season 4 Episode 7 – “The Ice Storm”

Riverdale’s Thanksgiving episode is about just as insane as one would imagine a Riverdale Thanksgiving episode would be. “The Ice Storm” (which borrows its name and concept from Rick Moody’s 1994 novel of the same name) finds Jughead and Betty stranded at Stonewall Prep due to an ice storm on Thanksgiving while Archie hosts a Thanksgiving dinner at the community center.

Riverdale Season 5 Begins Production

By Alec Bojalad

Riverdale Season 4 Ending Explained

By Chris Cummins

Of course this episode features cartoonish levels of scheming, but it also takes the responsibility of the holiday seriously. Riverdale spends the episode’s opening once again addressing the tragic death of Luke Perry and his character, Fred Andrews. Amid all the plot twists, the show still excels at putting family first.

Seinfeld

Season 6 Episode 8 – “The Mom and Pop Store”

Many episodes of Seinfeld feature dense plotting, but even by those standards “The Mom and Pop Store” is a very busy episode of television. These 22 minutes feature Jerry getting tricked by a mom and pop shoe store, George trying to find Jon Voight, and Kramer having some major nosebleed problems.

But the Thanksgiving portion of the episode is what stands out as Elaine gets the invite to Jerry’s dentist’s (played by none other than Bryan Cranston, beginning his fruitful arc of Seinfeld guest appearances) Thanksgiving. Jerry is unsure if he himself is invited, but when dental issues begin to pop up, he decides that a Thanksgiving dinner full of dentists might be a useful place to stop by.

Smallville

Season 6 Episode 7 – “Rage”

While it was cruel for Smallville to wait until after the Jonathan Kent era to hold its first Thanksgiving episode, it’s nice that it got around to it all the same. Granted, Thanksgiving doesn’t factor much into “Rage.” Instead much of the hour deals with Clark assisting his good friend Oliver Queen with his mysterious addiction.

But when the Thanksgiving table moment finally does arrive, it’s a real winner. In terms of pre-Arrowverse WB/CW warm and fuzzies, it’s hard to top a dinner featuring Clark Kent, Martha Kent, Lionel Luther, and Green-freaking-Arrow. And of course the presence of NXIVM’s own Allison Mack as Chloe Sullivan just adds a strange glow over all.

The Sopranos

Season 3 Episode 8 – “He Is Risen”

Many classic Sopranos scenes take place around the Sopranos family dinner table (mostly so Tony can yell at the insufferable A.J.). It’s only natural then that the show would feature a Thanksgiving episode at some point during its classic six-season run.

The Sopranos’ Funniest Moments

By Jamie Andrew

The Sopranos: The Most Memorable Hits

By Tony Sokol

That moment comes midway through the excellent season 3. Granted, Thanksgiving doesn’t play a major role in this hour, aside from Janice’s creepy elderly boyfriend muttering “he is risen” during dinner. But this episode is filled with classic Sopranos moments all the same: the introduction of Gloria Trillo, the death of Gigi Cestone on the toilet, and Ralph’s continued seasons-long efforts to dig his own grave. All of those events will factor heavily in the episodes to come, for now, however, The Sopranos is happy to just pass the gravy (actual gravy, not red sauce).

South Park

Season 15 Episode 13 – “A History Channel Thanksgiving”

Over the span of its staggering 23 seasons (plus one Pandemic Special), South Park has revealed a real affinity for holiday episodes, particularly the Christmas ones in which the show can feature longtime characters Santa Claus and Jesus Christ.

In this season 15 episode, however, South Park turns its satirical eye to Thanksgiving…or the History Channel version of it more accurately and weirdly. After the boys are assigned a paper on the history of Thanksgiving, they watch the History Channel to discover that the holiday’s origins are far more extraterrestrial than expected. Soon, Stan and company are involved in an interdimensional Thanksgiving adventure involving wormholes and Natalie Portman.

The West Wing

Season 2 Episode 8 – “Shibboleth”

A “Shibboleth” is a long-standing tradition or custom (often a phrasing or even a single word) that distinguishes one group of people from another. The best episodes of The West Wing seek to understand what the shibboleths of this strange country are…and “Shibboleth” is undoubtedly one of the series’ best episodes.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

It’s the night before Thanksgiving at the White House and the West Wing staff are all facing decisions. CJ has been tasked with choosing between two turkeys to pardon; Toby, Josh, and Sam must figure out how to watch football on Thanksgiving day; and most seriously: President Bartlett has to decide what to do with a boat of persecuted Chinese evangelical Christians seeking asylum. It’s a typically hectic day in the West’s most powerful executive office, but the show explores how one holiday can bring all the chaos to a halt. For a little bit at least.

The post The Best Thanksgiving TV Episodes appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/32LNlrE

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

2 notes · View notes

froggybaek · 6 years ago

Text

healing - seo changbin

♛➩ genre: angst, mega fluff, a dash of suggestiveish content that lasts for .5 seconds, single dad!au

♛➩ pairing: fem!reader x changbin

♛➩ warnings: mentions of death, disease

♛➩ summary: you’ve known seo changbin since your high school years. back then, he was surrounded by proud teachers, parents, classmates, and a wonderful girlfriend; now, he only has his little bundle of joy, a cousin from australia who barely knows how to manage a microwave, and you.

♛➩ word count: 9.2k

Seo Changbin has always been an enigma.

While you hadn’t been as lucky as others in being able to claim that you had known the mysterious boy since your elementary school days, you were able to make it known to the few friends you had that you got to witness his heydays; namely the four year period of high school.

You had been in the same year as Changbin, hell you happened to share a couple of classes over those four years with him. Anytime you needed to interact with him, more so assigned projects and less actual friendship related endeavors, you would find yourself stunned with his sheer intellect and determination to get an assignment done with the highest marks possible. If it hadn’t been for his endearing persistence in your music theory class - well, you probably would’ve been gifted with a big, fat F on your final report card before graduation.

However, Seo Changbin was not only remarkably intelligent; he was also incredibly friendly and helpful to just about everyone. Some folks with sour expressions and singed hearts tried to put down his accomplishments and overwhelming popularity, making rumors that he only acted so kind because it would literally be his job in the future. Obviously they might have held a teaspoon of truth to their stingy words, but it was even more obvious that Changbin was just a good person in general.

He liked to volunteer in his very, very thin amount of spare time; there wasn’t one set space for him to go, he just kind of showed up - everywhere. One time, you had spotted him volunteering at an animal shelter, cooing at a three-legged dog while he cradled a malnourished looking kitten in his arms. Another occasion you’d seen him volunteering was after you’d visited your grandfather at the retirement center, only to enter the common area and watch with a warm smile as Changbin danced with a pair of graying women, who had been giggling like young schoolgirls.

So, that was one spectrum of the boy that most everyone knew about. Some claimed that he had to have a sort of photographic memory, since he apparently didn’t need to study all that much to ace his hardest classes; which included the terrifying likes of anatomy and advanced placement chemistry. Those who said that he didn’t study much tended to trail off and make small talk of how they thought he did producing of all things on the side. While you knew the dark haired boy had an augmented creative side, you also knew very well that anyone aspiring to become a medical student had to focus mostly on their coursework - even if they had an impeccably large IQ.

You figured that was why he was so kind, even during the most stressful weeks of school. After all, committing your future career to become a nurse or a doctor was a difficult task that would likely lead someone to deal with even more difficult people. He would have to train himself to be patient and understanding, right?

Well, you wouldn't know. For one, you weren't all too close with him to make any sort of claim about either him or his dreams. Secondly, you were veering a great distance away from anything related to the field of medicine - you just wanted a simple job that involved kids.

That isn't to say you wanted kids of your own anytime soon, you just happened to get along with the vast majority of them quite easily, and they were entertaining in themselves. Surely a teaching career wouldn't be too far off the mark.

In any case, it was easy to say that you and Changbin were miles apart - from what little you knew about him, that is.

And that gap was only made larger not even a few months after your graduation.

“Morning babe.” Mark Lee hummed as he walked into the classroom, or studio, for lack of a better term. The brunette boy carried not only his giant backpack that was filled to the brim with textbooks and art supplies, but also a handful of snacks and two cups of - honestly you weren't sure. He tended to randomly pick and choose the drinks you would share during art class, so you could never be too sure what the next beverage could be.

You offer your friend a small wave of greeting, holding a hand out to grab the black reusable bag and one of the drinks from his trembling hands while he struggled to sit down in the chair next to yours. “Good morning, glasses.”

He whined at your choice nickname for him - all the while pushing his wide glasses farther up the frame of his nose. “I - will ignore your crude and very unimaginative nickname for once, because I have some tea to spill-”

“Please, for my sanity and your own, never say that out loud again.” You murmur in a monotone voice, bringing the lid of the cup up to your lips and taking a quick sip.

Hmm... hot chocolate with marshmallows. Delicious.

“- as I was saying until I was rudely interrupted,” he continued without missing a beat, though you happened to catch how he beamed gleefully at your small thumbs up to thank him for the hot chocolate, “do you remember Seo Changbin from school? You know, the kid that got like, three scholarships to colleges in America?”

“Yeah, I remember him. Why?”

Mark plops down in his seat, rustling in his bag to dig out his art supplies before the bell rang. “I found out from Lucas that his girlfriend got pregnant maybe two or three months before our finals. She gave birth to their kid about a week ago and she uh -...” He trails off quietly, too quietly for your liking.

“What? Mark, I didn't catch that last part.”

He gulps and looks up from the depths of his heavy backpack, nervously nibbling on his bottom lip before he meets your confused gaze.

“She died during the delivery.”

————————————————————————

Finding out that someone you knew had passed away was never fun. Even if you barely knew them, just remembering that they had at some point been part of your life - that was enough to have you slumped over in your seat for the next few days in each and every class.

She had been bright and always so full of life, as much as a high school student could be, anyway. The girl had her life planned ahead for the next ten years, from schools, to parties, even to when she would get married; and she had wanted so desperately to marry Seo Changbin.

While no one had expected the pair to actually stay together for the past three years of life, they had stuck to it as best as they possibly could for a young, naïve couple. Sure, they did have their ups and downs, like the time where she and Changbin argued in the middle of lunch about how he forgot one of their date nights; but then again, what was a relationship if there weren't a few mishaps here and there?

Around the middle of senior year, rumors had started to spread like wildfire around the school. People were speculating if Changbin would go off to America for his studies and leave his girlfriend behind, or if he would stay at home in South Korea just to be with her. Others, the more pessimistic ones to say the least, pondered crudely if he would dump her and leave without another word to the foreign country for their schools.

From what Mark had told you, Changbin had been planning to stay with his girlfriend - in a long distance relationship, that is. She hadn't been too thrilled with the idea of him going alone with no “evidence,” so to speak, of their being in love. Apparently she had actually been getting ready to propose to him instead of the more common, traditional route.

She never got to propose.

Instead, she had fallen pregnant with his child unexpectedly. She had begged Changbin to stay so they both could be real parents to their child, and he had quietly agreed. By then, they had started to fall out of love, even with their unborn child resting in her belly for nine months.

And then... then she had died, leaving their newborn baby girl in the arms of a now lonely Seo Changbin.

After you figured you had somewhat recovered from the shocking news, just about two weeks later, you’d debated on personally calling or messaging the man to express your condolences. For hours you sat in the rickety chair that rested in front of your desk, staring blankly at the screen of your laptop. For hours your gaze flickered back and forth between the text box that indicated you wanted to message the man and the now empty profile of his social medias.

Once the fourth hour had passed, you gave up and stood up, stretching before you went to shut your laptop - then you thought about how you would feel in his situation.

You would wish for anyone to express their condolences, right?

Wouldn't you want to know that someone else cared, that someone else was there for you?

Then, still standing in quite the strange, hunched over position, you reopened your silver laptop and typed the first words that came to mind.

‘She was a wonderful person, you know. She would be so glad that your baby is safe with her father.’

————————————————————————

“I’m sorry, you did what now?”

“I said that I - well um, funny story, actually! I might have, possibly, maybe, perhaps... let Chenle and Jisung monitor the toddlers?”

You let out a deep sigh of pure disbelief, running a hand through your hair before you ended up losing what little sanity you could possibly have left after such a long day of work. “So... you're telling me that you let the two youngest volunteers, who are practically toddlers themselves, watch over our own toddlers all alone for the past hour?”

The brunette shifting on his feet in front of you nodded quickly, offering a nervous yet cheerful smile as if it could magically make you forgiven his less than intelligent decision.

“Mark, I know that they’re your friends and you trust them dearly, but as volunteers they aren’t allowed to be by themselves with any of the kids under eight years old.” You explained to your coworker and friend, feeling a drop of guilt when his lips turned into a classic pout and his eyes drooped from his scolding. “I won’t tell Jongdae this time, okay? Just go watch over those two and I’ll handle the front desk for you.”

He glances up at you from where he’d been staring sadly at the carpeted floor, his shining brown gaze brightening up again at your soft words. “R-really? You would take over my spot just so I don’t get in trouble?”

“You’ve covered for me god knows how many times, dude. Don’t worry about it. I’d supervise the little demons myself, but I kind of want to get some homework done while I can.” You admit with a careless shrug, moving forward to playfully ruffle his already messy brown hair. “Hurry up before he gets back and sees whatever mess they’ve probably made.”

The boy (well, technically “man,” but you couldn’t really see him as one since you were the same age and still mostly acted like willy teenagers) practically bounces on the heels of his feet, all the while showing you his undying appreciation by vigorously spurting out soft thank-you’s.

Once he shuts the white, wooden door painted with a daft excuse of a sunflower behind him and enters the toddler room, you walk over to the front desk of the daycare and slump over in the rolling chair. The material is a bit worn and not too comfortable, but it would suffice for the next couple of hours while you worked on some sociology homework that might have been a few days late.

Since it is only the middle of the day, just half an hour past lunchtime, you weren’t really expecting anyone to walk into the daycare. When the dingy bell hung above the front door let out an all too familiar, but also unexpected sound, you nearly jumped out of your skin in surprise.

Now stood in front of the front desk, just a good two feet away from you, stands a man who looks a tad familiar. His entire ensemble reminds you of a middle schooler who just found out about Fall Out Boy and Panic! At The Disco, which probably would've made you snort in amusement at any other moment.

But this man - if he was one, since he looked eerily young, somewhat similar to how you viewed Mark Lee, pulled off the all black look perfectly. His black undershirt had an odd white signa, likely belonging to a business or brand, stitched into the presumed cotton material. The man wore worn, ink colored jeans that were somewhat baggy around his legs, but not sleazily slouched; and his undershirt was tucked into the waistband, too.

Clutching onto his leather jacket, which was also, unsurprisingly, a dark black hue, was a baby. No, not a toddler or a clingy child, but a baby who couldn’t be more than a few months old - not with how small and chubby its fingers were, and certainly not with how the poor man had dribbles of what looked like milk running down the shoulder of his jacket.

“Um - hi,” you breathe out after an awkward moment of silence, offering the tired looking man a warm smile, “how can I help you?”

“I - I was wondering if-” his words are cut off by a loud wail from the baby in his arms. Squirming about with the little tot, he clearly struggles to try and calm it down, hissing in pain when it gums on one of his fingers. “Shit - no, I mean shoot - do you guys w-watch over babies?”

The raven haired man continues to try and calm the baby down, but to no avail.

“We do, don't worry... not to pry, but are you - are you a new father?” The question slips past your lips before you can overthink them, as you usually do, according to most of your friends and coworkers. When he only nods in reply, you can’t help but chuckle softly under your breath.

The rolling chair slides backwards as you push yourself up from the bottom cushion, making an insignificant ‘thump’ against the back shelving unit. You walk out from behind the desk and end up right next to the panicking father, lips curled into a sweet smile. “Can I try something?”

He glances wearily between you and his crying baby, which did make you wonder what had to be going through his head if he was so hesitant to entrust his little one with a stranger even though he had first come inside just to make sure your center also took in babies.

“... sure, go ahead.” The stranger eventually caved and gave in, carefully handing off his precious little bundle of joy off to your waiting arms.

You’d handled babies countless times since you were the one in charge of them most of the time in the daycare, not to mention when you were younger you babysat the little ones quite often. So, handling this cute, wide-eyed baby was nothing foreign to you. Gently curling it up into the crook of your arms, you swayed back and forth like a ship at sea being swaddled by gentle ocean waves.

In no time at all, the baby had calmed down, its previous wailing cries now replaced by adorable cooing. “Boy or girl?” You ask the man quietly, still grinning warmly as your gaze met that of his baby’s.

“She’s a girl - her name is Eden.”

One of your eyebrows shoots up in surprise at the name, as it wasn’t natively Korean in any sense of the word. Seeing your interested and confused expression, the man rubs one of his arms and continues, “my cousin helped me name her. He’s Australian, so he kinda only gave me English names.”

“What about her mother? Did the missus not have any say in this matter?” You tease the stranger, looking over to him, expecting to see a flushed or embarrassed grimace on his tired features.

Yet, all you see is grief.

“Eden’s mother... she died giving birth to her.”

“I - I’m so sorry, sir,” you murmur sympathetically, furrowing your eyebrows at how strange it is to know of two cases such as his own in just the span of half a year, “I... well I wasn’t close to the mother or father, but I knew of a girl who died during childbirth as well. It’s absolutely awful.”

“Damn, I knew I looked different, but I didn't think it was that bad.” He snorts dryly, his deep brown eyes flickering all across your face.

Confusion etches itself across your features. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s me, Changbin. We uh, went to the same high school,” he explains to you, watching closely as your lips fall open into a surprised ‘oh’ shape, “you sent me a message ages ago, saying that... that she’d be happy since Eden still has her dad.”

He was right - he really had changed. Physically, that is.

When he walked in, you hadn't even been able to recognize the boy who just graduated along with the rest of your class a mere eight months ago. You were so used to his freshly shaven face and smooth, shining skin with full cheeks that reminded you of a junior named Han Jisung. Back then, he had short, black hair that was in an undercut, perfectly framing his face.

Now, Changbin had stubble that only added on to his tired persona, complimenting the faded purple bags sunken under his once bright, gleeful eyes. His cheeks, once round and full like a squirrel’s, were sharp and somehow sunken at the same time.

“Thank you, by the way,” Changbin muttered, “for the message. I mostly got half-assed texts saying they were sorry for my loss. Yeah, they meant well, but - no one besides you said anything about Eden only having me.”

“She’s very lucky you know,” you begin to reply, glancing back down at the baby girl staring up at you innocently, “to have someone like you as her father.”

“Someone... like me?”

You nod at his questioning, almost conflicted tone of voice. “Of course. From what I remember, the Seo Changbin I sort of knew in high school was so intelligent that he had over seven offers from universities around the world, just for medical school. He also volunteered, like, everywhere and made it his job to make sure everyone he met was happy.”

His eyebrows furrow as if he was in deep thought, clearly contemplating your kind, comforting words.

“I’m afraid to say it, but that side of me died a long time ago.” He replies shortly, coldly, leaving you no possible way to continue to conversation without it becoming awkward.

What had happened to him?

————————————————————————

Daycares were naturally very, very loud settings. You knew that, Mark knew that, just about everyone understood that single factor when signing up to work at the decently sized childcare center just down the street of the local elementary school.

That didn't mean that you were used to it, though.

“Eden? Eden - sweetie, we don’t eat crayons.” You exhale tiredly through your nose as you pick up the brunette haired girl in your arms once again, pushing aside the twinge of guilt that strikes your heart when she lets out a pitiful whine.

It was like she knew that she was your favorite of the bunch, always whining whenever you lightly scolded her for her wrongdoings. She was only a year and three months old, but she wasn’t lacking in the intellect department by any means. If anything, she had the mind of a two or three year old toddler, constantly testing your patience to see how far you would let her go.

Whilst you carry the girl in your arms, gently hoisting her up so her rounded chin rested on your shoulder, you could faintly hear Chenle and Jisung crying out over the most recent mess in the art room. From what Jaemin had told you, Eden had literally led a pack of older children into said art room and somehow found it in herself to convince them to paint - but not on the papers laid out appropriately on the desks, no; rather, they painted on the floor and the walls.

One of the older children, a six year old called Eunwoo, had promptly explained that Eden’s babbled words were law to them. She had pointed to the paint sets, then the walls, and let out a cute giggle followed by incoherent noises of pure joy. To them, that meant ‘paint everything you can!’

How her dad never gave into her oh so persuasive babbles, you would never know - simply because you occasionally fell for them, too.

“So she’s resorted to trying to snack on blue and green crayons, huh?”

Speak of the devil.

“She sure has. She has also become the leader of the other kids, according to my knowledge.” You laugh in an exhausted amusement, smiling tiredly as you turn to face Changbin himself.

He looked as utterly exhausted as you felt, truly. Not that you particularly blamed the man, since he had just arrived back from working at the mechanics shop, which was already a good hour drive away from the daycare center. And just this morning, he had to make a run to another part-time job he had at the gas station closest to the middle school a few blocks away.

To put it simply, he overworked himself, constantly. While his cousin’s parents from Australia did their best to send him checks every now and then, they did still have their own family to take care of - and neither his parents or the grandparents of Eden felt the need to support him.

It was awful and cruel, in your honest opinion; how both families treated their son and granddaughter, like they were sticks in the mud. Changbin’s parents claimed that he disappointed them the second they found out he was going to drop out of any scholarship opportunities to raise Eden, and truth be told her mother’s own parents were too stricken with grief to even look at her.

Since he had no time at all to actually go to school, Changbin ended up taking three different jobs all at once just so he could support his little ball of sunshine. Anyone could see the mental exhaustion that seemed to just radiate off of him most of the time - well, except when he was with his daughter.

Whenever he was able to have time with her, its like he had the whole world in the palms of his hands. Changbin would give up everything for Eden with no hesitation, even his own dignity and respect.

“Alright sunshine, you need to say sorry to Miss Y/N,” Changbin cooed to his little girl as he scooped her up carefully from your grasp, his previously cold, almost haunting gaze switching into one of warmth and pure love, “come on baby, say sorry.”

Eden parted her lips, and for a split second the two of you shared a look of excitement - would she finally say her first word?

Then a bit of drool dribbled down her chin, not a single word or even a babble to show that she had heard her father’s encouraging plights.

“Ah, f-fudge... totally not a bad word. Nope.” Changbin nearly missed cursing, having sheepishly caught sight of your narrowed eyes when he stuttered on the dreaded ‘f-word.’

“Once she starts picking up on the things you say - and almost say, Eden will only repeat whatever her dear dad says,” you hum knowingly as you scooch closer to the pair, gently wiping the drool off of the brunette baby’s chin, “hey, isn’t her doctor’s appointment today? Or am I confusing it with next Monday?”

The man in question is about to reply when you unconsciously use the dainty yellow tissue just on his daughter’s chin to wipe off the string of drool that had fallen onto his stained blue shirt. When he doesn’t respond for a moment, you tilt your head up and quickly recognize the faint flush to his cheeks.

You should probably move your hands off of his chest - which... was pretty broad; snap out of it!

Without a word you step back, nearly stumbling in your sudden moment of sheer embarrassment. As if he too had snapped out of his stunned daze, Changbin clears his throat and nods. “I - erm, yeah no; it’s today. I have to take her home and give us both a quick bath before we go, though.”

You nod your head, willing your cheeks to not flush a deep red color as he talks. Why in the world has he suddenly gotten you so flustered and riled up?

“Hopefully it’s just an ear infection and nothing too serious,” he added, “I really don’t know if I can handle more bills, you know?”

Eden wriggles in his arms, slowly becoming restless. He leans down and softly kisses her button-nose, a cute action that always resulted with the baby giggling and grasping at her father’s cheeks.

“I doubt it is anything serious, Changbin. Don’t forget, a lot of the kids tend to get some sort of pesky infection this time of year.” You try to reassure the worried, tense man, offering him a gentle smile when he glances back up from his daughter to you.

He pauses for a second, digesting your reassuring words before he mimics your small smile, a sight that was rare to see from the normally stoic man. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I guess it’s just the first time jitters, then.” Changbin chuckles softly, readjusting his now yawning child so she could rest her puffy face in the crook of his neck.

“Call m- I mean, call the front desk if she does have an infection, please. We want to keep everything extra sanitized if any of the kids get sick.”

Nice save.

His chapped lips twitch into a hint of an amused smirk upon catching wind of your stammer, but he doesn’t call you out on it; thankfully enough. “I will, don’t worry Y/N. Hopefully both of us will see you tomorrow.” He hums, using his fingers to guide Eden’s hand into making a tiny wave before they leave, the glass door swinging shut behind them.

————————————————————————

Two weeks have passed since then with no call from Changbin. You were a bit worried, to say the least, constantly waiting at the front desk for the call that should have gone through days ago. Your co-workers kept insisting that it was no big deal, that maybe she was sicker than believed and had to stay home while she recovered.

“Think about it, Y/N - he’s still pretty new at this whole dad thing. He probably got so worked up about making sure Eden is recovering well enough that he just... forgot to call.”

That was what Mark had said, but you just couldn’t shake this awful gut feeling stirring in your stomach; something felt wrong. You hoped dearly that you were wrong, obviously. You hoped and hoped and hoped that Changbin and Eden were just fine, maybe taking time off if she was, in fact, sick, or perhaps her dotting dad had randomly taken them off on a trip for whatever reason. While the former was less likely considering his financial issues, it was all your fried brain could possibly think of.

On the fourteenth day of playing the waiting game, you just about caved and looked into the records so you could potentially call Changbin yourself - but then the phone rings, startling you so much that you nearly toppled out of the rolling chair you’d been sat in the past three hours.

You lunge to the blue phone, though you don’t answer it until you manage to properly compose yourself - you didn’t know who the caller was, but you didn’t want said caller to hear your hitched breath and voice tainted with worry.

With another deep breath, you recollect yourself and bring the phone up to your ear. “H-hello, this is Chen’s Daycare Center! How may I help you?”

“Uh, is Y/N working today?” An unfamiliar voice rings out in the speaker, causing you to quirk an eyebrow, since it sounded a bit younger than you expected - and pretty damn deep, too. “I’m Seo Changbin’s cousin, he’s Seo Eden’s dad. This is kind of important.”

“Actually, I’m Y/N - you’re Felix, right? Changbin has mentioned you before.”

The boy breathes out in what sounds like relief on the other line. “Yeah, that’s me! I don’t really have a lot of time, sorry, but there’s something... well, not wrong, but - ah fuck, I’m so bad at this,” Felix huffs, pausing to collect the words he needed to say, “basically, Eden is sick. I’m watching her right now while Bin is working, and no one else will pick up their fucking phone. Could you maybe come by his apartment, please?”

Eden is sick.

Changbin left his cousin home alone to watch Eden - while she’s sick.

Eden is sick.

You would really have to pay Jaemin and Mark back after today. “Of course! What’s the address?”

————————————————————————

You couldn’t believe that you were standing right outside of Seo Changbin’s apartment. You couldn’t comprehend that you, of all people, were knocking on the front door, snorting in amusement at the deep accented voice of his own cousin calling out with a, “just a second!”

In the corner of your wandering gaze, you smile to yourself at the sight of colorful chalk strewn onto the concrete wall of the hallway on the second floor. It was evident that Eden had drawn the pastel pink and royal blue flower and sharp green grass, and it was even more obvious by the straighter, less messy lines of the bright yellow sun and poofy white clouds that her dad had drawn that section of the cute little portrait.

Eden, unlike the other rather mischievous kids at the daycare center, preferred to messily draw on the walls instead of the floor. This quirky little trait even transpired at home, as well.

You turn back to the front door when it finally swings open, revealing a boy who couldn’t have been a year older than you or Changbin. Felix - yes, that was his name, if you remembered correctly.

Even though he was a tad bit sweaty and clearly out of breath, Felix’s ginger hair with slightly darker brown roots was somehow swept into a perfect swoop, his freckled cheeks a little flushed and red.

How adorable.

“H-hi, you must be Y/N,” he breathed out a warm greeting, not hesitating to let you wander inside the apartment before he quietly closed and locked the front door behind you, “uh, b-before you do anything, I should exp-”

“Eden!” You hum in pure joy as you walk over to where the curly haired girl was sat on a wool carpet, her back facing you. You hadn’t meant to interrupt the poor boy, but going a solid two weeks without seeing the little tyke had deprived you more than you thought possible. “Hey sweetheart, it’s Miss Y/N!”

She didn’t turn at the sound of your voice.

Not wanting to startle her too much, figuring she just hadn’t been paying enough attention to hear your familiar, happy voice, you bend down behind her and try again. “Eden? Hey, it’s me! I’m going to help Felix watch over you for a while.”

No movement, no nothing - she just sat idly in the middle of the living room, quietly playing with her wooden blocks.

Slowly, you tap on the little girl’s shoulder, finally managing to catch her attention. She practically whipped her tiny body around in excitement, letting out oddball gurgles of joy. Holding her stubby arms out, she wiggled and tried to stand up on her own two feet so she could climb into your arms; but you beat her to it, swinging her up with a gleeful smile and cradling her in your arms.

Now content with the giggling baby in your grasp, you turn back to Felix, your own wide smile fading slightly at his remorseful frown.

“She uh... Eden... you remember how I told you she’s sick?” He asked you softly, stepping closer so he could hold out a finger to her, the both of you watching as she clings onto him.

You nod in reply, prompting him to continue. “The doctors say that she has m-meningitis - technically it’s just bacterial meningitis, so not totally fatal, thank god.” He forced out a dry laugh, crinkling his eyes at Eden as she begins to nibble on the end of his finger. “Apparently she’s had it for a while, but by the time we caught on to it, it was too late. S-she’s already lost a majority of her ability to hear, so she’s partially... deaf.”

Oh no.

“They prescribed some strong antibiotics that are helping her recover, but they can’t help with her deafness. She won’t go totally deaf, hopefully, but she’ll have to learn sign language and will need hearing aids. Bin’s been beating himself up about not catching it sooner, so he’s been shutting down... he only goes to work and comes home to be with her as much as possible.”

“That’s why he didn’t call,” you murmur quietly, looking back down to the gurgling baby in your arms, noting the lack of a hearing aid as of yet, “how is he holding up? Besides what you just told me.”

Felix’s shoulders sag at your question, not that he blamed you for asking. From what he’d heard from his older cousin, you were one of the only other people that he talked to frequently and trusted enough to take care of his daughter. Other than himself and a select few co-workers from his various jobs, Changbin didn’t socialize much.

He also knew that you’d taken a liking to Eden quickly, and that in turn the father and daughter duo had gotten used to you just as fast; that in itself was pretty rare, for the dad, anyway. When neither Woojin or Minho had answered his frantic calls, he looked through the slip of paper that his elder had left him in case he needed help with Eden. One of them had been labelled ‘Daycare - Y/N.’

“He hasn’t been doing great, if I’m being honest,” he muttered, “he doesn’t really trust anyone other than me to be patient with Eden, especially now that she has to have someone around willing to walk her through everything again. He actually told me that he was going to call you, but he also mentioned that you spoke about being a bit flunked with schoolwork recently.”

Stupid, stupid Changbin - why, you would hit him when he returned from work! You constantly reminded him that you, or more so the center, was always on call in case he or the other parents needed anything. That was pretty much the policy, courtesy of the founder, Kim Jongdae, or as the kids called him, Chen. While the kids were the main priority and focus, it was also common knowledge that a handful of parents (especially newer, less experienced ones) would drop by for some tips or hands on experience.

On the other hand, you were a little less agitated with his lack of calls because he’d considered your own schedule - which had been pretty hectic for a hot minute, as you did tell him one day, but that didn’t mean you were totally off the handle. He knew that you adored Eden, as well as the other kids, and that you’d drop everything if it meant helping them.

“If I’d known about all of this, I would’ve come over to help...” you grumble under your breath, now going to follow the footsteps of the Australian boy as he makes way towards the tiny kitchenette area.

Felix chuckles at your mildly annoyed words, going to toss what looked to be a burnt pancake in the trash. “You know, he said that you would be pissed once you found out. Says that you have this natural motherly side to you.”

You blush a bit at his amused comment, but don’t try to argue against it. After all, you supposed that’s why you did so well in the childcare field; you just really liked kids and went with their flow.

“He also said that was part of what he found super hot about you,” he continued, a smirk spreading across his plump lips when your jaw dropped in shock, “he’s always talking about you, or Eden - or about how, and I quote, ‘fucking sexy it is watching an intelligent, kind woman taking care of his babygirl,’ course he says... other things, too, but I don't dare to repeat those words around his own kid.”

In an attempt to ignore the furious red blush heating up your cheeks, you clear your throat and hastily change the subject. “I’m guessing you needed m-my help with cooking lunch?”

Felix, thankfully, doesn’t bring up your sudden subject change, instead nodding sheepishly in response to your question. “I guess Bin didn't mention it, thank god, but I kind of... sort of... suck ass at cooking. Really, I just shouldn't step into a kitchen, it’s that bad.”

“Okay, okay - I’m not the best, either, but I can make some amazing mashed potatoes. And, by the way - pancakes for lunch is a fantastic idea, but not for babies.” You tease the younger boy as you make your way to the refrigerator, preparing to make the three of you a semi-decent meal.

The ginger flushes at your lighthearted teasing, but doesn’t choose to retaliate. Instead, he carefully takes a babbling Eden from your arms, giving you more space to properly make their food.

“We’ll go watch some SpongeBob, or something. Thanks for cooking, Y/N!” He calls out as he saunters out of the kitchen, bouncing and cooing at the brunette tucked safely in his grasp.

You laugh to yourself, lightly shaking your head as you pull out your phone to make sure you’ve got everything to make your lunch.

————————————————————————

Six hours have passed since the three of you were plopped down in the kitchenette, seemingly squished against the back wall with a pink and white backsplash. The dining table was a hand-me-down, likely purchased from a flea market, but you supposed it only made the small apartment all the more lovable.

You and Felix got along quite well, truth be told; he was almost the polar opposite of his older cousin, in a permanent state of bright smiles and bubbly, deep laughs that reverberated throughout the walls of the Seo household. He told cheesy jokes and switched between English and Korean if he couldn’t recall a certain word - all in all, he was simply endearing.

For now, though, the hyper boy was crashing in Changbin’s bedroom. You’d told him to get some rest since he’d apparently been at the apartment since eight in the morning and it was ticking closer to six at night. He mentioned having early classes the next day, hence why you’d shooed him off into the bedroom.

Eden was currently passed out beside you on the lavender colored couch, her head nuzzled into a beaten up Munchlax plushie that she insisted on carrying with her the entire day after lunch. She called him “Gyu,” which wasn’t technically a real word from your knowledge, but it warmed your heart to know that she could still recognize the name of the doll and actually speak it aloud.

Like Felix had mentioned before, she wasn’t fully deaf, more so 75% at a loss of her hearing; she could make out some words well enough, but she would definitely need to know sign language sooner or later.

Which was why you were scrolling through a plethora of YouTube videos in the early hours of the night, eyeballing and saving the more reliable looking ones to a playlist you’d made just thirty minutes ago. They all addressed the topic of hearing loss, both partial and in full, and some had guides on how to sign things such as the alphabet or more specific words. You saved tons of videos, ranging from English sign language to Korean sign language - just in case.

Invested in your journey to saving as many useful videos as you possibly could, you don’t hear the distinct sound of keys jingling on the other side of the front door, nor do you hear said door quietly opening and closing.

“Y/N?” A familiar voice tears you out of your focused state, making you jump in surprise. “What... are you doing here?”

You tilt your head up from the bright screen of your phone, flushing slightly under Changbin’s tired yet inquisitive stare. “Felix - Felix called me earlier, said he needed help with Eden.” You breathe out quietly, almost inaudibly to the curious man in front of you.

Tired as he was, he still looked absolutely stunning. On Monday’s, he’d go to work in a car dealership instead of the mechanics shop downtown - meaning that he kind of had to dress a bit better than he usually did, in terms of professionalism.

He was clad in a somewhat scruffy black suit, fitted well to his body but a tad wrinkled from his day at work. He also sported black slacks and shiny shoes with a classic red tie; although you assumed it was one his daughter had pointed out while shopping, since it was adorned with white butterflies.

“Oh - s-so he probably told you about her, erm... problem.” Changbin stuttered out, beginning to unbutton the top of his suit, not noticing how your cheeks heated up at the innocent action.

You also stutter out a soft “yes” in reply, averting your gaze as he tosses the suit aside onto the arm of a stray chair nearby, revealing a tight-fitting white polo shirt.

“I... I would’ve called, I fucking swear, Y/N... I just didn't know what to say. I mean, how fucking bad of a dad must I appear to be, not knowing that my babygirl was suffering this entire time?” His voice cracks as he curses at himself, and for a split second he steps aside to crash into the wobbly chair; but by then you’ve shot up from your place on the plush couch, your fingers wrapped around his wrist to hold him in place.

“You are not a bad dad, Changbin; far from it, actually,” you retort quickly before he can argue back, reassuringly squeezing his wrist at the same time, “please, don’t beat yourself up over this. Eden needs you to be strong right now, more than ever. You’re her entire world, she can’t lose you because you wrongly blame yourself-”

And with that, he crumbles into your arms, breathing heavily as he finally, finally lets his walls down. The man, just barely touching twenty years of life, a single dad to the most beautiful little girl in the whole world, finally gives into his emotions.

You don’t even flinch at the feeling of a tear staining your neck, or at the feeling of the raven haired man sobbing quietly against your shoulder. Opting to release his wrist in favor of bringing him into a tight embrace, you soothingly rub on the back of his white polo shirt, uttering soft words of reassurance.

Neither of you notice, but Felix had woken up by the time Changbin had first started to rant; in fact, he’d been silently leaning against the frame of the hallway when his elder cousin, who he considered his brother, crashed into your arms and started crying.

Changbin needed someone to help him heal, and in Felix’s eyes, you were just the right person to do so.

————————————————————————

Changbin was no longer an enigma, in your eyes.

You found out a lot about Seo Changbin in the following months, more than you ever would have thought you would know, in all honesty.

Like... how the Munchlax plushie Eden practically stuck to like glue used to be his, and that he even used it during and after his high school years; he would’ve kept using it, too, if it hadn’t been for the fact that his daughter had claimed it so quickly after she’d been born.

You also learned that the raven haired man had just, always been expected to go into the medical field when he was growing up; he didn't quite resent that, he simply didn’t have the same burning passion for it as he did with producing his own music.

You loved his music, too; it was so raw and real to you, especially with the tracks he still hadn’t finished since he was so caught up with working to support himself and Eden. He had three that stood out to you, although they still weren’t titled, lest you count the numbers indicating the folders they were long since abandoned in.

The first one was about falling out of love, and you could only assume it retold the story of how he had slowly fallen out of love with the mother of his child. It wasn’t as solemn as it was angry, his words harsh yet heartfelt as he wrote out how he was so, so thankful to Eden’s mother for giving birth to her, gifting him with the most wonderful little girl in the universe. He was angry that he wasn’t “better” for her, that he couldn’t love her anymore the way she had so desperately loved him.

The second one was purely all about Eden, or as he called her, his miracle. Yes, being a single dad with little to no outside support brought a shit ton of stress into his previously relaxed, simple life, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way. He’d poured his soul into the parts he did actually finish, and you were sure that Eden would beg him to finish it one day.

The third one was definitely your favorite, though you weren’t quite sure why. Changbin had made the song in his own attempt to rekindle his joy for producing, you supposed. He referred to two people simply called “CB97″ and “J.ONE” a fair amount, citing them as the sole people who helped him grow a love for rapping and making music; perhaps they could be reunited, one day.

Something else that stood out to you, not about his music, but himself, was that Seo Changbin was a sensitive person, for lack of a better term.

When Eden has finally gotten her hearing aids, he teared up. Then, they were turned on and he called out to her, only to have her respond with a bright “dada!” Then he full on sobbed, grappling onto your arm in the doctor’s office as his babygirl was given the chance to properly hear the world again.

He also cried when Felix had to go back home to Australia for a month so he could finish his freshman year of college - only for both of you to find out that he was going to move to South Korea for the rest of his college years. He and a friend had rented out the lone apartment right under Changbin’s.

Even now, you could faintly recognize a small sniffle that escaped his otherwise quiet persona. The two of you were on your weekly “date night,” as Jisung and Chenle called it, though you hastily insisted otherwise; not that... you would have minded if it were true.

“Hey, Y/N?” He murmured softly to you in the middle of the chilly night, his hands tucked safely in the warm pockets of his gray hoodie while you walked side by side through the heart of the city.

It was a Saturday night, so obviously the sidewalks and streets were infested with loud crowds and bright, flashing neon lights. You both were just heading back to his apartment after a night of drinking at a quaint but lively bar that one of his friends owned, not totally drunk, but tipsy enough to stick close to each other to the point where your fingers would occasionally brush against his.

“Mm, yeah, Binnie?”

You didn't quite catch how his cheeks flushed in the pale moonlight, or how his breath momentarily hitched in his throat at the nickname. “I - do you -”

“Spit it out, Binnie - if you don’t say whatever it is you wanna say now, you’ll forget by the time we get back to the apartment.” You hummed knowingly, having gotten drunk with the man before; needless to say, he frequently forgot what he was going to say mid-sentence, or he just got off topic for no real rhyme or reason.

“... I was w-wondering, d’you want to move in, with me and Eden?” He blurted out suddenly, albeit softly, nervously, with a hint of a drunk stammer to his voice.

Now, to put it lightly, you were the complete opposite of Changbin when you were drunk; even mildly tipsy. While he would cut himself off and put his thoughts aside, you tended to be very, very blunt and straightforward.

“Sure, why not? Dunno where I’ll sleep, though.” You shrugged honestly, content with the little diddy you were humming under your breath.

Your partner pauses in the middle of the moving crowd, attracting a few disgruntled grumbles and curses as everyone forces themselves to snake around your bodies on the paved sidewalk. Noticing he’d fully stopped, you turn back around to meet his doe-eyed gaze, confusion plastered on your face. “What? Did I say something?”

“Y-you actually-? You really want to mo-move in with us?” He exhaled in disbelief, his airy breaths forming into a thin, transparent puff of chilled air.

Feeling much more confident in your slightly tipsy state, you march towards him, right in front of him, actually; and nod surely. “Mhm. Is that why you were sniffling a second ago? Because you were worried I’d say no or something?” You ask him innocently, only to giggle when he gulps and nods in reply. “Wow, you must be pretty dense, Binnie-”

“W-what?”

“Cause’ I really fucking like you, and Eden, obviously - you’re really attentive and a great dad, which is like, reaaally attractive. Oh -! Not to mention Eden is the cutest baby in the whole wide world!” You say with full confidence, lips curled into a sweet yet bold grin, stretching your arms out into the cold air just to further your point.

Without warning, Changbin’s hands latch themselves onto your waist before he manages to maneuver your back against an out-of-order vending machine. His chest presses against yours and his breaths fan out onto your parted lips.

“Good, cause’ I really fucking like you too.” Is the last thing he says before he smashes his lips against yours, melding them together even though you were both in public, pressed against a vending machine of all things.

But - you could’ve cared less.

From then on it’s a giant blur of motions, the last part you remember ending with his knee rubbing up between your thighs with his hands tangled in your hair.

————————————————————————

You wake up with a soft gasp, eyelids snapping open to be greeted with the sight of closed blinds and Changbin - wait, was that... Eden, tucked in between your bodies?

Your sudden sounds cause the man opposite of you to wake up with a low groan, his eyes much slower and reluctant to open. But when they do, his lips part to mimic your surprised gasp from mere seconds ago.

“The fuck did we do last night?” His voice comes out quiet and gravely, involuntarily making your poor heart pound wildly in your chest.

“I - I think we crashed as soon as we got back.” You answer him, gesturing between your bodies as you silently point out that the both of you were still very much clothed and, thankfully, not completely naked in any sense of the word.

He lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank fuck we didn’t, well, fuck. Not that... I would mind, but Felix would’ve killed me since he was stuck watching Eden last night.” Changbin corrects himself with a deep blush, looking down at the sleeping form tucked neatly beneath the giant gray blanket engulfing a majority of the bed.

You giggle at how he covered up his words, sleepily smiling at the flushed man.

There’s a comfortable silence for a couple of minutes following that instance, your eyes flickering all over his bare, somewhat bloated features. He had a hint of purple bags under his eyes, though they were much better if you were to compare them with the sagging of his eyelids from when you’d first met him almost a full year ago; met again, technically. There’s a blemish or two dotting his puffed, red cheeks, but it only added to his charm. Not to mention his adorable bedhead and morning voice.

“Did you - did you really mean what you said, last night?” Changbin eventually broke the silence, opening his eyes once more to blink and take in your calm demeanor. “Y’know, with... the whole ‘really fucking like me’ thing, and the moving in with us deal.”

It’s your turn to blush at his teasing words as he recalls your mildly drunken state from the night before, a small smirk gracing his sleepy features. “Of course I meant what I said, Binnie - to both things.” You reply honestly, shifting in his bed so you could carefully tug the comfy gray blanket under your chin and over Eden’s exposed shoulder to keep her nice and warm.

“Good - that’s, really good.” Is all he says, suddenly caught up with staring at your sweet smile and pink tinted cheeks. “God, I really want to kiss you again.” He mutters, brown eyes fixated on your lips.

“I want to kiss you too.” You hum quietly, drinking in the little sunlight that manages to peek through the mostly closed blinds, the shadows casting a warm glow onto his and Eden’s figures.

He nibbles on his bottom lip for a moment, knowing that neither of you would dare risk waking up Eden just for a quick peck or a lazy morning make-out session.

You shiver in anticipation when his fingers suddenly move to your side of the bed and clamp onto one of your hands, then you’re left to become a blushing mess as Changbin brings your cold knuckles up to his lips, pressing a warm, delicate kiss to your skin.

“I’m so glad that you’re here, love.”

“I am too, Binnie. I am too.”

end.

#seo changbin #stray kids #skz #stray kids imagine #stray kids scenario #stray kids texts #stray kids drabble #stray kids fic #skz imagine #skz moodboard #skz angst #skz au #skz fic #changbin scenario #changbin fic #stray kids fluff #stray kids angst

550 notes · View notes

unsettlingshortstories · 4 years ago

Text

Rappaccini’s Daughter

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1844)

We do not remember to have seen any translated specimens of the productions of M. de l'Aubepine—a fact the less to be wondered at, as his very name is unknown to many of his own countrymen as well as to the student of foreign literature. As a writer, he seems to occupy an unfortunate position between the Transcendentalists (who, under one name or another, have their share in all the current literature of the world) and the great body of pen-and-ink men who address the intellect and sympathies of the multitude. If not too refined, at all events too remote, too shadowy, and unsubstantial in his modes of development to suit the taste of the latter class, and yet too popular to satisfy the spiritual or metaphysical requisitions of the former, he must necessarily find himself without an audience, except here and there an individual or possibly an isolated clique. His writings, to do them justice, are not altogether destitute of fancy and originality; they might have won him greater reputation but for an inveterate love of allegory, which is apt to invest his plots and characters with the aspect of scenery and people in the clouds, and to steal away the human warmth out of his conceptions. His fictions are sometimes historical, sometimes of the present day, and sometimes, so far as can be discovered, have little or no reference either to time or space. In any case, he generally contents himself with a very slight embroidery of outward manners,—the faintest possible counterfeit of real life,—and endeavors to create an interest by some less obvious peculiarity of the subject. Occasionally a breath of Nature, a raindrop of pathos and tenderness, or a gleam of humor, will find its way into the midst of his fantastic imagery, and make us feel as if, after all, we were yet within the limits of our native earth. We will only add to this very cursory notice that M. de l'Aubepine's productions, if the reader chance to take them in precisely the proper point of view, may amuse a leisure hour as well as those of a brighter man; if otherwise, they can hardly fail to look excessively like nonsense.

Our author is voluminous; he continues to write and publish with as much praiseworthy and indefatigable prolixity as if his efforts were crowned with the brilliant success that so justly attends those of Eugene Sue. His first appearance was by a collection of stories in a long series of volumes entitled "Contes deux fois racontees." The titles of some of his more recent works (we quote from memory) are as follows: "Le Voyage Celeste a Chemin de Fer," 3 tom., 1838; "Le nouveau Pere Adam et la nouvelle Mere Eve," 2 tom., 1839; "Roderic; ou le Serpent a l'estomac," 2 tom., 1840; "Le Culte du Feu," a folio volume of ponderous research into the religion and ritual of the old Persian Ghebers, published in 1841; "La Soiree du Chateau en Espagne," 1 tom., 8vo, 1842; and "L'Artiste du Beau; ou le Papillon Mecanique," 5 tom., 4to, 1843. Our somewhat wearisome perusal of this startling catalogue of volumes has left behind it a certain personal affection and sympathy, though by no means admiration, for M. de l'Aubepine; and we would fain do the little in our power towards introducing him favorably to the American public. The ensuing tale is a translation of his "Beatrice; ou la Belle Empoisonneuse," recently published in "La Revue Anti-Aristocratique." This journal, edited by the Comte de Bearhaven, has for some years past led the defence of liberal principles and popular rights with a faithfulness and ability worthy of all praise.

A young man, named Giovanni Guasconti, came, very long ago, from the more southern region of Italy, to pursue his studies at the University of Padua. Giovanni, who had but a scanty supply of gold ducats in his pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy chamber of an old edifice which looked not unworthy to have been the palace of a Paduan noble, and which, in fact, exhibited over its entrance the armorial bearings of a family long since extinct. The young stranger, who was not unstudied in the great poem of his country, recollected that one of the ancestors of this family, and perhaps an occupant of this very mansion, had been pictured by Dante as a partaker of the immortal agonies of his Inferno. These reminiscences and associations, together with the tendency to heartbreak natural to a young man for the first time out of his native sphere, caused Giovanni to sigh heavily as he looked around the desolate and ill-furnished apartment.

"Holy Virgin, signor!" cried old Dame Lisabetta, who, won by the youth's remarkable beauty of person, was kindly endeavoring to give the chamber a habitable air, "what a sigh was that to come out of a young man's heart! Do you find this old mansion gloomy? For the love of Heaven, then, put your head out of the window, and you will see as bright sunshine as you have left in Naples."

Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised, but could not quite agree with her that the Paduan sunshine was as cheerful as that of southern Italy. Such as it was, however, it fell upon a garden beneath the window and expended its fostering influences on a variety of plants, which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care.

"Does this garden belong to the house?" asked Giovanni.

"Heaven forbid, signor, unless it were fruitful of better pot herbs than any that grow there now," answered old Lisabetta. "No; that garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo Rappaccini, the famous doctor, who, I warrant him, has been heard of as far as Naples. It is said that he distils these plants into medicines that are as potent as a charm. Oftentimes you may see the signor doctor at work, and perchance the signora, his daughter, too, gathering the strange flowers that grow in the garden."

The old woman had now done what she could for the aspect of the chamber; and, commending the young man to the protection of the saints, took her departure.

Giovanni still found no better occupation than to look down into the garden beneath his window. From its appearance, he judged it to be one of those botanic gardens which were of earlier date in Padua than elsewhere in Italy or in the world. Or, not improbably, it might once have been the pleasure-place of an opulent family; for there was the ruin of a marble fountain in the centre, sculptured with rare art, but so wofully shattered that it was impossible to trace the original design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however, continued to gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever. A little gurgling sound ascended to the young man's window, and made him feel as if the fountain were an immortal spirit that sung its song unceasingly and without heeding the vicissitudes around it, while one century imbodied it in marble and another scattered the perishable garniture on the soil. All about the pool into which the water subsided grew various plants, that seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for the nourishment of gigantic leaves, and in some instances, flowers gorgeously magnificent. There was one shrub in particular, set in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a profusion of purple blossoms, each of which had the lustre and richness of a gem; and the whole together made a show so resplendent that it seemed enough to illuminate the garden, even had there been no sunshine. Every portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs, which, if less beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous care, as if all had their individual virtues, known to the scientific mind that fostered them. Some were placed in urns, rich with old carving, and others in common garden pots; some crept serpent-like along the ground or climbed on high, using whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant had wreathed itself round a statue of Vertumnus, which was thus quite veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage, so happily arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study.

While Giovanni stood at the window he heard a rustling behind a screen of leaves, and became aware that a person was at work in the garden. His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be that of no common laborer, but a tall, emaciated, sallow, and sickly-looking man, dressed in a scholar's garb of black. He was beyond the middle term of life, with gray hair, a thin, gray beard, and a face singularly marked with intellect and cultivation, but which could never, even in his more youthful days, have expressed much warmth of heart.

Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path: it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature, making observations in regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of this deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach to intimacy between himself and these vegetable existences. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch or the direct inhaling of their odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably; for the man's demeanor was that of one walking among malignant influences, such as savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow them one moment of license, would wreak upon him some terrible fatality. It was strangely frightful to the young man's imagination to see this air of insecurity in a person cultivating a garden, that most simple and innocent of human toils, and which had been alike the joy and labor of the unfallen parents of the race. Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present world? And this man, with such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow,—was he the Adam?

The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs, defended his hands with a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only armor. When, in his walk through the garden, he came to the magnificent plant that hung its purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a kind of mask over his mouth and nostrils, as if all this beauty did but conceal a deadlier malice; but, finding his task still too dangerous, he drew back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in the infirm voice of a person affected with inward disease, "Beatrice! Beatrice!"

"Here am I, my father. What would you?" cried a rich and youthful voice from the window of the opposite house—a voice as rich as a tropical sunset, and which made Giovanni, though he knew not why, think of deep hues of purple or crimson and of perfumes heavily delectable. "Are you in the garden?"

"Yes, Beatrice," answered the gardener, "and I need your help."

Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a young girl, arrayed with as much richness of taste as the most splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so deep and vivid that one shade more would have been too much. She looked redundant with life, health, and energy; all of which attributes were bound down and compressed, as it were and girdled tensely, in their luxuriance, by her virgin zone. Yet Giovanni's fancy must have grown morbid while he looked down into the garden; for the impression which the fair stranger made upon him was as if here were another flower, the human sister of those vegetable ones, as beautiful as they, more beautiful than the richest of them, but still to be touched only with a glove, nor to be approached without a mask. As Beatrice came down the garden path, it was observable that she handled and inhaled the odor of several of the plants which her father had most sedulously avoided.

"Here, Beatrice," said the latter, "see how many needful offices require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my life might pay the penalty of approaching it so closely as circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be consigned to your sole charge."

"And gladly will I undertake it," cried again the rich tones of the young lady, as she bent towards the magnificent plant and opened her arms as if to embrace it. "Yes, my sister, my splendour, it shall be Beatrice's task to nurse and serve thee; and thou shalt reward her with thy kisses and perfumed breath, which to her is as the breath of life."

Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly expressed in her words, she busied herself with such attentions as the plant seemed to require; and Giovanni, at his lofty window, rubbed his eyes and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her favorite flower, or one sister performing the duties of affection to another. The scene soon terminated. Whether Dr. Rappaccini had finished his labors in the garden, or that his watchful eye had caught the stranger's face, he now took his daughter's arm and retired. Night was already closing in; oppressive exhalations seemed to proceed from the plants and steal upward past the open window; and Giovanni, closing the lattice, went to his couch and dreamed of a rich flower and beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different, and yet the same, and fraught with some strange peril in either shape.

But there is an influence in the light of morning that tends to rectify whatever errors of fancy, or even of judgment, we may have incurred during the sun's decline, or among the shadows of the night, or in the less wholesome glow of moonshine. Giovanni's first movement, on starting from sleep, was to throw open the window and gaze down into the garden which his dreams had made so fertile of mysteries. He was surprised and a little ashamed to find how real and matter-of-fact an affair it proved to be, in the first rays of the sun which gilded the dew-drops that hung upon leaf and blossom, and, while giving a brighter beauty to each rare flower, brought everything within the limits of ordinary experience. The young man rejoiced that, in the heart of the barren city, he had the privilege of overlooking this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation. It would serve, he said to himself, as a symbolic language to keep him in communion with Nature. Neither the sickly and thoughtworn Dr. Giacomo Rappaccini, it is true, nor his brilliant daughter, were now visible; so that Giovanni could not determine how much of the singularity which he attributed to both was due to their own qualities and how much to his wonder-working fancy; but he was inclined to take a most rational view of the whole matter.

In the course of the day he paid his respects to Signor Pietro Baglioni, professor of medicine in the university, a physician of eminent repute to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of introduction. The professor was an elderly personage, apparently of genial nature, and habits that might almost be called jovial. He kept the young man to dinner, and made himself very agreeable by the freedom and liveliness of his conversation, especially when warmed by a flask or two of Tuscan wine. Giovanni, conceiving that men of science, inhabitants of the same city, must needs be on familiar terms with one another, took an opportunity to mention the name of Dr. Rappaccini. But the professor did not respond with so much cordiality as he had anticipated.

"Ill would it become a teacher of the divine art of medicine," said Professor Pietro Baglioni, in answer to a question of Giovanni, "to withhold due and well-considered praise of a physician so eminently skilled as Rappaccini; but, on the other hand, I should answer it but scantily to my conscience were I to permit a worthy youth like yourself, Signor Giovanni, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe erroneous ideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold your life and death in his hands. The truth is, our worshipful Dr. Rappaccini has as much science as any member of the faculty—with perhaps one single exception—in Padua, or all Italy; but there are certain grave objections to his professional character."

"And what are they?" asked the young man.

"Has my friend Giovanni any disease of body or heart, that he is so inquisitive about physicians?" said the professor, with a smile. "But as for Rappaccini, it is said of him—and I, who know the man well, can answer for its truth—that he cares infinitely more for science than for mankind. His patients are interesting to him only as subjects for some new experiment. He would sacrifice human life, his own among the rest, or whatever else was dearest to him, for the sake of adding so much as a grain of mustard seed to the great heap of his accumulated knowledge."

"Methinks he is an awful man indeed," remarked Guasconti, mentally recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspect of Rappaccini. "And yet, worshipful professor, is it not a noble spirit? Are there many men capable of so spiritual a love of science?"

"God forbid," answered the professor, somewhat testily; "at least, unless they take sounder views of the healing art than those adopted by Rappaccini. It is his theory that all medicinal virtues are comprised within those substances which we term vegetable poisons. These he cultivates with his own hands, and is said even to have produced new varieties of poison, more horribly deleterious than Nature, without the assistance of this learned person, would ever have plagued the world withal. That the signor doctor does less mischief than might be expected with such dangerous substances is undeniable. Now and then, it must be owned, he has effected, or seemed to effect, a marvellous cure; but, to tell you my private mind, Signor Giovanni, he should receive little credit for such instances of success,—they being probably the work of chance,—but should be held strictly accountable for his failures, which may justly be considered his own work."

The youth might have taken Baglioni's opinions with many grains of allowance had he known that there was a professional warfare of long continuance between him and Dr. Rappaccini, in which the latter was generally thought to have gained the advantage. If the reader be inclined to judge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter tracts on both sides, preserved in the medical department of the University of Padua.

"I know not, most learned professor," returned Giovanni, after musing on what had been said of Rappaccini's exclusive zeal for science,—"I know not how dearly this physician may love his art; but surely there is one object more dear to him. He has a daughter."

"Aha!" cried the professor, with a laugh. "So now our friend Giovanni's secret is out. You have heard of this daughter, whom all the young men in Padua are wild about, though not half a dozen have ever had the good hap to see her face. I know little of the Signora Beatrice save that Rappaccini is said to have instructed her deeply in his science, and that, young and beautiful as fame reports her, she is already qualified to fill a professor's chair. Perchance her father destines her for mine! Other absurd rumors there be, not worth talking about or listening to. So now, Signor Giovanni, drink off your glass of lachryma."

Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the wine he had quaffed, and which caused his brain to swim with strange fantasies in reference to Dr. Rappaccini and the beautiful Beatrice. On his way, happening to pass by a florist's, he bought a fresh bouquet of flowers.

Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, but within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in the sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if in acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred. In the midst, by the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple gems clustering all over it; they glowed in the air, and gleamed back again out of the depths of the pool, which thus seemed to overflow with colored radiance from the rich reflection that was steeped in it. At first, as we have said, the garden was a solitude. Soon, however,—as Giovanni had half hoped, half feared, would be the case,—a figure appeared beneath the antique sculptured portal, and came down between the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes as if she were one of those beings of old classic fable that lived upon sweet odors. On again beholding Beatrice, the young man was even startled to perceive how much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it; so brilliant, so vivid, was its character, that she glowed amid the sunlight, and, as Giovanni whispered to himself, positively illuminated the more shadowy intervals of the garden path. Her face being now more revealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by its expression of simplicity and sweetness,—qualities that had not entered into his idea of her character, and which made him ask anew what manner of mortal she might be. Nor did he fail again to observe, or imagine, an analogy between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that hung its gemlike flowers over the fountain,—a resemblance which Beatrice seemed to have indulged a fantastic humor in heightening, both by the arrangement of her dress and the selection of its hues.

Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms, as with a passionate ardor, and drew its branches into an intimate embrace—so intimate that her features were hidden in its leafy bosom and her glistening ringlets all intermingled with the flowers.

"Give me thy breath, my sister," exclaimed Beatrice; "for I am faint with common air. And give me this flower of thine, which I separate with gentlest fingers from the stem and place it close beside my heart."

With these words the beautiful daughter of Rappaccini plucked one of the richest blossoms of the shrub, and was about to fasten it in her bosom. But now, unless Giovanni's draughts of wine had bewildered his senses, a singular incident occurred. A small orange-colored reptile, of the lizard or chameleon species, chanced to be creeping along the path, just at the feet of Beatrice. It appeared to Giovanni,—but, at the distance from which he gazed, he could scarcely have seen anything so minute,—it appeared to him, however, that a drop or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flower descended upon the lizard's head. For an instant the reptile contorted itself violently, and then lay motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice observed this remarkable phenomenon and crossed herself, sadly, but without surprise; nor did she therefore hesitate to arrange the fatal flower in her bosom. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzling effect of a precious stone, adding to her dress and aspect the one appropriate charm which nothing else in the world could have supplied. But Giovanni, out of the shadow of his window, bent forward and shrank back, and murmured and trembled.

"Am I awake? Have I my senses?" said he to himself. "What is this being? Beautiful shall I call her, or inexpressibly terrible?"

Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden, approaching closer beneath Giovanni's window, so that he was compelled to thrust his head quite out of its concealment in order to gratify the intense and painful curiosity which she excited. At this moment there came a beautiful insect over the garden wall; it had, perhaps, wandered through the city, and found no flowers or verdure among those antique haunts of men until the heavy perfumes of Dr. Rappaccini's shrubs had lured it from afar. Without alighting on the flowers, this winged brightness seemed to be attracted by Beatrice, and lingered in the air and fluttered about her head. Now, here it could not be but that Giovanni Guasconti's eyes deceived him. Be that as it might, he fancied that, while Beatrice was gazing at the insect with childish delight, it grew faint and fell at her feet; its bright wings shivered; it was dead—from no cause that he could discern, unless it were the atmosphere of her breath. Again Beatrice crossed herself and sighed heavily as she bent over the dead insect.

An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window. There she beheld the beautiful head of the young man—rather a Grecian than an Italian head, with fair, regular features, and a glistening of gold among his ringlets—gazing down upon her like a being that hovered in mid air. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threw down the bouquet which he had hitherto held in his hand.

"Signora," said he, "there are pure and healthful flowers. Wear them for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti."

"Thanks, signor," replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that came forth as it were like a gush of music, and with a mirthful expression half childish and half woman-like. "I accept your gift, and would fain recompense it with this precious purple flower; but if I toss it into the air it will not reach you. So Signor Guasconti must even content himself with my thanks."

She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then, as if inwardly ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to respond to a stranger's greeting, passed swiftly homeward through the garden. But few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was on the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, that his beautiful bouquet was already beginning to wither in her grasp. It was an idle thought; there could be no possibility of distinguishing a faded flower from a fresh one at so great a distance.

For many days after this incident the young man avoided the window that looked into Dr. Rappaccini's garden, as if something ugly and monstrous would have blasted his eyesight had he been betrayed into a glance. He felt conscious of having put himself, to a certain extent, within the influence of an unintelligible power by the communication which he had opened with Beatrice. The wisest course would have been, if his heart were in any real danger, to quit his lodgings and Padua itself at once; the next wiser, to have accustomed himself, as far as possible, to the familiar and daylight view of Beatrice—thus bringing her rigidly and systematically within the limits of ordinary experience. Least of all, while avoiding her sight, ought Giovanni to have remained so near this extraordinary being that the proximity and possibility even of intercourse should give a kind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which his imagination ran riot continually in producing. Guasconti had not a deep heart—or, at all events, its depths were not sounded now; but he had a quick fancy, and an ardent southern temperament, which rose every instant to a higher fever pitch. Whether or no Beatrice possessed those terrible attributes, that fatal breath, the affinity with those so beautiful and deadly flowers which were indicated by what Giovanni had witnessed, she had at least instilled a fierce and subtle poison into his system. It was not love, although her rich beauty was a madness to him; nor horror, even while he fancied her spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to pervade her physical frame; but a wild offspring of both love and horror that had each parent in it, and burned like one and shivered like the other. Giovanni knew not what to dread; still less did he know what to hope; yet hope and dread kept a continual warfare in his breast, alternately vanquishing one another and starting up afresh to renew the contest. Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or bright! It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the illuminating blaze of the infernal regions.

Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a rapid walk through the streets of Padua or beyond its gates: his footsteps kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the walk was apt to accelerate itself to a race. One day he found himself arrested; his arm was seized by a portly personage, who had turned back on recognizing the young man and expended much breath in overtaking him.

"Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!" cried he. "Have you forgotten me? That might well be the case if I were as much altered as yourself."

It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever since their first meeting, from a doubt that the professor's sagacity would look too deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover himself, he stared forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one and spoke like a man in a dream.

"Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are Professor Pietro Baglioni. Now let me pass!"

"Not yet, not yet, Signor Giovanni Guasconti," said the professor, smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth with an earnest glance. "What! did I grow up side by side with your father? and shall his son pass me like a stranger in these old streets of Padua? Stand still, Signor Giovanni; for we must have a word or two before we part."

"Speedily, then, most worshipful professor, speedily," said Giovanni, with feverish impatience. "Does not your worship see that I am in haste?"

Now, while he was speaking there came a man in black along the street, stooping and moving feebly like a person in inferior health. His face was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue, but yet so pervaded with an expression of piercing and active intellect that an observer might easily have overlooked the merely physical attributes and have seen only this wonderful energy. As he passed, this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation with Baglioni, but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness that seemed to bring out whatever was within him worthy of notice. Nevertheless, there was a peculiar quietness in the look, as if taking merely a speculative, not a human interest, in the young man.

"It is Dr. Rappaccini!" whispered the professor when the stranger had passed. "Has he ever seen your face before?"

"Not that I know," answered Giovanni, starting at the name.

"He HAS seen you! he must have seen you!" said Baglioni, hastily. "For some purpose or other, this man of science is making a study of you. I know that look of his! It is the same that coldly illuminates his face as he bends over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly, which, in pursuance of some experiment, he has killed by the perfume of a flower; a look as deep as Nature itself, but without Nature's warmth of love. Signor Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it, you are the subject of one of Rappaccini's experiments!"

"Will you make a fool of me?" cried Giovanni, passionately. "THAT, signor professor, were an untoward experiment."

"Patience! patience!" replied the imperturbable professor. "I tell thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scientific interest in thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands! And the Signora Beatrice,—what part does she act in this mystery?"

But Guasconti, finding Baglioni's pertinacity intolerable, here broke away, and was gone before the professor could again seize his arm. He looked after the young man intently and shook his head.

"This must not be," said Baglioni to himself. "The youth is the son of my old friend, and shall not come to any harm from which the arcana of medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too insufferable an impertinence in Rappaccini, thus to snatch the lad out of my own hands, as I may say, and make use of him for his infernal experiments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to. Perchance, most learned Rappaccini, I may foil you where you little dream of it!"

Meanwhile Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at length found himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold he was met by old Lisabetta, who smirked and smiled, and was evidently desirous to attract his attention; vainly, however, as the ebullition of his feelings had momentarily subsided into a cold and dull vacuity. He turned his eyes full upon the withered face that was puckering itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not. The old dame, therefore, laid her grasp upon his cloak.

"Signor! signor!" whispered she, still with a smile over the whole breadth of her visage, so that it looked not unlike a grotesque carving in wood, darkened by centuries. "Listen, signor! There is a private entrance into the garden!"

"What do you say?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, as if an inanimate thing should start into feverish life. "A private entrance into Dr. Rappaccini's garden?"

"Hush! hush! not so loud!" whispered Lisabetta, putting her hand over his mouth. "Yes; into the worshipful doctor's garden, where you may see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in Padua would give gold to be admitted among those flowers."

Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand.

"Show me the way," said he.

A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Baglioni, crossed his mind, that this interposition of old Lisabetta might perchance be connected with the intrigue, whatever were its nature, in which the professor seemed to suppose that Dr. Rappaccini was involving him. But such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, was inadequate to restrain him. The instant that he was aware of the possibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed an absolute necessity of his existence to do so. It mattered not whether she were angel or demon; he was irrevocably within her sphere, and must obey the law that whirled him onward, in ever-lessening circles, towards a result which he did not attempt to foreshadow; and yet, strange to say, there came across him a sudden doubt whether this intense interest on his part were not delusory; whether it were really of so deep and positive a nature as to justify him in now thrusting himself into an incalculable position; whether it were not merely the fantasy of a young man's brain, only slightly or not at all connected with his heart.

He paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again went on. His withered guide led him along several obscure passages, and finally undid a door, through which, as it was opened, there came the sight and sound of rustling leaves, with the broken sunshine glimmering among them. Giovanni stepped forth, and, forcing himself through the entanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over the hidden entrance, stood beneath his own window in the open area of Dr. Rappaccini's garden.

How often is it the case that, when impossibilities have come to pass and dreams have condensed their misty substance into tangible realities, we find ourselves calm, and even coldly self-possessed, amid circumstances which it would have been a delirium of joy or agony to anticipate! Fate delights to thwart us thus. Passion will choose his own time to rush upon the scene, and lingers sluggishly behind when an appropriate adjustment of events would seem to summon his appearance. So was it now with Giovanni. Day after day his pulses had throbbed with feverish blood at the improbable idea of an interview with Beatrice, and of standing with her, face to face, in this very garden, basking in the Oriental sunshine of her beauty, and snatching from her full gaze the mystery which he deemed the riddle of his own existence. But now there was a singular and untimely equanimity within his breast. He threw a glance around the garden to discover if Beatrice or her father were present, and, perceiving that he was alone, began a critical observation of the plants.

The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him; their gorgeousness seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. There was hardly an individual shrub which a wanderer, straying by himself through a forest, would not have been startled to find growing wild, as if an unearthly face had glared at him out of the thicket. Several also would have shocked a delicate instinct by an appearance of artificialness indicating that there had been such commixture, and, as it were, adultery, of various vegetable species, that the production was no longer of God's making, but the monstrous offspring of man's depraved fancy, glowing with only an evil mockery of beauty. They were probably the result of experiment, which in one or two cases had succeeded in mingling plants individually lovely into a compound possessing the questionable and ominous character that distinguished the whole growth of the garden. In fine, Giovanni recognized but two or three plants in the collection, and those of a kind that he well knew to be poisonous. While busy with these contemplations he heard the rustling of a silken garment, and, turning, beheld Beatrice emerging from beneath the sculptured portal.

Giovanni had not considered with himself what should be his deportment; whether he should apologize for his intrusion into the garden, or assume that he was there with the privity at least, if not by the desire, of Dr. Rappaccini or his daughter; but Beatrice's manner placed him at his ease, though leaving him still in doubt by what agency he had gained admittance. She came lightly along the path and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in her face, but brightened by a simple and kind expression of pleasure.

"You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor," said Beatrice, with a smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flung her from the window. "It is no marvel, therefore, if the sight of my father's rare collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were here, he could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of these shrubs; for he has spent a lifetime in such studies, and this garden is his world."

"And yourself, lady," observed Giovanni, "if fame says true,—you likewise are deeply skilled in the virtues indicated by these rich blossoms and these spicy perfumes. Would you deign to be my instructress, I should prove an apter scholar than if taught by Signor Rappaccini himself."

"Are there such idle rumors?" asked Beatrice, with the music of a pleasant laugh. "Do people say that I am skilled in my father's science of plants? What a jest is there! No; though I have grown up among these flowers, I know no more of them than their hues and perfume; and sometimes methinks I would fain rid myself of even that small knowledge. There are many flowers here, and those not the least brilliant, that shock and offend me when they meet my eye. But pray, signor, do not believe these stories about my science. Believe nothing of me save what you see with your own eyes."

"And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?" asked Giovanni, pointedly, while the recollection of former scenes made him shrink. "No, signora; you demand too little of me. Bid me believe nothing save what comes from your own lips."

It would appear that Beatrice understood him. There came a deep flush to her cheek; but she looked full into Giovanni's eyes, and responded to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queenlike haughtiness.

"I do so bid you, signor," she replied. "Forget whatever you may have fancied in regard to me. If true to the outward senses, still it may be false in its essence; but the words of Beatrice Rappaccini's lips are true from the depths of the heart outward. Those you may believe."

A fervor glowed in her whole aspect and beamed upon Giovanni's consciousness like the light of truth itself; but while she spoke there was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich and delightful, though evanescent, yet which the young man, from an indefinable reluctance, scarcely dared to draw into his lungs. It might be the odor of the flowers. Could it be Beatrice's breath which thus embalmed her words with a strange richness, as if by steeping them in her heart? A faintness passed like a shadow over Giovanni and flitted away; he seemed to gaze through the beautiful girl's eyes into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fear.

The tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice's manner vanished; she became gay, and appeared to derive a pure delight from her communion with the youth not unlike what the maiden of a lonely island might have felt conversing with a voyager from the civilized world. Evidently her experience of life had been confined within the limits of that garden. She talked now about matters as simple as the daylight or summer clouds, and now asked questions in reference to the city, or Giovanni's distant home, his friends, his mother, and his sisters—questions indicating such seclusion, and such lack of familiarity with modes and forms, that Giovanni responded as if to an infant. Her spirit gushed out before him like a fresh rill that was just catching its first glimpse of the sunlight and wondering at the reflections of earth and sky which were flung into its bosom. There came thoughts, too, from a deep source, and fantasies of a gemlike brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkled upward among the bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anon there gleamed across the young man's mind a sense of wonder that he should be walking side by side with the being who had so wrought upon his imagination, whom he had idealized in such hues of terror, in whom he had positively witnessed such manifestations of dreadful attributes,—that he should be conversing with Beatrice like a brother, and should find her so human and so maidenlike. But such reflections were only momentary; the effect of her character was too real not to make itself familiar at once.

In this free intercourse they had strayed through the garden, and now, after many turns among its avenues, were come to the shattered fountain, beside which grew the magnificent shrub, with its treasury of glowing blossoms. A fragrance was diffused from it which Giovanni recognized as identical with that which he had attributed to Beatrice's breath, but incomparably more powerful. As her eyes fell upon it, Giovanni beheld her press her hand to her bosom as if her heart were throbbing suddenly and painfully.

"For the first time in my life," murmured she, addressing the shrub, "I had forgotten thee."

"I remember, signora," said Giovanni, "that you once promised to reward me with one of these living gems for the bouquet which I had the happy boldness to fling to your feet. Permit me now to pluck it as a memorial of this interview."

He made a step towards the shrub with extended hand; but Beatrice darted forward, uttering a shriek that went through his heart like a dagger. She caught his hand and drew it back with the whole force of her slender figure. Giovanni felt her touch thrilling through his fibres.

"Touch it not!" exclaimed she, in a voice of agony. "Not for thy life! It is fatal!"

Then, hiding her face, she fled from him and vanished beneath the sculptured portal. As Giovanni followed her with his eyes, he beheld the emaciated figure and pale intelligence of Dr. Rappaccini, who had been watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow of the entrance.

No sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber than the image of Beatrice came back to his passionate musings, invested with all the witchery that had been gathering around it ever since his first glimpse of her, and now likewise imbued with a tender warmth of girlish womanhood. She was human; her nature was endowed with all gentle and feminine qualities; she was worthiest to be worshipped; she was capable, surely, on her part, of the height and heroism of love. Those tokens which he had hitherto considered as proofs of a frightful peculiarity in her physical and moral system were now either forgotten, or, by the subtle sophistry of passion transmitted into a golden crown of enchantment, rendering Beatrice the more admirable by so much as she was the more unique. Whatever had looked ugly was now beautiful; or, if incapable of such a change, it stole away and hid itself among those shapeless half ideas which throng the dim region beyond the daylight of our perfect consciousness. Thus did he spend the night, nor fell asleep until the dawn had begun to awake the slumbering flowers in Dr. Rappaccini's garden, whither Giovanni's dreams doubtless led him. Up rose the sun in his due season, and, flinging his beams upon the young man's eyelids, awoke him to a sense of pain. When thoroughly aroused, he became sensible of a burning and tingling agony in his hand—in his right hand—the very hand which Beatrice had grasped in her own when he was on the point of plucking one of the gemlike flowers. On the back of that hand there was now a purple print like that of four small fingers, and the likeness of a slender thumb upon his wrist.

Oh, how stubbornly does love,—or even that cunning semblance of love which flourishes in the imagination, but strikes no depth of root into the heart,—how stubbornly does it hold its faith until the moment comes when it is doomed to vanish into thin mist! Giovanni wrapped a handkerchief about his hand and wondered what evil thing had stung him, and soon forgot his pain in a reverie of Beatrice.

After the first interview, a second was in the inevitable course of what we call fate. A third; a fourth; and a meeting with Beatrice in the garden was no longer an incident in Giovanni's daily life, but the whole space in which he might be said to live; for the anticipation and memory of that ecstatic hour made up the remainder. Nor was it otherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini. She watched for the youth's appearance, and flew to his side with confidence as unreserved as if they had been playmates from early infancy—as if they were such playmates still. If, by any unwonted chance, he failed to come at the appointed moment, she stood beneath the window and sent up the rich sweetness of her tones to float around him in his chamber and echo and reverberate throughout his heart: "Giovanni! Giovanni! Why tarriest thou? Come down!" And down he hastened into that Eden of poisonous flowers.

But, with all this intimate familiarity, there was still a reserve in Beatrice's demeanor, so rigidly and invariably sustained that the idea of infringing it scarcely occurred to his imagination. By all appreciable signs, they loved; they had looked love with eyes that conveyed the holy secret from the depths of one soul into the depths of the other, as if it were too sacred to be whispered by the way; they had even spoken love in those gushes of passion when their spirits darted forth in articulated breath like tongues of long-hidden flame; and yet there had been no seal of lips, no clasp of hands, nor any slightest caress such as love claims and hallows. He had never touched one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair; her garment—so marked was the physical barrier between them—had never been waved against him by a breeze. On the few occasions when Giovanni had seemed tempted to overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so sad, so stern, and withal wore such a look of desolate separation, shuddering at itself, that not a spoken word was requisite to repel him. At such times he was startled at the horrible suspicions that rose, monster-like, out of the caverns of his heart and stared him in the face; his love grew thin and faint as the morning mist, his doubts alone had substance. But, when Beatrice's face brightened again after the momentary shadow, she was transformed at once from the mysterious, questionable being whom he had watched with so much awe and horror; she was now the beautiful and unsophisticated girl whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certainty beyond all other knowledge.

A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni's last meeting with Baglioni. One morning, however, he was disagreeably surprised by a visit from the professor, whom he had scarcely thought of for whole weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. Given up as he had long been to a pervading excitement, he could tolerate no companions except upon condition of their perfect sympathy with his present state of feeling. Such sympathy was not to be expected from Professor Baglioni.

The visitor chatted carelessly for a few moments about the gossip of the city and the university, and then took up another topic.

"I have been reading an old classic author lately," said he, "and met with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly you may remember it. It is of an Indian prince, who sent a beautiful woman as a present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as the dawn and gorgeous as the sunset; but what especially distinguished her was a certain rich perfume in her breath—richer than a garden of Persian roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthful conqueror, fell in love at first sight with this magnificent stranger; but a certain sage physician, happening to be present, discovered a terrible secret in regard to her."

"And what was that?" asked Giovanni, turning his eyes downward to avoid those of the professor.

"That this lovely woman," continued Baglioni, with emphasis, "had been nourished with poisons from her birth upward, until her whole nature was so imbued with them that she herself had become the deadliest poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. With that rich perfume of her breath she blasted the very air. Her love would have been poison—her embrace death. Is not this a marvellous tale?"

"A childish fable," answered Giovanni, nervously starting from his chair. "I marvel how your worship finds time to read such nonsense among your graver studies."

"By the by," said the professor, looking uneasily about him, "what singular fragrance is this in your apartment? Is it the perfume of your gloves? It is faint, but delicious; and yet, after all, by no means agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, methinks it would make me ill. It is like the breath of a flower; but I see no flowers in the chamber."

"Nor are there any," replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as the professor spoke; "nor, I think, is there any fragrance except in your worship's imagination. Odors, being a sort of element combined of the sensual and the spiritual, are apt to deceive us in this manner. The recollection of a perfume, the bare idea of it, may easily be mistaken for a present reality."

"Ay; but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks," said Baglioni; "and, were I to fancy any kind of odor, it would be that of some vile apothecary drug, wherewith my fingers are likely enough to be imbued. Our worshipful friend Rappaccini, as I have heard, tinctures his medicaments with odors richer than those of Araby. Doubtless, likewise, the fair and learned Signora Beatrice would minister to her patients with draughts as sweet as a maiden's breath; but woe to him that sips them!"

Giovanni's face evinced many contending emotions. The tone in which the professor alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of Rappaccini was a torture to his soul; and yet the intimation of a view of her character opposite to his own, gave instantaneous distinctness to a thousand dim suspicions, which now grinned at him like so many demons. But he strove hard to quell them and to respond to Baglioni with a true lover's perfect faith.

"Signor professor," said he, "you were my father's friend; perchance, too, it is your purpose to act a friendly part towards his son. I would fain feel nothing towards you save respect and deference; but I pray you to observe, signor, that there is one subject on which we must not speak. You know not the Signora Beatrice. You cannot, therefore, estimate the wrong—the blasphemy, I may even say—that is offered to her character by a light or injurious word."

"Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!" answered the professor, with a calm expression of pity, "I know this wretched girl far better than yourself. You shall hear the truth in respect to the poisoner Rappaccini and his poisonous daughter; yes, poisonous as she is beautiful. Listen; for, even should you do violence to my gray hairs, it shall not silence me. That old fable of the Indian woman has become a truth by the deep and deadly science of Rappaccini and in the person of the lovely Beatrice."

Giovanni groaned and hid his face

"Her father," continued Baglioni, "was not restrained by natural affection from offering up his child in this horrible manner as the victim of his insane zeal for science; for, let us do him justice, he is as true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in an alembic. What, then, will be your fate? Beyond a doubt you are selected as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be death; perhaps a fate more awful still. Rappaccini, with what he calls the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitate at nothing."

"It is a dream," muttered Giovanni to himself; "surely it is a dream."

"But," resumed the professor, "be of good cheer, son of my friend. It is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly we may even succeed in bringing back this miserable child within the limits of ordinary nature, from which her father's madness has estranged her. Behold this little silver vase! It was wrought by the hands of the renowned Benvenuto Cellini, and is well worthy to be a love gift to the fairest dame in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. One little sip of this antidote would have rendered the most virulent poisons of the Borgias innocuous. Doubt not that it will be as efficacious against those of Rappaccini. Bestow the vase, and the precious liquid within it, on your Beatrice, and hopefully await the result."

Baglioni laid a small, exquisitely wrought silver vial on the table and withdrew, leaving what he had said to produce its effect upon the young man's mind.

"We will thwart Rappaccini yet," thought he, chuckling to himself, as he descended the stairs; "but, let us confess the truth of him, he is a wonderful man—a wonderful man indeed; a vile empiric, however, in his practice, and therefore not to be tolerated by those who respect the good old rules of the medical profession."

Throughout Giovanni's whole acquaintance with Beatrice, he had occasionally, as we have said, been haunted by dark surmises as to her character; yet so thoroughly had she made herself felt by him as a simple, natural, most affectionate, and guileless creature, that the image now held up by Professor Baglioni looked as strange and incredible as if it were not in accordance with his own original conception. True, there were ugly recollections connected with his first glimpses of the beautiful girl; he could not quite forget the bouquet that withered in her grasp, and the insect that perished amid the sunny air, by no ostensible agency save the fragrance of her breath. These incidents, however, dissolving in the pure light of her character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, but were acknowledged as mistaken fantasies, by whatever testimony of the senses they might appear to be substantiated. There is something truer and more real than what we can see with the eyes and touch with the finger. On such better evidence had Giovanni founded his confidence in Beatrice, though rather by the necessary force of her high attributes than by any deep and generous faith on his part. But now his spirit was incapable of sustaining itself at the height to which the early enthusiasm of passion had exalted it; he fell down, grovelling among earthly doubts, and defiled therewith the pure whiteness of Beatrice's image. Not that he gave her up; he did but distrust. He resolved to institute some decisive test that should satisfy him, once for all, whether there were those dreadful peculiarities in her physical nature which could not be supposed to exist without some corresponding monstrosity of soul. His eyes, gazing down afar, might have deceived him as to the lizard, the insect, and the flowers; but if he could witness, at the distance of a few paces, the sudden blight of one fresh and healthful flower in Beatrice's hand, there would be room for no further question. With this idea he hastened to the florist's and purchased a bouquet that was still gemmed with the morning dew-drops.

It was now the customary hour of his daily interview with Beatrice. Before descending into the garden, Giovanni failed not to look at his figure in the mirror,—a vanity to be expected in a beautiful young man, yet, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish moment, the token of a certain shallowness of feeling and insincerity of character. He did gaze, however, and said to himself that his features had never before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes such vivacity, nor his cheeks so warm a hue of superabundant life.

"At least," thought he, "her poison has not yet insinuated itself into my system. I am no flower to perish in her grasp."

With that thought he turned his eyes on the bouquet, which he had never once laid aside from his hand. A thrill of indefinable horror shot through his frame on perceiving that those dewy flowers were already beginning to droop; they wore the aspect of things that had been fresh and lovely yesterday. Giovanni grew white as marble, and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection there as at the likeness of something frightful. He remembered Baglioni's remark about the fragrance that seemed to pervade the chamber. It must have been the poison in his breath! Then he shuddered—shuddered at himself. Recovering from his stupor, he began to watch with curious eye a spider that was busily at work hanging its web from the antique cornice of the apartment, crossing and recrossing the artful system of interwoven lines—as vigorous and active a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. Giovanni bent towards the insect, and emitted a deep, long breath. The spider suddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with a tremor originating in the body of the small artisan. Again Giovanni sent forth a breath, deeper, longer, and imbued with a venomous feeling out of his heart: he knew not whether he were wicked, or only desperate. The spider made a convulsive gripe with his limbs and hung dead across the window.

"Accursed! accursed!" muttered Giovanni, addressing himself. "Hast thou grown so poisonous that this deadly insect perishes by thy breath?"

At that moment a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden.

"Giovanni! Giovanni! It is past the hour! Why tarriest thou? Come down!"

"Yes," muttered Giovanni again. "She is the only being whom my breath may not slay! Would that it might!"

He rushed down, and in an instant was standing before the bright and loving eyes of Beatrice. A moment ago his wrath and despair had been so fierce that he could have desired nothing so much as to wither her by a glance; but with her actual presence there came influences which had too real an existence to be at once shaken off: recollections of the delicate and benign power of her feminine nature, which had so often enveloped him in a religious calm; recollections of many a holy and passionate outgush of her heart, when the pure fountain had been unsealed from its depths and made visible in its transparency to his mental eye; recollections which, had Giovanni known how to estimate them, would have assured him that all this ugly mystery was but an earthly illusion, and that, whatever mist of evil might seem to have gathered over her, the real Beatrice was a heavenly angel. Incapable as he was of such high faith, still her presence had not utterly lost its magic. Giovanni's rage was quelled into an aspect of sullen insensibility. Beatrice, with a quick spiritual sense, immediately felt that there was a gulf of blackness between them which neither he nor she could pass. They walked on together, sad and silent, and came thus to the marble fountain and to its pool of water on the ground, in the midst of which grew the shrub that bore gem-like blossoms. Giovanni was affrighted at the eager enjoyment—the appetite, as it were—with which he found himself inhaling the fragrance of the flowers.

"Beatrice," asked he, abruptly, "whence came this shrub?"

"My father created it," answered she, with simplicity.

"Created it! created it!" repeated Giovanni. "What mean you, Beatrice?"

"He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of Nature," replied Beatrice; "and, at the hour when I first drew breath, this plant sprang from the soil, the offspring of his science, of his intellect, while I was but his earthly child. Approach it not!" continued she, observing with terror that Giovanni was drawing nearer to the shrub. "It has qualities that you little dream of. But I, dearest Giovanni,—I grew up and blossomed with the plant and was nourished with its breath. It was my sister, and I loved it with a human affection; for, alas!—hast thou not suspected it?—there was an awful doom."

Here Giovanni frowned so darkly upon her that Beatrice paused and trembled. But her faith in his tenderness reassured her, and made her blush that she had doubted for an instant.

"There was an awful doom," she continued, "the effect of my father's fatal love of science, which estranged me from all society of my kind. Until Heaven sent thee, dearest Giovanni, oh, how lonely was thy poor Beatrice!"

"Was it a hard doom?" asked Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her.

"Only of late have I known how hard it was," answered she, tenderly. "Oh, yes; but my heart was torpid, and therefore quiet."

Giovanni's rage broke forth from his sullen gloom like a lightning flash out of a dark cloud.

"Accursed one!" cried he, with venomous scorn and anger. "And, finding thy solitude wearisome, thou hast severed me likewise from all the warmth of life and enticed me into thy region of unspeakable horror!"

"Giovanni!" exclaimed Beatrice, turning her large bright eyes upon his face. The force of his words had not found its way into her mind; she was merely thunderstruck.

"Yes, poisonous thing!" repeated Giovanni, beside himself with passion. "Thou hast done it! Thou hast blasted me! Thou hast filled my veins with poison! Thou hast made me as hateful, as ugly, as loathsome and deadly a creature as thyself—a world's wonder of hideous monstrosity! Now, if our breath be happily as fatal to ourselves as to all others, let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterable hatred, and so die!"

"What has befallen me?" murmured Beatrice, with a low moan out of her heart. "Holy Virgin, pity me, a poor heart-broken child!"

"Thou,—dost thou pray?" cried Giovanni, still with the same fiendish scorn. "Thy very prayers, as they come from thy lips, taint the atmosphere with death. Yes, yes; let us pray! Let us to church and dip our fingers in the holy water at the portal! They that come after us will perish as by a pestilence! Let us sign crosses in the air! It will be scattering curses abroad in the likeness of holy symbols!"

"Giovanni," said Beatrice, calmly, for her grief was beyond passion, "why dost thou join thyself with me thus in those terrible words? I, it is true, am the horrible thing thou namest me. But thou,—what hast thou to do, save with one other shudder at my hideous misery to go forth out of the garden and mingle with thy race, and forget there ever crawled on earth such a monster as poor Beatrice?"

"Dost thou pretend ignorance?" asked Giovanni, scowling upon her. "Behold! this power have I gained from the pure daughter of Rappaccini."

There was a swarm of summer insects flitting through the air in search of the food promised by the flower odors of the fatal garden. They circled round Giovanni's head, and were evidently attracted towards him by the same influence which had drawn them for an instant within the sphere of several of the shrubs. He sent forth a breath among them, and smiled bitterly at Beatrice as at least a score of the insects fell dead upon the ground.

"I see it! I see it!" shrieked Beatrice. "It is my father's fatal science! No, no, Giovanni; it was not I! Never! never! I dreamed only to love thee and be with thee a little time, and so to let thee pass away, leaving but thine image in mine heart; for, Giovanni, believe it, though my body be nourished with poison, my spirit is God's creature, and craves love as its daily food. But my father,—he has united us in this fearful sympathy. Yes; spurn me, tread upon me, kill me! Oh, what is death after such words as thine? But it was not I. Not for a world of bliss would I have done it."

Giovanni's passion had exhausted itself in its outburst from his lips. There now came across him a sense, mournful, and not without tenderness, of the intimate and peculiar relationship between Beatrice and himself. They stood, as it were, in an utter solitude, which would be made none the less solitary by the densest throng of human life. Ought not, then, the desert of humanity around them to press this insulated pair closer together? If they should be cruel to one another, who was there to be kind to them? Besides, thought Giovanni, might there not still be a hope of his returning within the limits of ordinary nature, and leading Beatrice, the redeemed Beatrice, by the hand? O, weak, and selfish, and unworthy spirit, that could dream of an earthly union and earthly happiness as possible, after such deep love had been so bitterly wronged as was Beatrice's love by Giovanni's blighting words! No, no; there could be no such hope. She must pass heavily, with that broken heart, across the borders of Time—she must bathe her hurts in some fount of paradise, and forget her grief in the light of immortality, and THERE be well.

But Giovanni did not know it.

"Dear Beatrice," said he, approaching her, while she shrank away as always at his approach, but now with a different impulse, "dearest Beatrice, our fate is not yet so desperate. Behold! there is a medicine, potent, as a wise physician has assured me, and almost divine in its efficacy. It is composed of ingredients the most opposite to those by which thy awful father has brought this calamity upon thee and me. It is distilled of blessed herbs. Shall we not quaff it together, and thus be purified from evil?"

"Give it me!" said Beatrice, extending her hand to receive the little silver vial which Giovanni took from his bosom. She added, with a peculiar emphasis, "I will drink; but do thou await the result."

She put Baglioni's antidote to her lips; and, at the same moment, the figure of Rappaccini emerged from the portal and came slowly towards the marble fountain. As he drew near, the pale man of science seemed to gaze with a triumphant expression at the beautiful youth and maiden, as might an artist who should spend his life in achieving a picture or a group of statuary and finally be satisfied with his success. He paused; his bent form grew erect with conscious power; he spread out his hands over them in the attitude of a father imploring a blessing upon his children; but those were the same hands that had thrown poison into the stream of their lives. Giovanni trembled. Beatrice shuddered nervously, and pressed her hand upon her heart.

"My daughter," said Rappaccini, "thou art no longer lonely in the world. Pluck one of those precious gems from thy sister shrub and bid thy bridegroom wear it in his bosom. It will not harm him now. My science and the sympathy between thee and him have so wrought within his system that he now stands apart from common men, as thou dost, daughter of my pride and triumph, from ordinary women. Pass on, then, through the world, most dear to one another and dreadful to all besides!"

"My father," said Beatrice, feebly,—and still as she spoke she kept her hand upon her heart,—"wherefore didst thou inflict this miserable doom upon thy child?"

"Miserable!" exclaimed Rappaccini. "What mean you, foolish girl? Dost thou deem it misery to be endowed with marvellous gifts against which no power nor strength could avail an enemy—misery, to be able to quell the mightiest with a breath—misery, to be as terrible as thou art beautiful? Wouldst thou, then, have preferred the condition of a weak woman, exposed to all evil and capable of none?"

"I would fain have been loved, not feared," murmured Beatrice, sinking down upon the ground. "But now it matters not. I am going, father, where the evil which thou hast striven to mingle with my being will pass away like a dream-like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers, which will no longer taint my breath among the flowers of Eden. Farewell, Giovanni! Thy words of hatred are like lead within my heart; but they, too, will fall away as I ascend. Oh, was there not, from the first, more poison in thy nature than in mine?"

To Beatrice,—so radically had her earthly part been wrought upon by Rappaccini's skill,—as poison had been life, so the powerful antidote was death; and thus the poor victim of man's ingenuity and of thwarted nature, and of the fatality that attends all such efforts of perverted wisdom, perished there, at the feet of her father and Giovanni. Just at that moment Professor Pietro Baglioni looked forth from the window, and called loudly, in a tone of triumph mixed with horror, to the thunderstricken man of science, "Rappaccini! Rappaccini! and is THIS the upshot of your experiment!"

0 notes

ellanainthetardis · 7 years ago

Photo

Hey hey hey! Are you ready for your Sunday dose of baby fic? Let me know your thoughts!

[FF] or [AO3]

22. Twenty-seven Weeks.

Effie passed her hand on the neatly folded piles of rompers, pants and little sweaters she had just placed in the brand new white dresser. They were starting to have a real collection of them but nowhere near enough in her opinion, the two piles looked small and lost in the big drawer. She was eager to go on a shopping spree but found herself hindered by the still deep coat of snow. Reaching the train station to see her mother off two weeks earlier had almost been too much for her, she had slept for hours afterwards.

People brought her clothes though, as well as stuffed animals or colorful toys… Eileen had brought a darling little elephant with a blue bowtie… So soft… She had placed it on the shelf Haymitch had screwed in a couple of days earlier along with a few other toys. The rag doll Haymitch had bought for her, the one he had brought to Four with him, was proudly displayed on the dresser for the time being. She liked touching it when her nerves played tricks on her. It calmed her down, reminded her they were in this together, that they could do it.

The nursery was finally taking form.

The dresser, the baby-changing table, a baby carrier that had been left in the corner for now, soft rugs and lovely little curtains, a rocking chair, shelves that were still mostly empty… She loved the cartoon animals Peeta had painted for their son…

She knew they had time yet, she had barely started her seventh month, but with the beginning of the third trimester, she was starting to fret again.

“We need to baby proof the house.” she declared. They needed to make sure plugs would be safe, kitchen drawers would remain shut, that no little hands would close on sharp objects or little lips swallow something vile… They would need a gate for the stairs and so many other things…

“By we, you mean me.” Haymitch snorted from where he was sitting on the floor, trying to piece the crib together.

There had been a long and heavy debate about cribs. Effie had wanted two. One for the nursery and one for their bedroom because it had seemed logical to her that a baby would require a lot of coming and going at night at first and it seemed stupid to actually get up who knew how many times every night – all the more so given that she would end up having to be the one to get out of bed since she would be the food source. Haymitch had absolutely refused the idea of a crib in the bedroom, arguing that the baby would get used to it and then they would have all the pain in the world getting him used to sleeping alone in his room.

At which point the actual idea of being separated from her child even if it was by a corridor had been too much and she had started to cry.

Haymitch’s face at that moment had been almost comical.

It was exhaustion mostly. She was suffering from bouts of restlessness followed by hours when her whole body felt heavy and tired and all she could do was nap or lie on the couch like the big whale she was in danger of becoming.

Everyone told her it was normal but she was still anxious.

She wanted everything to be ready, she needed everything to be ready. It didn’t matter that they had three months left.

“You will be the hands and I will be the brain.” she teased.

“Sure, sweetheart. Keep telling yourself that.” He rolled his eyes. “Sit down, yeah? You’ve been on your feet for a while.”

She pursed her lips at that deflection but snatched the notepad from where she had left it on the floor – not without a lot of difficulties because her belly was big – and settled on the rocking-chair. She added baby proofing to her long list.

Eileen said she was nesting, that it was normal.

She deeply resented the implication that she was acting like a poultry of some kind but couldn’t deny the truth of that statement.

During their last phone call, Lyssa had laughed at her complaining nothing was ready and had told her what she truly needed to get ready for was the birth, that there was a reason she had chosen to use a surrogate for her second pregnancy. Her sister had meant nothing by it, it was an innocent joke, but it had sent Effie in a state.

She hadn’t really thought about the actual birth yet. The aftermath, yes… Holding her baby, probably crying a lot out of relief at finally having him in her arms… But the actual birth was a sort of limbo she had been happy not to consider.

Reading chapters about delivery was somewhere on her list, between getting a diaper bag and buy more lotion because she was running low and she was very invested in avoiding stretch marks. Haymitch loved helping her in that endeavor even though it had less to do with what she would look like once she wasn’t pregnant anymore and more to do with rubbing cream all over her. It was alright with her, her belly was a hindrance now and they needed to be creative where sex was concerned.

“So, I was thinking…” he continued distractedly as he screwed together two pieces of white wood. She wanted to tell him to be careful with the paint but knew it would end up with a rant about how he could still put furniture together without making a mess, thank you very much Effie. “How about Silas?”

Finding a name was at the top of her list, underlined twice and circled three times. She had notepads filled with potential names. The problem was, they didn’t seem to be able to agree on any.

“Silas.” she repeated, testing it out. She imagined herself calling her little boy on the playground and wrinkled her nose. “Why not Chryses? It means golden. I knew a Chryses, very good name…” He tossed her a look and she rolled her eyes, rubbing her belly. “Daddy doesn’t want you to have a pretty name, baby. He wants to call you shrimp all your life.”

“I want him to have a good name, a solid name.” he grumbled. “And you and I don’t have the same definition of pretty.”

She rocked slowly, drawing soothing circles on her belly, humming the tune Haymitch had taught her. Learning nurse rhymes and lullabies were on her list too but for now she was content with only that one. A part of her was impatient for that moment when she would sit there with her baby cradled close to her chest, rocking him to sleep. Another part of her was terrified.

“Hush little baby, don’t you cry…” she sang softly when she felt their son stir a bit too violently. He would kick her bladder again and she would have to rush to the bathroom and she was tired of that happening. “Mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby. Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird...”

She did have the best voice from the two of them but she couldn’t help a soft smile when Haymitch absentmindedly picked up the tune, so focused on what he was doing with that crib she hardly thought he was aware of even singing.

“If that mockingbird won’t sing, Papa’s gonna buy you a golden ring…” The crib was finally starting to look like a crib and he frowned, testing it by pushing down a little. “And if that golden ring turns to brass, Papa’s gonna buy you a looking glass. And if that looking glass gets broke, Papa’s gonna buy you a billy goat…” More like a pack of geese, she thought, as he distractedly went on with the song up until the crib looked done and secured and he reached out for her, brushing his knuckles against the swell of her stomach. “And if that horse and cart fall down, you’ll still be the sweetest baby in town.”

“I love you.” she grinned. “And you are cute.”

“I’m not!” he sputtered.

“Oh, yes, you are…” she insisted, her grin only deepening when the tip of his ears and the back of his neck started reddening. “You will be a doting father…”

“I’ll count myself lucky if the kid doesn’t end up hating me.” he mumbled, turning away from her.

“If he ends up hating one of us, it won’t be you.” she whispered, averting her eyes. They fell on the cat rag doll on the dresser, on the embroidered I love my mommy that she used as a reminder, and she forced a cheer in her voice. “Now, are you one hundred percent certain the crib won’t collapse?”

“No. I thought our boy would like it better if it broke.” he deadpanned. “More fun.”

She whacked him with her notepad. “I am serious.”

“Well, so am I.” he scoffed, testing the crib’s resistance by placing his heavy tool box in it. “See? It holds.”

She pursed her lips. “This box is filthy. Nothing filthy gets near my son. That includes your birds, by the way.”

“My birds aren’t filthy.” he argued. “And what about your dog? He fucking jumped in a puddle of mud this morning, you’ve seen the state of him?”

She had. Which was why he had been exiled to the backyard for the time being even though it meant the geese honked twice more as usual. She was hoping playing in the snow would wash some of the mud away.

“Snowball is not my dog.” she huffed. “I am not the one who was begging for a puppy like a five years old.”

“But you’re the one who corrupted him with your pretty baby bullshit.” he accused. “You made him a mama’s boy.”

“Oh, are we jealous, Haymitch?” she teased, cooing a little. She trapped his arm in hers and pressed a kiss on his shoulder, breathing in the smell of the woods that clung to the wool from his morning walk with Snowball.

“You stole my dog.” he muttered with a pout.

“I thought it was my dog.” she taunted but shook her head. “Do not be ridiculous. Snowball loves you.”

“Maybe.” he mumbled, burying his hands in his pockets. “But give him a choice and he will stay with you.”

“Because I am pregnant and he feels it is his duty to guard me.” She gently bumped her belly with his side. “Don’t you think he knows?”

Dogs knew things. And they had the smartest puppy in Panem. Of course, he knew.

“Yeah.” Haymitch agreed, smirking a little. “You get once the shrimp’s here, it won’t be our dog anymore, yeah? I bet whatever you want, the puppy will be all over him.”

A puppy this size all over her baby didn’t seem safe but she kept her tongue on that front for now. They could always teach Snowball to be careful. The puppy was a fast learner.

“Are you ready to bet chocolate chipped mint ice cream with maybe some whipped cream and a side of orange jam on grilled toasts?” she asked innocently. “Oh, and that hot chocolate with cinnamon they have at the coffee shop?”

“That’s very specific, Princess.” he snorted. “Is that a random bet or is it your way of saying you’re having cravings again and I’m gonna have to rush all around town to get all that?”

She raised on tip toes to press two kisses on his cheek and one at the corner of his mouth. “Please, please, please?”

She was dying for mint ice cream and hot chocolate. And toasts. With orange jam.

The cravings were hitting her late in the pregnancy, later than most women. They had been happening steadily for a week or so and if Haymitch had been amused at first by the few innocent requests during the day, he hadn’t been so amused when she had pitched a tantrum at three am because she wanted strawberries and there were none to be found in the dead of winter.

He made a face. “That’s a lot of sugar, sweetheart…”

“You kept saying I needed to fatten up.” she pointed out.

She was certainly fattened up now. Well… She still wasn’t huge by someone else’s standard but she was a tiny person and she felt like she was ready to explode. The fact that there were still three months to go was frightening.

“Yeah, put on some weight, not give yourself diabetes…” he commented.

She couldn’t stop a flash of annoyance from passing on her face at getting denied. “The baby wants it.”

“The baby wants to be healthy.” he countered and, because she had let go of his arm and was now openly glaring, he lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Tell you what… You can have the ice cream and the hot chocolate but we drop the whipped cream and the jam.”

“I want the jam.” she growled. “On grilled toasts.”

Haymitch had never been good at admitting defeat but he knew for a fact she would brave the snow and trek into town herself if she had too. Cravings weren’t to be taken lightly.

“No whipped cream.” he insisted.

“Spoil joy.” she accused, pecking his mouth. “Hurry, I am starving.”

He rolled his eyes and breathed out a long suffering sigh to let her know just how impossible she was before stealing another kiss.

“You’ll be okay on your own?” he asked once they were downstairs and he was slipping on his coat. “I can stop by the kids’ and ask one of them to…”

“I will be fine.” she interrupted him firmly, as much to convince him as herself. She had hardly been left home alone since… Since Clay. “I am keeping Snowball anyway. He needs a bath.”

And she would be fine with her guard puppy. She had no doubt he would jump at the throat of anyone who would try to attack her.

“Don’t overdo it.” he warned.

The second he opened the back door, Snowball came rushing in, joyfully barking at being allowed back inside. She had to grab his collar to prevent him from running around. Even then, when he shook the water off his fur, he sent speckles everywhere. He was a mess of wet hair and tangled mud crusted fur.

“You are one very disgusting puppy.” she chided him. “Jumping in a puddle of mud like a ruffian. I expect more distinguished behavior from you.” The rebuke flew high over his head. He barked, wriggling his tail left and right in excitement, his head nuzzling her hand, pleading to be petted. When he realized Haymitch was heading out, he tried to follow but she held fast. “Ah. Ah.” She clicked her tongue. “Bad puppies don’t get to go out. Bad puppies get baths.”

“Can’t wait for you to give the same lecture to our kid, sweetheart.” Haymitch snorted as a goodbye.

Convincing Snowball to follow her upstairs wasn’t terribly difficult, neither was ordering him to hop in the bathtub. Haymitch had laughed at her and claimed she would make the puppy soft by pampering him like that, he had mocked her when she had ordered boxes of dog shampoo from the city… But having made sure the dog accepted baths easily from the very first week had made it a lot easier to keep him clean.

He enjoyed it well enough even.

He had grown a lot in the eight weeks they had had him. He was bigger than most dogs one could find in the Capitol now.

It took her a good total of twenty minutes to clean him up, brush him, towel him and then blow dry his fur – easily his favorite part of the whole process, he liked to roll around while she did it.

She was really yearning for mint ice cream and her hot chocolate by the time she was done but Haymitch still wasn’t back. She wandered upstairs, looking for something to do…

Her eyes fell on the attic trap almost by accident. She had never been up there yet. She wondered what Haymitch stocked there before her mind flashed to years of boxed clothes she had bought for him and he had deemed too ridiculous or fancy for Twelve – she had given him dozens of suits every Game season but he had only kept the other stuff around the house: the comfortable pants and sweaters, the sweatpants, the underwear and only a few good jackets. With nothing else to do and unable to keep her nesting tendencies under check, she opened the trap and climb the pull down ladder – harder than she had thought it would be.

She panted for a bit once at the top, sneezing because of the amount of dust she had disturbed. Stuck at the bottom of the ladder, Snowball whimpered and then lied down, resigning himself to wait for her.

She struggled to find the switch and made a face once the old bulb slowly flickered to life.

The attic was a mess, messier perhaps than the rest of the house had been when she had moved in. There were a lot of boxes haphazardly piled up, some weren’t even properly closed, the cardboard was wavy… There was a damp musty smell and she wondered if the roof was leaking in some places because some of the boxes were stained at the bottom…

A quick check confirmed that the closest boxes were full of mostly still good clothes. Some clips from newspapers and pictures had been crammed with the suits he hadn’t wanted, making it somehow easy to identify to which year the box belonged. As far as she could tell, there was a box for each of her years as his escort. Before her time, it seemed none of the clothes that he had been given had pleased him because there were at least four or five for each season and she gave up on sorting that halfway through. She did find a picture of Haymitch and Chaff with their arms tossed around each other’s shoulders, grinning hard at the camera, looking not a breath older than twenty and twenty-five, that she pocketed absent-mindedly…

More interesting was the junk piled up at the far end of the mansard roof. She didn’t understand what it was at first, it was only when she walked closer, treading carefully because the floorboard was made of uneven rough planks, that she understood what she was looking at. Twisted metal and charred wood…

Burned furniture…

Burned furniture that had been gathering dust in the attic for almost twenty-eight years.

She reached for the closest piece of wood and then thought better of it, not certain the whole thing wouldn’t crumble at the softest of touch.

She identified a couple of chairs, what looked like a metallic child-sized bed frame, a crudely carved rocking horse cut in half… The rest she couldn’t quite make out but she was certain it had belonged to a small house in the Seam once upon a time. Her eyes kept darting back to the destroyed rocking horse and she couldn’t help but blink back tears at the thought of what had happened to his owner.

Haymitch’s brother had only been eleven. He would have had her age nowadays.

She reached for her stomach but the baby was asleep now, which she regretted. The closest box to the furniture was also clearly the oldest in the room. The cardboard was pliant under her fingers, defeated by humidity. She sat down to better look inside.

It didn’t contain much.

A few forks and knives warped by the heat of the blaze that had swallowed the house, some equally distorted knick knacks and a few blackened books with missing pages, covers or spines. She wondered how all that stuff had ended up there and her heart bled at the thought of a lost sixteen year old Haymitch haunting the charred remains of his family’s house, picking up everything he could find and clinging to those odd mementoes.

Her apartment had been ransacked enough during the war that there hadn’t been much of anything left for her to find when she had finally been released from the rebels’ custody. She understood what it felt like to lose everything: your belongings, your keepsakes, memories, objects that were sometimes the only thing you had left from someone now deceased… It had nearly destroyed her at thirty-five, she couldn’t imagine going through that at sixteen.

She shouldn’t have been going through those boxes. It was clear they hadn’t been touched in decades…

The next box she opened was from his old house too but more terrible in the sense that it was almost empty. She picked up a crumpled yellowish glassy paper before realizing it was a picture that had been half swallowed by the fire. Ironically enough, the only face that hadn’t melted on the picture was Haymitch’s – which was why it had been crumpled no doubt. He looked younger than she had ever seen him, around thirteen or fourteen maybe, boyish still yet not quite carefree…

There was a metal box that looked rusty but untouched by the flames and absolutely too chiseled for something coming from Twelve. She turned it around, not quite surprised to find the mark of a now out of fashion Capitol jewelry maker underneath. She struggled to open it, not quite surprised either to find two rings in there. One was shaped like an iris and had probably been destined to the woman who shared the flower’s name. The other was plainer, a spiral of dozens of smaller diamonds, so obviously an engagement ring that it made her rub her belly again, too aware that in another life, things might have turned out very differently. She closed the metal box and placed it back down. Those were gifts that Haymitch had never had an opportunity to give…

She found various yellowed sheets of paper, half burned or torn away, pressed into an empty notebook. Numbers mostly, grocery lists, single words that made no sense without the context the missing parts would have afforded… It took her a minute to realize it was probably his mother’s handwriting. Likewise, she found a faded blue exercise book that had clearly belonged to his brother. Hayden Abernathy. The name was written on the inside in neat pointy letters.

She brushed the tips of her fingers against it, wishing with all her heart things had been different. No matter what it would have meant for the two of them… Haymitch would have been much happier not being the example. If he had only been allowed to keep his family…

She placed the exercise book aside and reached for the last item, an old warped tin can that might have belonged in a kitchen at some point. She opened it, expecting… something, anything… but not ashes.

She almost dropped the box.

“It’s not them.”

She startled and jumped, only managing by sheer reflexes not to spill the contents of the box. She placed a hand on her chest, trying to convince her heart to stop hammering as she glared at Haymitch.

“Do not creep up on me like that!” she snapped.

“I banged the door, the dog made a racket and I fucking called you three times.” he snarled, just as irritated as she was. “What the hell are you doing snooping around here anyway?”

Had he called her? She had been so wrapped up in this weird moment…

He was tense, in full fight or flight mode, and she licked her lips, her annoyance fading, knowing she needed to tread carefully.

“I was not snooping.” she denied.

“Could have fooled me.” he sneered.

“I apologize. I truly did not mean to intrude. I just… I saw the boxes and… I didn’t realize what these ones were until I had opened them.” She put the lid back and cautiously placed the box down where she had found it before trying to get up – something far more difficult than it used to be.

He hauled her up with a hand at her elbow and the other under her armpit, his face unreadable.

“Your snack’s downstairs.” he told her and turned away without a single look for the burned mementoes of his past.

He went down first and made sure she walked down the ladder without problem but he didn’t say a word. She tried to lighten the mood once they were in the kitchen and she spotted the chocolate chipped mint ice cream, the orange jam and the steaming cup of hot chocolate with cinnamon branded with the Clarkes’ coffee shop logo, thanking him cheerfully by kissing the corner of his lips. He suffered the kiss but didn’t encourage her to do more or joke about how cheap a date she was.

He grabbed the second cup that had been abandoned on the counter and sipped from it, paying her no attention as he watched the backyard through the window over the sink. She could smell the rich flagrance of black coffee from where she was sitting but she didn’t complain, spooning some ice cream directly from the tub instead. His back was on her, tension obvious in the line of his shoulders, and she bore it as long as she could.

The clever approach would have been to drop the matter entirely, to pretend nothing had happened and let him come back to her on his own terms, once he would have calmed down. That was what she would have done a few months earlier, not force the issue in fear he would run away from her.

But since the baby…

They had been good at talking the issues through – well, maybe not good but at least they had been trying. And that was a particular issue she had though he had laid to rest.

“Those ashes…” she ventured eventually.

“Told you. It’s not theirs.” he cut her off with a warning growl. “Probably not, anyway.”

“Haymitch…” she said, taking pain to keep her tone neutral.

“Their bodies were charred, alright?” he spat. “The mayor said… They buried little more than bones. I don’t know what I was thinking… I just grabbed what I could before they cleaned up to build another shack. And I thought… I thought… In the off-chance that…”

The pain in his voice was much more than she could handle, the way it broke even though it had been decades…

She moved in a flash, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades. “I understand.”

He untangled himself from her arms and took his distance. “No, you don’t.” He shook his head. “You don’t.”

“Alright.” she offered, lifting both hands in a peaceful gesture because she could see he was getting worked up and because she wasn’t sure they hadn’t moved right out of upset and right into trigger territory. “I am sorry. I should not have…”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” he sneered, rubbing his eyes. “I need some air.”

“You just came home.” she argued.

“You want me to spell it, fine, then I need some space.” he snapped.

He grabbed his coat and slammed the door and she was left staring at it, not sure if she should follow or not.

She just hoped he wouldn’t go straight for a bottle.

At some point, the children arrived for dinner but their happy chatter slowly vanished when they realized Haymitch wasn’t going to show up. She invented an excuse, something about someone needing his help with a fence – a ridiculous flimsy excuse they saw right through in about a minute – and declared they should eat without waiting for him.

By ten, he still wasn’t back and Peeta tactfully asked if she wanted him to look around for him – at the bar was implied but not uttered.

“I am sure he is fine.” she promised again and again, to the children and then, once they had left, to the puppy and their unborn son.

She went ahead with her nightly routine, taking her time in the shower, hoping against all odds that he would be waiting for her in the bedroom when she would walk out of the bathroom. He still wasn’t back when she got into bed, so she exceptionally allowed Snowball to climb in with her, needing the cuddles the dog was always too happy to provide.

The baby was restless once more, having a mad party in her uterus, kicking and rolling.

“Shh, he will come back…” she whispered, slipping a hand under her nightgown to stroke the tight skin of her belly. “That’s the thing about your father… He always comes back. Hush little baby don’t you cry…”

She hoped to calm the baby but she ended up singing herself to sleep…

She felt the light touch of his fingers brushing her hair away from her face and her eyelids fluttered open. He was wandering around the room, trying not to wake her as he grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the drawer. A glance at the clock confirmed it was late, past midnight.

“Go back to sleep.” he muttered when he realized she was watching him.

“Did you drink?” she asked, unable to hold it up any longer, just as he lifted the covers up to get in bed.

He froze. “Seriously, Effie?”

It wasn’t such a stupid question in her opinion.

“I was worried.” she argued. “I thought maybe… Where did you disappear to, then?”

His face closed up and he tossed the covers back down with a sneer. “Where my old house used to be.”

“Oh.” she winced, feeling like an idiot. He snatched his woolen dressing gown from where he had tossed it at the foot of the bed that morning and turned away. She sat up, confused. “Where are you going?”

“To sleep on the couch.” he declared.

“No, Haymitch, don’t be ridiculous…” she pleaded but he was already gone. Snowball hesitated for a moment and then jumped off the bed and paddled after him.

She was reasonably certain the issue wouldn’t be forgotten the next morning and she didn’t really know how they had gotten there.

A few hours earlier he had been singing lullabies to her stomach and now…

Now it was a mess again.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #april showers

19 notes · View notes